Jack Inqu: The deviousness comes from the way Miss Militia came across as so helpful and understanding at the same time she was pumping Taylor for all the info she could get about the Privateers.

Sorry I didn't respond to anyone else. For whatever reason, FFN is messing up again and won't let me see any reviews after Jack's. If you asked a big question or made a response-worthy comment, expect a PM in a couple of days.


Set Up! 1.7

That… is a very big gun. A very big gun that is currently pointed straight at you.

You jump out of the way of the enormous shell that flies from it, rolling in air before you hit the roof next to the one you were standing on, and not a moment too soon. The tank shell crashes into that building and turns it from an abandoned store to a pile of rubble. "Flare Shooter!" you command, seven fireballs forming in front of you and flying into the base of the cannon. The armor is going to be a problem, but right now, the greatest danger comes from all those guns, and the big one in particular.

The Flare Shots hit the base of the cannon, but other than making the metal glow briefly, they are completely ineffective. Right, Perfect Storm told you during the simulation that Flare Shooter could be blocked by armor. It's a good thing you have a spell for that, and as the train-tank turns to aim that gigantic gun at you again, you create a bright green sphere of magic in front of you. Time to try this again. "Rust Shooter!"

This time, your aim is true, and the Rust Shot flies right down the barrel of the cannon. You don't know exactly what happens next – whether it damaged the oncoming shell or it messed up the barrel or what – but a moment later, the entire front of the vehicle explodes. Shards of metal fly in every direction, the dockworkers-turned-heroes dive behind cover as one, and you yourself drop down to avoid the sudden shrapnel. You peek up to see the foremost innards of the machine exposed to the world, and your new teammates stare up at you incredulously.

If anyone ever asks, you totally meant to do that.

But now isn't the time to sit back and bask in their attention. You take to the sky once more, another Rust Shot taking shape and firing. This time it is a rotating machine gun that looks like it was ripped off a fighter jet that takes the brunt of your attack, and you smile when the crude welding holding it attached to the train crumbles. That's two down; sixteen or so left to go.

The guns on the train's left side swivel in your direction, and you most certainly do not let out a panicked yelp when they all start firing as one. Up, left, diagonal, right, down, right; you do your best to dodge the sudden onslaught of hot lead. Spinning left instead of up, you scream when the bullets from three different guns smash into you. You crash through the wall of the building and stare up as the bullets keep punching holes in the ceiling. Is this how you're going to die? Murdered by Squealer of all people, your insides shredded—

Okay, dying should really hurt more than this.

Fearful of what you're going to find, you raise your head and stare in amazement. The skin of your belly is red – you know you're going to have a nasty bruise there in a tomorrow – and there are three or four spots that are oozing a little blood. But that's it. No rent flesh, no organs falling out, no being cut in half. A piece of metal glints at you, and from between your skirt and belt you pull a bullet as big around as your index finger, the point flattened out as though it had hit a metal wall instead of bare skin. You thought your powers let you fly and shoot lasers; when did you become a Brute?!

"Barrier Jacket is intact," Perfect Storm tells you. "I can continue the fight."

"Barrier Jacket," you echo. Your Device has said that phrase a couple of times, but you just assumed that it meant your costume. Clearly not. "How…. There's nothing there. How am I not even hurt?"

"Barrier Jacket is a full-body defensive forcefield. Aesthetics are irrelevant."

So it doesn't matter what it looks like? It will still protect you the same, regardless if it's a full suit of armor or the skimpiest bikini imaginable? You stare at the dark red gem of your staff, starting to wonder about its claims of magic— No, this is Tinkertech, after all. Tinkers are famous for the absolute bullshit they're capable of. What matters is that you can walk through a hailstorm of bullets and survive, for that is exactly what you're facing right now.

You stand and float through the hole you made, pinning Squealer's abomination with your glare. "Let's break this bitch."

"Aye aye, Mistress!"

"Rust Shooter!"

You zoom over the battlefield, keeping the villain's attention on you and off the unpowered humans on your team. You have to slow down to make sure you hit the guns, but so long as you start moving again as soon as you fire, the guns barely have any time to move before you're somewhere else. "You've got to quicker than that!" you crow when the remaining guns fire at a point twenty feet to your left. "Rust Shooter! I'm not even moving that fast! If you want my advice – Rust Shooter! – you should probably lay off all the drugs! Didn't you pay attention to those – Rust Shooter! – talks at school?! That stuff will melt your brain!" One of your shots misses its mark, but considering it instead clips the left-hand tread and takes off a chunk of one of the plates, you'll consider it good. You drop a couple of feet to evade the spray of one gun and send yet another bullet to snap it off the vehicle. "Kind of like I'm doing to your tank right now!"

The train abruptly lurches backwards, and then it spins around on its tracks. A few sulfurous curses come from deep in the rear before it is sprinting at an impressive speed away from you. You just stare at the machine for a second before a snarl slips out your mouth. Does Squealer really think that's it? That she can slink back to her lair with her tail between her legs? Not a chance!

You chase after her, your greater speed ruining her best efforts at escape. She's not getting away, not this time. You head to one side and fire a Rust Shooter at the train's treads, which instead hits the ground and flings chips of shattered asphalt everywhere, and then a second. This one shreds the armor above the wheels, but that is not enough to stop the machine. Those moments are enough for her to start increasing the distance between you two, and you push your flight as far as you can.

This dilemma is not one you like. You can't properly aim while flying like this, but as soon as you slow down, she starts getting away from you. The guns may be mostly gone, but it won't matter if she escapes. She might be a brain-damaged failure, but you refuse to let her best you, doubly so if it means she might come up with some other machine that has a better chance of fighting you in the air. Chasing around a plane is not your idea of a good time.

Your eyes flick over the contraption before you realize the obvious solution. You dive-bomb the train and land on its roof just in front of where you believe the cab is. Now you can fire on it to your heart's content.

A single Rust Shooter reveals a dark compartment, but you have to jerk your head out of the way before Squealer starts shooting through the hole you made. Of course she has a gun on her! You could probably withstand being shot a couple of times, but even knowing that you have your own personal forcefield like Glory Girl, you really don't want to try blocking a bullet with your face. "Got any bright ideas, Storm?"

"Flare Shooter is designed for defeating infantry units."

"And that would be great if I knew the blast was going to hit her, but it doesn't do much when I can't see her."

"Shooting spells are simple. They can be adjusted based on the situation."

Adjusted? You conjure a single fireball, but instead of shooting it, you give it a mental poke. Nope, not changing.

"Redistributing spell processing."

The back of your head suddenly feels like it is being stretched, and you can almost imagine that lines of code are racing through your mind. After a moment, they slow down enough that you can catch one command in five, then one in three. Then every single one.

Your eyes grow wide. This is Flare Shooter?! The spell has been broken down into a hundred lines of code; it looks like the the practice web site you created in Mrs. Knott's class. If you needed any proof that this Device really was a Tinker's magnum opus, this is it: a computer program that lets you pelt people with explosive fireballs.

Bullets from one of the remaining machine guns slam into you and threaten to send you tumbling off the train, a reminder that you have something else you need to focus on. 'Scrolling' to the top of the script, you find a list of different variables. Most of them make little to no sense to you right now, but others….

Redefining a couple of variables, you smile when you see that the orange sphere in your hand is now quite literally on fire. Ten more of the same appear in the air, and with a thought, all of them zip through the hole. There is no thump of detonation, just a sullen glow, and Squealer starts screaming in fright and pain. With a sharp smile, you send more and more of them at her.

A hatch on one side of the train that you never noticed is thrown open to belch out black smoke, and Squealer dives out of the cabin, her greasy hair and fuzzy jacket both brightly burning. The train begins to slow now that its conductor is no longer around, so you hop into the sky and let it crash to a stop against the warehouse in its path. The villain has managed to rip her coat off, but the too-small pink tee-shirt that is revealed is a perfect target. A handful of Flare Shots slam into her. These were all programed to be purely concussive bullets, and the Merchants' second-in-command is thrown forward on the blast wave and slams her head into a nearby brick wall.

"Congratulations on your first victory."

"Thanks, Storm." You drift down to check on the woman who has not moved since she fell to the ground. Sure enough, she is out cold. "Can you call the—"

"Freeze!" You slowly turn your head to look over your shoulder to see a blur resolve into a man wearing a red bodysuit, black racing stripes just barely visible running down the sides of his costume and crossing his chest to form a 'V'. Velocity, another member of the Protectorate's Brockton Bay branch. "Put your hands on your head and back away from her."

You roll your eyes. This is going to be an ongoing issue, isn't it? "This is Squealer. I'm a new hero; I go by Calamity Witch. I saw her causing problems and stopped her."

"Why don't I believe you?"

Resting Perfect Storm across your shoulders, you shoot him an unamused glare. "Will you believe Miss Militia? Give her a call. I was at the Rig not ten minutes ago getting the paperwork to register as an independent hero."

He eyes you warily for a moment, but eventually he taps one hand against his ear. "Console, connect me to Militia's coms." Velocity waits a few moments, his fingers tapping impatiently on his thigh. "Miss Militia, Velocity here. I've got a girl here claiming to be a hero, but she sure doesn't look like it. She said you'd vouch for her."

"Tell her 'Hi' for me," you order in a snarky voice.

He ignores you, which is probably for the best, all things considered. "Calamity Witch, she said. Uh-huh. Uh-huh." The hero frowns and gives you another look. "…Uh-huh. Okay. Yes, but— But she—!" A sigh comes from him. "Okay. Okay, okay, okay! Be right there. Velocity out."

"So? Still think I'm a dastardly villain?"

The red-clad hero takes a quick breath. "No, I don't. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have assumed you were a villain, but you have to know what your costume looks like."

You know well what you look like in your Barrier Jacket, but it has been growing on you, and after this fight? There's no way you're going to give it up. That said, he does seem like he is honestly embarrassed about nearly picking a fight with a fellow hero. Or maybe he just dreads being chewed out by Miss Militia for the same; that would be believable, too. "Looking warm and cuddly doesn't do a whit to help me stop criminals," you answer. Glancing down at Squealer's body, you wince a little at the blisters you can already see forming on her now mostly-bald scalp and on her arms. Maybe modifying Flare Shooter into gouts of flame and sending them into an enclosed space wasn't the brightest idea you've ever had. "Anyway, she's wrapped up and ready to go. I have other places to be."

"I need your statement before you leave! Where you found her, what you did during your fight, if anybody else was injured, that sort of thing."

You turn around and start floating away, headed back to where the Privateers are. "Follow the trail of destruction. Hit her until she stopped moving. That's what I'm going to find out." He is obviously displeased at the dismissive answers, but you have better things to worry about. Pushing your flight as hard as you safely can while so close to the ground, it takes you less than a minute to cover the distance between the wreck and what you can only assume is the Merchant base the Privateers were raiding.

The dockworkers have already mostly packed up by the time you get there. Four trucks are parked nearby, all with different cargo. One has its bed filled with black garbage bags, dollar bills visible through the openings; another with as many men as can be packed inside. The third has a mix of men and bags of money. It is the fourth truck that makes you turn away: there is only one thing there, covered by a white sheet that is being held down by rocks, but from the general shape, you just know that it is a body.

It has only been one day since the Privateers were formed, and already someone has lost his life.

"Calamity Witch," one masked man says as you drift closer. You recognize his voice; well, his voice and the impressive collection of tattoos on his arms and neck. "Captain told us about you before we left. Can't tell you how glad we were to see you show up. Squealer was not playing around."

"I just wish I had gotten here sooner," you reply, your eyes turning toward the fourth truck. "Who was…?"

Thankfully, Alexander understands what you are asking. "Fat Bill. He was trying to chain the door closed to trap Squealer inside, but the guns… they punched clear through it like it was made of paper."

"And the injured? How many?"

"Too many for the first day," he sighs. Shaking his head, he pulls a ring of keys out of his pocket. "We'll be talking about that tonight, I'm sure of that. You want a ride?"

"No, I think I'll meet you there. Maybe a fly will give me time to clear my head."

He nods in understanding, and you do the same before shooting high in the sky. A frown sits heavily on your face. When you and your dad had discussed his plans for the Privateers, neither of you had mentioned the very real possibility that someone could die. Now that is coming back to bite you.

Perfect Storm seems to know where your thoughts are headed, which, considering it communicates with you via telepathy, is very likely true. "Casualties are expected in war. Mourn. Accept. Grow stronger."

"Easy for you to say," you bite out. "I should have gone with them. Dad needs to stay away from the fights so he can empower any backup teams, but I could have been here from the beginning. If I had, maybe Bill wouldn't have died."

"Additional mages needed?"

"Mages, capes, whatever." You are too tired to argue with your Device about terminology right now, and your hands are starting to shake. All the adrenaline still rushing through your veins, or maybe the fear you didn't have time to feel during the fight? You look at the gemstone as an idea sprouts into existence. "Storm, can you give other people powers like you did for me?"

"No," the Device replied, that single word extinguishing your previous enthusiasm, "I am yours." A slight hum came from the head of the staff, almost as though it were reconsidering. "If new subject possesses a Linker Core, it is possible to construct a Device for them. Installation of specific template could then occur.

"If Mistress requires assistance immediately, a Guardian Beast could be constructed."

You blink in confusion. "A Guardian Beast?"

"An animal that is modified genetically and magically to bind it to its mage and give it the capacity to cast spells. Multiple Guardian Beast templates are available for perusal."

"I did want a pet when I was little," you murmur. "Dad always refused to have an animal in the house, but if it had powers, too, maybe he wouldn't make too much of a fuss about it. What kind of animals can be turned into this Guardian Beast thing?"

"Any animal Mistress desires."

You stare out at the city, your thoughts chasing one another in an endless circle. On the one hand, if you make a Guardian Beast now and show up with it to the meeting, your dad will have to let you keep it. Once you explain why you did it, you doubt he will have any problems with your actions other than being a little miffed that you presented him with a fait accompli. On the other hand, that meeting Alexander told you about will undoubtedly take place sooner rather than later, so you have only a few minutes to find an animal to transform before you need to head back to the office. But if you're willing to wait until after the meeting to do this, you might as well ask Perfect Storm to explain all the little details and come up with the template that will best fit you specifically.

Decisions, decisions.


I'd say that's the last time I let the players decide what Taylor did in a fight, but I'd be lying.

Silently Watches out.