The morning began with a familiar lack of notice from Splintered Arms. The silence shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did, but Michael couldn't shake the feeling of stagnation every time he thought about the mercenaries and their continued lack of progress. Hopefully the day's work would help improve his mood.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Michael stared at his metallic scar with mixed feelings. Each day felt more complicated than the last. The machinery had started out as a simple, dangerous piece of tinkertech. Thinking about it shouldn't have been so difficult. The Machine Army wanted him dead, he wanted it destroyed. Somehow, things hadn't remained that simple.

Discovering that the machinery could fabricate its own tech—and not just ordinary tech, but tinkertech—had thrown everything into disarray. The first test had almost killed him, and yet he survived. He'd seen through the trap and wrestled another piece of the Machine Army under his control. The knife sitting on his nightstand was testament enough to that. Even though the creeping dread had kept him from another attempt, the hunger hadn't faded. It burned brighter than ever, so close he could almost taste it. He was inches away from not just being able to control tinkertech, but to actually make his own.

He knew it was dangerous. Ordinary tinkertech was unstable enough—anyone who'd spent enough time around it knew the dangers—and this piece in particular was far from ordinary. He remembered the pain, the rough concrete underneath his back, but right now there was nothing to feel but cool, hard metal.

The physical threat wasn't all, either. As much as he tried not to think about it, the machine had crept into his mind before, and he wasn't optimistic enough to think that it had simply given up. It was horrifyingly intelligent. There was a little knot of tension that never vanished, a lurking question in the back of his mind about what exactly the machine was planning. And yet…

The opportunity in front of him was too good to pass up. He had resolved to drag every scrap of use out of the machinery that had become a part of him, and the previous evening had been a pointed reminder of what exactly he was up against. Neither the hero or villain teams interested him, but he had still been out there as Fathom during the trip to the Bastion. It wasn't impossible that someone might eventually start looking. If that happened, he needed options.

He didn't want to fight. The heroes were still heroes, despite what he'd seen, and he had no desire to go up against Splintered Arms just out of self-preservation. Besides, he wasn't a fighter. It would be much better if he could just keep to himself and tinker. The best solution, then, would be something to buy enough time so that he could make his escape. At the Bastion, that had been his old stalwart shield, but now that spot lay empty.

It was time to change that.

His last attempt to build a replacement shield had almost quite literally blown up in his face, but now he knew what to expect. There had to be a way to separate the intelligence of the Machine Army from its physical components. The pieces he had right now made it seem impossible, but he had been looking at parts that were already integrated together. Now, he knew there was another option. If there was any chance at all, it would hopefully occur during fabrication. Letting the Machine Army create the design was bound to fail, but that wasn't his only option.

His own power was more than just keeping the Machine Army from tearing him apart. It was more than sensing nearby tinkertech. He understood tinkertech at a touch, and with the unwitting help of the Machine Army, he could call that information up again. If he stuck with what he knew, instead of what the murderous tinkertech wanted to create, there was a chance. The restriction was titanic, paring away the nigh-unlimited options down to a bare handful, but it was a place to start. Within the now-familiar fog, he called back up the memory of his shield.

Just like before, it didn't want to work. Unlike the other designs, it took effort to recreate the broken, incomplete image. Throughout the entire process he struggled to avoid slipping into one of the all-too-easy designs the Army promised to provide. Finally, it stabilized.

The blueprint was the same as he remembered. It fell short of being complete, useless in its current state, but this time he knew better than to turn to the Machine Army. He needed to make do with what he already knew.

The biggest question was where it would go. Making a proper, standalone piece was possible. The resulting tinkertech could clearly function on its own, but letting it out of his reach was a problem. He'd barely managed to stop the explosion last time—there was no guarantee the next experiment would go as well. Worse, the thought of a fresh piece of the Machine Army getting loose sent shivers down his spine.

The only other option was to keep it a part of him. He could add onto what machinery was already there, where a failure would leave him no worse than before. Constant contact would ensure that the result would never get free, even if it ended up as murderous as the rest. If everything went according to plan, he'd finally have a piece of his mechanical body that wasn't steadily trying to tear him apart.

With the thought came a glimmer of possibility, a half-realized hope that he didn't dare to count on. If he could start replacing the pieces of the Machine Army keeping him alive with his own, clean tinkertech…

Michael shook himself out of that train of thought. One thing at a time. He first needed to get this single piece of tinkertech working before he could plan any further. With a mental sigh, he turned back to the visualization of the shield.

The first step was to begin stripping away the broken pieces of the design. Without any way to repair them, they only served to cascade failures onto the rest of the shield. Tinkertech was delicate and unstable enough on the best of days, and the sight before him was a devastated mess. Component by component, he took stock of what remained.

Within the design, the projection mechanism was thoroughly ruined. He mentally cut it out, wincing as a significant chunk of the design vanished. The underlying generator seemed fine, but without proper guidance it was impossible to tell how the dampening field would work, if it would at all.

Most of the remaining components were still intact, though a small hole in the design forced him to cut away another painfully-large chunk of perfectly fine schematics. The shield might have worked even with the damage, but it might not have, and this wasn't the time to take even more risks. He needed to focus on one thing at a time.

It was impossible to tell how long the modifications took, but eventually a blueprint without any obvious damage floated within his mind. The result was clearly smaller than what he'd started with, but as far as he could tell, what remained was usable.

The construction of the shield itself was just as fascinating as the previous time. His gaze was drawn to the baffling void like a magnet, watching as shadows danced across the surface of his scar. He didn't look away until the space finally shattered. For something that looked so violent, it didn't leave a single mark.

This time, the pieces emerged from the void, already sliding into place alongside the Machine Army. Bit by bit they rippled upward to the surface as machinery churned and whirred. The shifting metal forced Michael to reach an arm out to steady himself, before it finally lay still. Looking down, he studied the result.

The first thing he noticed was the change in the surface itself. Where the metallic scar had previously been jagged and raised, it was now almost regular, smoothed out into a closer approximation of where his actual skin had been. The edges merged cleanly beneath the skin, as if it practically belonged. Cautiously, he explored the new expanse with one hand, tapping lightly against the tinkertech. It held firm beneath his probing fingers, and he spent a moment marveling at the sight. The metal had picked up a faint blue sheen, the same glow that had suffused his old shield. All in all, it was a familiar design in a somewhat new shape.

A small, momentary frown broke through his exhilaration. Though it felt like an odd thing to criticize, the pieces fit together too well. Despite his best attempts, the Machine Army clearly had some effect on his design. The question was exactly how much.

Slowly extending a mental probe towards the tech, he held his breath.

The fog that filled his mental landscape of the Machine Army stretched out before him, but something had changed. Along one edge, an invisible wall had appeared. All along the expanse, the fog roiled and surged, but it didn't cross over.

A wide, relieved smile broke over Michael's face. He almost shook with relief. He'd done it. It worked. Whatever the changes were, it hadn't been enough for the Machine Army to gain a foothold. The tech was his and his alone. There was only one last thing to do. He turned eagerly to the shielding.

Without a shred of hesitation, he flicked it on.

He could feel it in his bones as the plates hummed to life. A brief glance with his ordinary eyes revealed the blue shine steadily increasing, until it peaked and stabilized at a dim but clearly visible glow. Around the edges of the plate, a creeping sense of pressure rolled outwards across his skin in every direction. It crept outward a foot, then two, and then slowly a third. The edges rippled unsteadily, waving in an invisible wind, but it was working. The new field wrapped snugly around half his body like a second skin.

He fell backwards, sprawling out on his bed with a grin still stretched across his face. The possibilities coursed through his head and left him staring up at the ceiling, lost in thought.

Looking back down at the now-smooth expanse of metal, he was tempted to press on. The proof of concept had worked. Right now it only covered most of his body, but it would be trivial to extend the plating around the rest of his waist. The machinery already filled the space beneath his skin. Replacing the surface would barely change a thing. It was just another tiny step compared to everything else.

This tinkertech was different. It wasn't the inscrutable, ever-hostile Machine Army. It was his alone, and it offered the beginnings of a solution to the problem that had haunted him for so long. Piece by piece, he would replace the Machine Army with components of his own design.

Michael remembered the feeling of climbing up the Tombstone. He remembered craning over the edge, watching Obann race unburdened through the city streets. All of that could be his. With the right tinkertech, he would be free to do anything he wanted.

There were so many ways to go from here that he wasn't even sure where to begin. He needed to get organized, start drawing up a plan. The thought alone sent his heart pounding, but it was a good feeling. He was excited, actually looking forward to something for the first time in days, if not weeks. Sure, tinkertech was powerful—sometimes terrifyingly so. He did need to treat it accordingly. But those mechanical tendrils had been really cool…

~~~~ ~~~~

Michael's phone buzzed, clattering against his desk. Across the room, he looked up from his armchair. Pushing himself out of the seat, he strode across the room and glanced down at the lit screen.

The clock in the corner provided a number to his vague impression of the hour. Ten-thirty. It was later than he had expected, late enough to rule out a random call. The number in the center of the screen confirmed his suspicions. He'd never added it to his contacts, but by now he could recognize it on sight.

"Hello?" he asked cautiously into the line. He didn't think Splintered Arms would reach out unless there was an update. The fact that they were calling now stirred a churning anticipation for what news awaited.

"Good evening, Fathom," a familiar voice replied. The tone was calm, the voice unmistakably Swallow's. Michael's grip tightened on his phone. What came next, however, wasn't at all what he had expected.

"Word has it you ran into Jolt last night," the mercenary cape said. "As well as a bit of a show. What did you think, seeing just how heroic our local heroes actually are?" There was an undercurrent of dark humor within his words.

On the other end of the line, Michael hesitated, struck off-balance by the unexpected question. With the excitement of the day he'd all but forgotten anything else. Before he could muster an answer, Swallow continued.

"I would like to make you one final offer, Fathom," the mercenary enunciated carefully. "You've seen what the heroes offer. You came to us for a reason. Unlike everyone else, Splintered Arms can offer everything you need. Join us in full, and you won't have to worry about working alone ever again."

Silence hung heavily on the line. Michael's knuckles whitened against the hard plastic.

Swallow didn't understand. He might be right—about the heroes, about what Splintered Arms could offer—but he just didn't understand. Michael didn't want a team. He wanted to be free, and right now he was closer than he had ever been. Soon, he wouldn't need to rely on anyone else.

"Like I've already told you," Michael said, heart thumping as he focused on each word. "I don't want to join."

From the phone came a long, wordless sigh. "I had hoped that you had changed your mind," Swallow said slowly. "I must admit, Michael, I'm disappointed." There was a click, and the line went dead.

Drifting down from his ear, Michael's arm had only made it halfway back to the desk before it shuddered to a stop. He froze, suddenly lightheaded as he tried to swallow against a bone-dry throat. The words echoed in his head.

There was a knock at the door.