By the time the evening drew to a close, a half-dozen experiments had outlined the rough edges of Michael's newfound ability. It was a slow process, and the results left him conflicted, split between satisfaction and a hunger for more. Making even ordinary gear had enormous potential, but tinkertech was the real prize, and it remained elusive.

Creating his own equipment wasn't all that he'd tried. Maybe it was greedy, but one of the tests had been to fabricate a single bar of gold, weighing heavy even in his thoughts. It wasn't like he truly needed the money; for the past few years work had paid well enough for him to live comfortably on his own, but the temptation had been enormous. There were too many problems that would vanish if it had succeeded. He told himself that it would only be used to get control of his own body back.

It hadn't worked, perhaps for the best. Whatever base materials the Machine Army used were unrecognizable, a blend of the same metallic but unfamiliar structure that made up its central body. Michael didn't know anything about alloys or composites, and trying to specify the material in his mind was useless. He could make a small ingot of something, but even if it was valuable, it would have been even more suspicious than trying to somehow sell a bar of gold.

A few other attempts had been more successful. His belt now sported a long, heavy knife in a sleek sheathe. It had emerged razor-sharp, and he'd snapped it in place with only a small ripple of unease. Hopefully it would be a sufficient deterrent; he wasn't confident in using it as anything more than a tool. Instead, on his opposite side rested a thick, heavy-duty flashlight. If it came down to it, he'd rather defend himself with an impromptu club in all but the most dire of emergencies.

Neither of the items were particularly special, or something that he couldn't have bought on his own, but he was still proud of the accomplishment. It wasn't tinkertech, but it was a tangible, physical result. Both pieces were an undeniable first step.

If nothing else, the experimentation had left him increasingly confident that making his own tinkertech was possible. There wasn't any proof, but taking apart more uncontaminated tech had to be the way to go. With enough components analyzed—which were now actually remaining in his memory—it should only be a matter of time before he could piece something together. Now more than ever he found himself overwhelmed with ideas. There were so many possibilities, and his frantic thoughts seemed to be mirrored by the Machine Army. Every time he contemplated a future bit of tinkertech, blueprints thrust up out of the fog. Each promised a new temptation, a solution tailored to a dozen problems he didn't even know he had. It was as if constructing that initial shield had broken a dam. Visions of glimmering shields, elaborate sensor suites, and more surfaced and were replaced over and over again. Were it not for the deadly traps that lurked within, he would have started building them in a heartbeat.

As Michael lay on the bed and stared at the metallic scar running across his side, it was hard to remind himself that tinkertech was only supposed to be a means to an end. It offered so much: freedom, security, independence. But in the end, once he'd finally succeeded, it would be gone along with the rest of the parasitic machinery. For something that he hadn't even gotten a chance to truly test yet, its inevitable loss grew more and more painful.

Fixing himself came first. The potentially-free source of tinkertech was something he'd just have to take advantage of while it lasted. Closing his eyes, Michael drifted towards sleep. Perhaps in the morning Splintered Arms would have contacted him. Even if they didn't, it was probably time to see what he could learn from them.

~~~~ ~~~~

Morning came and went without any word, and by noon Michael finally decided to take matters into his own hands. He'd approached Splintered Arms for a reason; it was time to see just how much his decision had paid off.

This is Fathom, he sent to the unknown number that had contacted him before. I want to talk to Swallow.

He still wasn't sure who exactly was keeping an eye on the other end, if it was Swallow himself or another one of the mercenaries. Whatever the case, he didn't have to wait long. Fifteen minutes later, his phone buzzed, and he answered the incoming call.

"Fathom. Is there a problem?" Swallow's voice came out slightly muffled, but audible. He didn't sound overly concerned, but his usual laid back tone was distinctly absent. Internally, Michael winced as hindsight kicked in. His message might have been a little too brief.

"Ah, no," Michael replied. "No problems. I was hoping to talk to you about something when you had the chance." The other end of the line was silent, and Michael found himself pacing down the length of his apartment.

"I see," Swallow finally said, and Michael could hear the mercenary relax. "Something important, I take it?" Michael murmured an affirmative, and Swallow continued. "Why don't we talk in person. You remember the restaurant?" He didn't specify, but there was really only one he could be referring to. "Let's say… four o'clock?"

"Today?" Michael asked, taken aback. Swallow chuckled.

"Today. Is that a problem?"

"Not for me," Michael said, stopping his pacing as his mind ran through the upcoming bus schedules. "You aren't…" Really, he wasn't sure what he'd expected Swallow to be doing. Something important, surely. The man didn't seem the type to spend much time idle.

"Believe it or not, I don't go around knocking down buildings every day. There's plenty of other kinds of work to be done," Swallow said. "It's a remarkably open schedule, really." Michael wasn't sure what to say.

"Until then," Swallow concluded, and the line went dead. Michael's hand dropped as he gazed off into space. There was still some time until the meeting, but he needed to figure out what exactly he was going to ask Swallow.

~~~~ ~~~~

Leaving the bus station behind him, Michael walked down the sidewalk, sweating beneath the day's heat. Unlike his initial nighttime visit, the sun was still high in the sky, bearing down on anyone unlucky enough to be caught outside. It was bad enough that he'd forgone his previous sweatshirt for a loose short-sleeve. Then again, it wasn't like he had an actual costume.

The walk seemed shorter under the bright daylight, streets passing by quickly as he strode from one small patch of shade to another. In the middle of the day, everything seemed a bit more ordinary. The sun-baked facades were no longer mysterious, just cracked brickwork and hot stone. Up ahead, he could see the same restaurant on the corner, with its rickety stairs and faintly glowing sign. Fully illuminated, he was reminded that it was nothing more than an ordinary, squat building. This time he circled around towards the back alley, heading towards the rear door.

Even with hours to prepare, the upcoming conversation still left him frowning uncertainly. He didn't trust Swallow nearly enough to tell him the full truth, and he didn't know just how capable Splintered Arms would be at actually finding out what he needed. Asking for too much might leave him rejected outright, too little and the results would barely be useful. And that was all assuming that the mercenaries actually had useful information, or knew someone who did. It was a delicate balancing act, and he wasn't sure exactly where he stood.

Reaching the alley, Michael spent a moment to fix his mask in place, giving himself one last look over and checking the time. Satisfied, he made his way towards the back of the building and slipped inside.

The transition to the gloomy interior left him blinking after so long under the bright sun, but the air-conditioning was a welcome relief. Unfortunately, it probably wasn't something he'd get to enjoy for long. There was one likely place for Swallow to be lurking. Michael walked swiftly through the building, face turned down and away from the handful of patrons inside. Sure enough, there was a man sitting inconspicuously out on the corner of the balcony, and as Michael raised his head enough to make eye contact, the man motioned towards the roof. Huffing his way up the stairs, Michael spotted a familiar figure.

Swallow sat alone near the edge of the roof at one of the few tables. Someone had set up an umbrella beside it, casting a scrap of shade over the meeting spot, and Michael sank into the open chair across from the other cape.

"Fathom," Swallow greeted. "I heard the Bastion expedition succeeded. Congratulations." The mercenary was leaning back in his chair, staring at the sky as he spoke. From his tone, he made it sound like the most ordinary thing in the world. Had he been that confident in their chances, or was it something else? Whatever the case, he straightened as he finished, facing Michael squarely. "The teams brought back some valuable material." Perhaps it was the heat, but Swallow seemed a lot less animated compared to the last time they'd met.

Michael's first instinct was to ask his questions and leave, but the comment had sparked his curiosity. After the mission, the vans had dropped them all off and vanished—presumably to unload somewhere else—but he'd never seen what happened to all of the supplies.

"What actually happened to all the… acquired gear?" Michael asked. Even though they were alone, up atop the roof, it felt uncomfortable to talk about a robbery, especially one that he'd taken part of, in broad daylight. "Most of it seemed pretty specialized. I wasn't sure how you all would have much use for it." Basic enough materials could probably be sold off, but expensive, unique equipment seemed too high-profile to safely liquidate.

"Some of it will be sold," Swallow said, mirroring Michael's thoughts. "Anything else we'll just destroy. If we can't use it ourselves, there's no point keeping it around." He shrugged. "Getting a hold of the supplies wasn't really the point. WESTON doesn't have them anymore, which is what matters. The tinkertech vest is useful, at least. Jolt will do well with it." The final comment left a slow grin on his face. It reminded Michael of their first meeting, and the lurking energy behind Swallow's eyes.

The mention of tinkertech sent Michael grimacing for a brief moment.

"I wish I'd gotten the second piece as well," he said, half-apologetically. Regardless of the fact that they hadn't expected to find any tinkertech at all, the missed opportunity still hurt.

"It would have been helpful. Very helpful," Swallow said bluntly, before conceding a moment later. "But like I said, if they don't have it any more, that's enough. That something to do with what you wanted to talk about? Tinkertech?" He crossed his arms, leaning back in the chair and gazing intently at Michael.

The question sat between them, and for the slightest instant, Michael had the urge to ask Swallow about getting his hands on more tinkertech. If he promised a slow trickle of tinkertech gear in the future, there was no way they wouldn't provide what he needed. Despite the stranglehold they apparently placed on sharing information, the mercenaries clearly had deep pockets, and very few qualms about getting their hands on anything they thought they would need. He could have a pile of gear ready to be torn apart and analyzed in days.

Immediately afterwards, he remembered just how terrible an idea that would be. Pushing the thought aside, he moved forward with his original plan.

"Sort of. It might be part of it." He still didn't trust Swallow, but he needed to start somewhere. "I'm looking for information on powerful healing. Tinkertech, or a cape—something that can fix a lot of damage." It took a conscious effort not to move his hand towards his metallic scar.

Michael could feel Swallow's eyes on him, scanning him up and down with a newfound intensity. The cape remained silent for almost several long seconds, impossible to read.

"You don't look particularly hurt," Swallow finally commented. "Better than the last time we met, in fact, and with a bit of proper gear as well." He must have noticed the new knife. "Is it chronic, then?" His tone was light and ever so slightly sympathetic, offering words of polite courtesy.

"No. Not chronic. I need something that will be able to fix a lot of damage," Michael repeated, guarding his words. When it became clear he wasn't going to elaborate, Swallow blinked slowly, but he didn't say anything. He kept his gaze on Michael, and finally the mercenary leaned forward, resting his arms on the table between them.

"Well. I can't deny you've already done something useful for us. If it's information you want in return, then it's information you'll get." When it came to trading favors, Swallow was suddenly all business.

"Just to be clear, you already know about the hospitals?" he asked, and Michael nodded. It was the one of the very first things he'd checked.

Raleigh, and more importantly the nearby universities, had been drawing in technical work and research for decades before powers had entered the equation. Once capes had begun to appear, that same draw had quickly extended to heroes with similar skill sets. Remedy, Steadfast, and Sirius were the latest and largest teams to take up occupancy in the city, but they hadn't been the first. Dozens of capes had come and gone before them, one of whom had previously stuck out in Michael's search.

Endurant hadn't been a very well-known tinker during his time in Raleigh, and it wasn't until more recently when Rein had joined Remedy that a few articles had been published comparing the two capes. Despite their distinct specialties, there had been enough overlap to warrant a few pages of idle commentary before material ran out and the news moved on to other subjects. The articles hadn't been particularly helpful, but they'd led him to older sources.

According to what Michael had been able to find, it had been a bit of an open secret that Endurant had worked with the local hospitals, trying to improve their long-term medical facilities. Ever since then, the hospitals had maintained a close relationship with the nearby Protectorate. Neither side had ever officially confirmed anything, but it wasn't hard to imagine why both would want to keep any potential tinkertech maintained.

Unfortunately, just because it was almost certain to exist didn't mean whatever tech the hospitals had would actually be useful. Endurant's designs had reportedly focused on persistent, chronic problems, which was the opposite of what Michael would need. Even discounting all of that, there was the problem of the cost. In short, it didn't seem a very feasible option.

Swallow didn't seem fazed as Michael ruled out the easiest answer, likely expecting the response.

"Alright. You'll get your information," the mercenary said. His eyes remained on Michael's own, calculating, before he spoke again.

"You know, there might be a better option," he said. The words slipped out casually from a relaxed, welcoming smile, but Michael still twitched, staring at Swallow's face. Eyes narrowed, he scrutinized the mercenary, but it was useless. Smile or frown, as much as Swallow's mouth moved, his eyes remained the same. Inscrutable.

"Fracture feels very strongly about the safety of all our core members," Swallow said. "If this is important to you, maybe you should reconsider joining us fully. You're a cape; if you are willing to really work for Splintered Arms, I guarantee you'll rise through the ranks quickly. You won't be stuck with the outer members for long." Despite his previous unease, Michael could hear the sincerity in Swallow's words. It was clear enough to be beyond question.

Even so, it wasn't enough. Becoming a villain wasn't what Michael wanted. Even before he could reaffirm his choice to decline, Swallow was already leaning back with a wry grin.

"I guess not," the man said. "Well, think on it. In the meantime, we'll see what we can find for you."

Michael let out a silent, relieved sigh. He wasn't out of options yet, and with any luck Splintered Arms would give him something to work with. He wouldn't worry about the alternatives as long as there was still a path forward.