In the very first instant, he was floored by the astonishing absence of pain. An enormous weight had vanished from his body. Even though it had been gnawing at him for barely any time at all, the crushing torment had felt like an inescapable burden. For a few precious seconds, he simply let himself relax, slowly breathing in and out and reveling in the clarity.

Hesitantly, he reached down to pull up his shirt, and the feeling of peace abruptly vanished. As soon as he moved, a wave of tingling aches rippled up his arm, forcing out a low groan. Like the aftermath of the worst exercise he'd ever done combined with the pins and needles pinch of a deadened limb, it was profoundly uncomfortable. A hundred times better than what it had been like before, but uncomfortable nevertheless.

With a grimace, he stretched an arm out once more, clenching his fist and rolling his shoulder as the worst of the feeling began to fade. Slowly, the tingling receded, though the underlying ache remained. As he continued to absent-mindedly work out the muscles down towards his wrist, his thoughts wandered toward what had so recently been his greatest concern.

Sliding a hand over his side, the span of twisted metal felt just as large as before. He couldn't tell if the edges had swelled or grown ever so slightly, but the artificial surface now truly belied the expanse that lurked beneath. Past the clear boundaries of the scar, he could feel an uncomfortable rigidity. In the areas where the machinery had expanded into, his unmarred skin felt like a paper-thin disguise, stretched tight over the truth below. The mass of the Machine Army had spread out, no longer weighing down one side of his body, and closing his eyes Michael could almost forget that it existed. He shuddered.

Eying his bed on the other side of the small apartment, he pushed himself to his feet. With a slow stretch, he twisted at the waist, wrenching out a dizzying yawn as he turned back and forth, and sighing at the accompanying twinges of protest from his muscles. Through bleary eyes, he glanced at the window beside his bed, and then blinked, peering closer. Outside, the shadows had shifted, lengthening, and a glance at his phone confirmed the sight.

What had felt like moments immersed in the elaborate designs of tinkertech had been well over an hour. That, at least, explained the pins and needles rampaging through his arms and legs.

Stepping away from the chair, Michael hobbled towards the bathroom, tossing his ruined shirt aside on the way. Within the bathroom, the mirror revealed that he didn't look much better. Tiredly, he stared at the expanse of shining, metallic grey that greeted him. Despite everything that it had done, and everything he'd been though, the scar had remained pristine. Somehow, that little detail bothered him far more than it should have. Especially when he compared it to the reddish-brown stain that formed smeared lines across the skin surrounding it.

A quick shower took care of the worst of the grime and blood. As soon as he'd finished, he stumbled out of the bathroom and into his bed. There was far too much he needed to do, but it would have to wait until later; right now, he only wanted to rest. Within moments of laying down, he was unconscious.

~~~~ ~~~~

The morning came and went, rays of light streaming through the window to crawl up the wall in a dozen lines of brilliance. By the time Michael stirred, the sun was high overhead as he laid staring at the ceiling.

Under the light of a new day, he felt ever so slightly better. The throbbing ache as he stretched out his arms had retreated a fraction, and the worst spikes of discomfort were tamped down. They'd been joined by a pervasive stiffness, but as he slowly worked his hands into motion, his muscles began the process of returning to a state of normalcy.

The feeling of progress vanished, however, as soon as he actually tried to get up. As he wormed his way to the edge of the bed, everything was frustratingly slow. Compared to what it should have been, his body moved clumsily—sore and unwieldy. His legs were the worst offenders, dragging behind the rest of him and turning what should have been an unremarkable process into a minor ordeal.

His first attempt to stand up ended abruptly as his legs folded beneath him, spilling him back onto the bed in an untidy sprawl. It was a harmless fall, easily cushioned, but his breath hitched as the memory of lying paralyzed on a rough concrete floor returned unbidden. His fingers clenched down on the comforter, knuckles white, until he closed his eyes, mustering a long exhale. His legs were fine—he was fine. Hours ago, he'd been able to hobble to the shower; any problems would have been clearly apparent back then. It was only the stiffness, a mere side-effect of the transformation he'd gone through. Sitting back upright, he braced himself for a second attempt.

This time, his legs held his weight. They protested loudly, shooting pulses of almost-pain up to his waist, and they shook slightly back and forth, but they held. As he stood in place, the jitters worked themselves out, vanishing slowly until everything finally laid quiet and calm once more. As they did, Michael's heartbeat settled.

Crossing the apartment, cramped as it was, remained an ordeal. Calling his stumbling steps a walk would be generous; he barely managed to drag himself through his morning routine, but he was moving. Gradually, the weakness became less and less intrusive as he grew accustomed to it. It was frustratingly slow compared to how quickly his arms had regained their full motion, and the irritation simmered in the back of his mind. He wanted to be healthy again, and instead he could barely walk. The fact that it might take longer than he'd hoped was another disappointment atop the existing pile of issues.

Settling down at his tiny table, he absentmindedly picked at a bagel he'd made, mostly out of habit. Of all the feelings currently running through him, hunger wasn't particularly one of them. He needed time to think. So much had happened in such a short span, so much that he was wholly unprepared for. What had been a well-worn rhythm of work, wandering the city, and the dozen other details that filled each day were gone, replaced by a nebulous cloud of uncertainty. One that he no longer had the impending threat of death and its accompanying haze of pain and exhaustion to distract him from.

In one corner of the room, his laptop sat on his desk, a familiar reminder of the hours and hours of work that had previously consumed so much of his time. He seized the welcome starting point—it would be a good idea to take some time off. He had plenty of vacation days saved, enough to free up two or three weeks. The short notice might draw some attention, but he could claim a family emergency. It would be enough to placate his boss, at least enough to not cause any real problems.

After that, the future quickly spiraled back into unknown territory. The question of how to proceed echoed without an answer. He had no reference for a problem this overwhelming, nothing to make up for his complete lack of experience. There was only himself and his power, keeping the deadly machine within him in line.

That's where he'd have to start. The task ahead was greater than any job he'd done before, but once he started, he'd figure out how to proceed. The answers had to lie within. He'd already grasped the body of the fragment, and now only the mind remained untouchable. With enough time, he'd batter past the barrier and wrest control of it completely. Everything would become simpler, and there would be nothing left within the tinkertech to fight against its removal. There would be no chance of any final resistance when the time came to destroy it.

Slowly, he sketched out a plan, diving eagerly into a dozen mundane distractions; in the end, with some food and a quiet place to work, his preparations weren't much different than a regular week's planning. This time, he would simply be tackling a different type of work.

His mind drifted to the next stage, the future, once he'd conquered the piece of the Machine Army inside him. It was a vivid scene, the image of himself safe in his apartment as he finally succeeded in breaching through the intangible shell, pulling the secrets buried within the tinkertech out into the open. He alone would fully understand the mind that drove it, and possess the overwhelming strength and power that would accompany it. From there rose a vision of machines replicating and conquering, a swarm under his own ultimate—

The thought broke off abruptly as the insanity of the idea hit him. The sheer wrongness, like an intrusive thought that had multiplied out of control, swelled to ridiculous proportions. He had no desire to seize power like some kind of conquering warlord, or to let the Machine Army ever flourish even the slightest bit. It was absurd, but the scene had been incredibly clear, to the point that it stuck out in addition to the disturbing content. More than any of the vague, half-formed plans that filled his head, it had been like an image on a screen, playing out before him.

As the realization crystallized, Michael's breath hitched. He backpedaled through his mind, grasping for threads of thought that were already fading. Moment by moment, he tried to remember the sequence, from one idea to another to the end, attempting to make sense of the order of things. There, in the middle, something other appeared. Like hearing his name at the end of a sentence, or catching a fragment of conversation from across a room, the little bubble of an idea had burst into his thoughts. It had slipped through a crack in the privacy of his mind, a fortress that now suddenly seemed far less private.

Instantly, the entire plan that he had begun to sketch out was useless. Worse than that, it was poisoned. The Army, for what else could it be, was spurring him on. The ideas that had seemed so solid and reasonable to him before had now been revealed to have foundations of sand. How long had it been there? From the very moment it attacked, burying itself in his side, had it been digging through his thoughts as well? His heartbeat resounded in his ears, pulsing madly as the uncertainty grew. He'd finally felt in control, taking the plunge to accept the burden of additional tinkertech within him, assured by the fact that it was his own decision. Now an invisible thumb had appeared on the scales, and he imagined the intelligence behind it lying in wait, watching him crumble.

No, that wasn't the case, couldn't be the case, he thought as he grasped for reason in the rising tide. What had appeared moments ago was so unfamiliar, so abrupt and alien that he'd recognized it almost instantly as being out of place. That had to be the first time it appeared; he would have noticed it before. Everything he'd done up until now was his own work, his own decisions.

The affirmation was far weaker than it should have been, providing all-too-little comfort.

Whatever the piece of the Machine Army truly wanted, it had tried to push him forwards, to tempt him with a vision of success. His saving grace was that it hadn't understood him at all, when it offered up the promise of a future swarm. He was just as alien to it as it was to him, and that difference had given it away, revealing the artificial nature of the idea.

Regardless, his previous intention of holing up alone couldn't remain. Now that he recognized the trap for what it was, he could take advantage of it. For all that he didn't want to give up control, that artificial promise had begun with his solitary triumph, and now he was immediately pushed toward the opposite. If the tinkertech inside him was trying so cleverly to offer a way to win, it had to be a dead end. For all its incomprehensibility, the intelligence behind the machinery was undeniably complex. It was a depressing thought, but on his own, he might not have a chance of breaking through. He needed help.

Going to the Protectorate was no longer an option. If he walked through those doors and explained what had happened, he wouldn't be walking out again. There was no chance they would let him loose, not when he was carrying such an infamous piece of tinkertech within him. Even if he demonstrated his total command over the fragment, they wouldn't trust him to leave beyond their control. The Machine Army was serious enough to be designated one of the bare handful of Quarantine Sites across the entire country; his future would consist of reinforced doors and heavy locks at the very least. But even with all that in mind, he would have done it, headed downtown, straight for the glass tower with its burnished shield, save for one detail. There was no guarantee that they could actually help.

Isolation and imprisonment in the name of safety was a bitter pill to swallow, but not impossible. He understood exactly how dangerous the Machine Army could be. He'd already gone through far worse than being locked up, and would go through far more if that's what it took to get rid of it. But it was the thought of sitting there uselessly, giving up the responsibility of his recovery to the care of another, that he couldn't do. Nobody else could possibly be as driven as he was to save himself—none of them were affected the same way. Even if they wanted to help, it would never be their highest priority, not like it was to him.

Worst case scenario, he could picture waiting as weeks dragged into months, as failure after failure stymied the Protectorate's attempts to help, until at some point he was no longer worth it. Like the Machine Army itself, impossible to fix, just packed up and locked away.

He wouldn't let anyone else determine his fate. He would keep looking, keep working until he couldn't budge a single millimeter further. And if that time came, he resolved with a sudden surge of determination, his piece of the Army would die with him. He'd rip it to shreds, consign them both to oblivion. Before that, he would exhaust every avenue, but he refused to let the Machine Army win.

With the Protectorate out of consideration, his safest chance at returning to normal was gone. From there, his options only grew worse. The three corporate teams that endlessly fought for dominance weren't really that different, for his purposes. Like slightly inferior versions of the Protectorate, each would have local connections, knowledge and resources, and would be less likely to ask questions. But "less likely" was still too much of a risk, and most importantly, neither of the three had capes that specialized in any sort of medical field. Even Remedy, though the name seemed promising, only had their tinker, Rein. From the few details that were available, his works focused on keeping things controlled. Michael needed a way to improve; he'd already managed to grasp hold of it on his own.

The last and riskiest option was likely the one he'd have to turn to, just to keep his secret intact. Working within the city was the mercenary group Splintered Arms. They'd existed for just as long as the oldest of the corporate teams, carving out their niche within the city and thriving under the pressure that had forced out almost every independent villain from the area. Every few weeks, they'd appear in the local news, blamed for another attack on one of the innumerable businesses that filled Raleigh. From corporate espionage to just plain robbery, they had warred against the corporations that dominated the area. Especially those that sponsored hero teams.

The fact that they were villains was almost enough to cross them off the list immediately. Michael didn't want to work with them, even temporarily, and the thought of fighting the actual heroes was instantly rejected. The question remained, then, if he could take advantage of their resources without tying himself to them any more than necessary. It was impossible to know just how they operated, whether or not they would be able to help without demanding something he was unwilling to give. The only way to find out was to meet them himself, with all the risks that entailed. The only consolation, and the deciding factor, is that he doubted they'd be asking questions. If they did, his refusal to answer might cost him a chance to join, but wouldn't raise any flags.

The biggest problem lay in his approach. Without advertising his status as a cape, it would be impossible to gain anything. They didn't have any reason to even meet with him otherwise, but revealing the truth had the potential to raise an entirely different set of problems, ones he dreaded almost as much as the one spurring him to seek them out. For a team of villains that were fighting against an entire city's worth of heroes and their tinkertech, a cape with his abilities was invaluable. If they knew what he could do, they just might decide that he was too useful to let go.