The safety of his apartment greeted Michael as he returned, slipping through the door and locking it behind him. He shrugged his backpack off, the weight dropping from his shoulders as he tossed it lightly into the corner of the room. On his desk, his laptop awaited him, a promise of yet more work in the wake of his meeting with Swallow. Before that, though, he let himself fall into his chair and enjoy the momentary peace.
"Soon," Swallow had said. Splintered Arms would contact him soon, the nebulous promise irritating but understandable. The mercenary had apparently decided that Michael didn't need to know much more, only offering the small detail that he wouldn't be alone, and that it would be an "opportunity" for him. If he had to guess, it sounded like something tailored towards him specifically, a chance for the team to verify his powers for themselves.
He wasn't sure if he was ready. The uncertainty that had been mercifully absent during the meeting itself had returned, weak but undeniably present. Swallow had demonstrated the kind of spectacle he considered a good introduction with a cacophony of shattered steel; whatever the mercenary had planned, Michael doubted it would be something as bland and safe as testing his power in an office tucked away somewhere.
What more could he do to prepare? There was always another detail to learn, but more than that, the metallic scar on his side remained a puzzle. There was so much that he still didn't know.
~~~~ ~~~~
The room lay blanketed in a soft, peaceful quiet as Michael stood up from his desk. He'd missed dinner, immersed in the endless hole of cape research, drifting from topic to topic as the sun crawled below the horizon. Now, the short lamp at the corner of his desk radiated a soft glow, splashing dim light over the wood beneath it. Guided by familiar repetition, he barely paused on the way over to his bed, snagging his shield off the shelf above it despite the murky half-light. There was something he wanted to test.
A memory had floated back to the surface of his mind when he'd been hunched over the computer. Back before the rush of meeting Swallow, when he'd encountered the tinkertech trap in that uncomfortable, sterile office building, every detail of the technology had flowed through him, and it had been different than before. What had previously been wordless impressions of size and scope had been supplemented, filled in with hard data. The bubble of slowed space that threatened to detonate beneath him didn't reach 'up to there,' it splayed out eight and a half feet, one hundred and two inches. Now, holding his shield in his hands, it was obvious that the change wasn't just a fluke. At the time, he hadn't felt the need to re-familiarize himself with his shield, but now that he did, the additional details matched what had happened before.
There could only be one culprit for the sudden shift, and didn't that give him something to think about.
On the surface, he couldn't complain about the change. It simplified things, added a layer of clarity to his already expansive knowledge. With it, selling his supposed talent for identifying tinkertech would be that much easier. As far as consequences from the Machine Army went, it was the first plainly beneficial one. He was long overdue for some good news, but the particular way that it had manifested tamped down any strong feelings of optimism.
His power had changed. The same power that was the only thing keeping him safe from an immediate and violent end. With a moment's thought he could come up with a few possible ways that it had happened, but they were all equally plausible. Optimistically, it could be the result of his constant contact with the machinery. If the Machine Army was able to analyze tinkertech even better than he could, not only had he discovered another piece of information about the hostile tech, but he was seamlessly taking advantage of it. The machine might not even realize that he was constantly siphoning the data away for his own use.
On the far more frightening hand, the change before him could be the very first cracks in his own defense. If the Machine Army was intentionally doing something, probing his own powers and perpetually watching, it would begin to learn. What, exactly, he didn't know, but as alien as the intelligence was, his minuscule understanding had uncovered the bare edges. The sheer amount of data that flowed through the machine, combined with its impossible clarity, meant it could process far, far more than he could.
The worst thought was the dreadful idea that it might not stop at watching. Being studied like an insect under the glass would be bad enough, but he could remember all-too-clearly the feeling of foreign thoughts intruding upon his mind with the subtlety of a brick wall. If it could do the same to the intangible force keeping it immobile, he was a dead man walking. A single moment of freedom would be more than enough.
He needed to learn more. Ignoring the uncertain situation was a terrible idea; at best, nothing would change, and the alternative was being blindsided by a sudden, overwhelming attack. The change offered yet another threat, but also an opportunity. So far he hadn't had any luck battering himself against the intelligence behind the machine, but this was a new possibility. If the Machine Army reacted to tinkertech in some way, he could test it.
The small shield in his hands felt frail as he brought it inching towards the metallic scar. Unlike when it had rested on his hip, this time all of his attention was engrossed, hovering over the edge of the abyss. It was the closest he could get without losing himself, diving fully into crystal clarity. He needed to remain in control of his limbs, to continue decreasing the gap between the two pieces of tinkertech.
They made contact with a soft tap, and Michael swore that, in the depths of the Machine Army, something pulsed.
It was gone in a fraction of a second, so fast that were it anything else, he'd have dismissed it as nothing more than his own imagination. He moved his hand a fraction, breaking contact before letting it fall back together once more, and it repeated. Like the faintest flicker of a solitary candle in the dark, he knew there had been a reaction.
From the distance of his own thoughts, it was impossible to tell what had happened. The fact that he had noticed at all was only because of how much attention he'd devoted to the task, and the concern, or perhaps expectation, that there would be something to detect in the first place. To learn more, he would have to watch the process from the other side, from within the Machine Army itself. The problem was, he couldn't.
To send his thoughts into the machinery was to give up control over everything else. Lurking within the depths, he couldn't reach back out to tap the two together and set off the spark he'd seen before.
Back within his own mind, he edged towards the pit, holding himself above it as he once more brought the pieces of tinkertech together. As soon as they made contact, he dove down into the sea of fog, buffeted once more by the overwhelming, ever-present flow of data. By the time he gathered himself, there was nothing to see. Whatever signal that had briefly formed was already gone.
Retreating, he huffed in frustration. He could only be in one place at a time, and on his own there wasn't any way to adjust the shield when he was distracted within the depths of the Machine Army. Again and again, he threw his thoughts down as fast as possible, but every time the result was the same. His mind was too slow, too weak to make sense of the barrage of sensation. Even as he scrambled to move past it, by the time each initial surge died down, the opportunity had passed.
He needed to figure out a way to make contact without moving the shield himself. There was no reason to make it any more complicated than necessary; laying down on his bed, he dragged his pillows into a pile beside his waist, eying the angle. If he could just let the shield slide down into place, it might move slow enough to work. Placing the tech at the top of the impromptu slope, he carefully lifted his hand.
His shield sank into the soft fabric, unmoving.
Michael fought the urge to groan, leaning back up to adjust the pile. He stacked it higher, trying to ignore the ridiculous scene. It wasn't exactly professional, but as long as it worked, it didn't matter how—
The shield tipped over the edge, tumbling down the slope and bouncing at the bottom with a short hop that sent it rolling off the bed and clattering onto the floor.
This was stupid. The entire idea was stupid, and Michael dashed his hand through the stack of pillows, scattering them across his bed. He collapsed prone, grumbling darkly under his breath. After a minute of venting angry thoughts, he swung over to the edge of the bed. Luckily the shield hadn't gone far, surface glinting in the dim light. Lifting it from the floor, he set it down gently onto the bed, and let his thoughts wander.
There was still another option, though it was far from appealing for a number of reasons. Up until now he'd been focused on bringing the shield over to his scar, but there was nothing saying the opposite wouldn't work just as well. As much as he tried to forget, to think otherwise, the machinery already within him could move.
He had good reason to avoid it; so far, every single twitch from the Machine Army had been accompanied by jagged waves of pain, as it had first tore into him, before being seized and forced to patch the very same damage back together. Since then, he'd avoided any thought of testing any alterations. "Not moving" was exactly how he liked it. Now, however, it might be the only option.
Slowly, he sank his thoughts back into the invading machine. This time he didn't have any reason to push through the initial wave, letting it pass a little slower but without any extra effort. Fully investing himself wasn't technically necessary—he could stir the machine to move with a thought, but the last time he'd tried… Retreating to the machine had brought a welcome relief.
Ever so carefully, he spread himself through the metallic tendrils. The deepest ones were anchored firmly, wound and wrapped tight into his flesh, and he left them alone with barely more than a ripple of unease. Here, the horror of the situation was dulled, leaving little more than an unpleasant shiver despite the incredible detail that floated to the forefront. The layers upon layers of tinkertech that curled through him should never have ended up so intensely involved. It was inefficient.
Drifting back up to the outer layers, Michael debated the best way to proceed. First, a test. Ever so carefully, he pictured reaching out, moving the surface of the scar. Without an ounce of hesitation, it responded as easy as breathing. He waited in detached anticipation, but the accompanying pain never arrived.
From within the tech, he could clearly feel the movement, more detailed than if he had been staring at the change with his own two eyes. One of the looping coils that formed raised ridges along his skin lifted, leaving a recessed groove behind as it twitched. Like a snake tasting the air, it wavered in place until he stilled it completely with a thought.
The thrill of success didn't race through him as strongly as usual, but it was still present, if suppressed. Now, already within the machine, he could make another attempt. Slowly, cautiously, he shifted the impromptu probe, and the two pieces of tinkertech made contact once more.
The moment they touched, his suspicions were confirmed. Through the sea of fog something surged, a massive, blisteringly-fast shadow that percolated across the expanse before it vanished. In its wake, he could barely make out eddies of prompted response, tiny flashes of signals that rippled outwards, called to action but fizzling out. He couldn't understand it, couldn't follow the threads, but on the surface the overall picture seemed to form. The Machine Army was trying to do something, prompted by contact with the foreign tinkertech, but found itself unable to proceed. Whatever it wanted to do, he had been overriding it with his commands to remain still.
The question, then, was what exactly the machine was trying to accomplish.
He wanted to know the answer, but was already unsure. The artificial mind was an alien landscape, separated from his influence and nigh-incomprehensible. The sensory data alone was enough to fill and overfill his thoughts, should he let it. When even those minor streams caused so much trouble, how could he hope to decipher the torrent that had torn through just moments ago?
His second attempt revealed no more than the first. The space around him was a representation, some kind of translation subconsciously put together to make the information even slightly comprehensible, but it was far from perfect. The things that moved in the depths had no clear analogue to match against, only impressions of scale. Based on the size and speed of the signal that was tearing through, Michael could only conclude that whatever it was, it was important. In the same way that a spasm from touching a hot stove overrode everything else, the thing moving through the fog displaced anything in front of it, racing urgently yet futilely ahead.
In the end, no matter how desperately he peered through the depths, no matter how many times he sparked the same repetitive signal, it remained out of reach. The worst part was that it didn't even seem to be trying to avoid his attention. Either the machine didn't care, or it knew that he couldn't make sense of the data. If it had been human, he would have called it contemptuous, but there had never been a hint of anything resembling emotion within its mind. It simply repeated the same empty action, over and over, without change.
Empty-handed, Michael left the Machine Army behind, returning to himself. There was definitely a reaction occurring, now at least he knew that for sure. The Army responded to tinkertech in some manner, and if he could bring himself to pursue it further, there might be more to learn. The next step would be far more uncomfortable, however. He couldn't decipher the signal as it stood, so the only other option was to let it loose, ever so slightly. For all that he had maintained control over the machine so far, the decision was no less heavy. At the very least, it wasn't one he needed to make right now. There were other things that demanded his attention.
Specifically, the blinking notification from his phone, laying barely visible on the edge of his desk.
