A.N. General disclaimer for all things copyright. I do not own the characters, setting, or lore utilized in the creation of this piece. My work is inspired by the creative thought of the original authors
Taylor didn't know what she was doing.
She stepped back, huffing in frustration, crossing her arms as she stared at the desk before her.
It sat there, filled with strange implements and jars of various fluids, giving no hint in the wake of her consternation.
Alright, so Tinker was probably out.
The workshop was the same as ever: flowers gently blowing in a slight breeze, the moon hanging over a darkened sky, and dozens of books scattered over the floor. The doors had been left open, allowing the breeze to drift through the workshop, gently teasing at loose pages and her hair.
She huffed again and turned away, her feet taking her out the front door. She had been at this for an hour or so. Maybe. Time was hard to tell in the workshop world. Her watch, a reliable, if cheap, digital piece, reacted oddly at the workshop, numbers flashing in incoherent patterns.
There were a lot of weird things in the workshop world. Her crazy watch set pretty low on her 'don't think about it' scale.
This place, the workshop and everything in included, was hers to use. Nobody ever disturbed the messes she would leave behind, or moved anything out of place. After weeks of exploration, it became clear that she was alone in her ability to reach such a place.
So why could she not use it? Why had her powers not given her the ability to 'know' how this stuff worked?
Tinkers could make the most broken things. Lasers, flying devices, and battle vehicles were just a few. Most could create devices that were just plain unfair, while the more esoteric Tinkers messed around with sciences that twisted space and made reality warped.
Each had their own specialty, but one thing that all Tinkers had was some kind of knowledge, an intuition about how their technology worked, that allowed them to build such fantastical devices, the down side being that only they could maintain it.
She had no idea what to do with this stuff. The larger tools were simple to discover; lathes and large clamps used to forging and shaping long pieces of metal or wood. Others, such as the dozens of jars filled with various liquids, where a bit harder to find out. Further still were devices that she only discovered when searching on a medical supply website. This discovery brought a fairly startling revelation to the nature of what the workshop did.
Blood was a critical component, though she wasn't sure how There were cabinets filled with small glass jars, about the size of her palm, that looked like primitive auto injectors, the glass stained yellow with age. Other materials included rubber tubing and long needles, ostensibly used to siphon the viscera. The bloody cloth on the alter seemed to corroborate this finding, though the reason for its presence wasn't very clear. Overall it ranked fairly high on her 'don't think about it' scale, somewhere between the messed up time and the weird pillars in the distance.
The blades hanging on the wall...she had no idea. They were probably meant for a weapon, but then where did the blood come in? How did you even use the lathe without some measure of force? Was she supposed to heat the material in the fireplace?
She sighed, stopping at the base of the steps and glanced at the doll. It stared ahead, blankly, its faux hair tilting as the wind breezed by.
"I don't suppose you know what's up with this place, huh?"
It sat there, silent as ever, leaning against the stone outcropping, staring into something that, perhaps, only it could see.
The doll didn't answer her. It never did.
Taylor sighed, hands raised as she threaded fingers through her curls. Great, she was talking to the doll now. Was she loosing it? Between the constant feeling of missed sleep and her drive to remove the monsters from her city, she was beginning to wonder if her powers were affecting her mind. It can't be healthy to have the representation of your need for a safe place to be filled with gravestones and deadly implements.
She wasn't crazy. Emotionally damaged and socially paranoid, sure, but not crazy.
Really, she wasn't!
Taylor turned and looked up at the workshop, taking in the gothic design and the stone work. It was impressive, to say the least. She figured that it would take a serious amount of skill to create the structure, not to mention the statue behind the alter. The tools, the doll, the workshop; everything that was part of this world was suggestive of a master's hand, a person of incomparable skill.
A person that she was not.
A person that she had to become.
She set those thoughts aside, walking past the doll to a small grassy alcove in between the workshop and a small path and traveled upward, in a slope, to the back door. Nestled in the alcove was a small basin, a bathe, made of stone and carved with intricate swirls. A few rungs encircled the wide rim, like handles, a way to lift the heavy object, she figured. It was beautiful, much like everything else that she had found here.
And, much like everything else, it held some deeper truth.
She was only a few feet out when the messengers surged forth, springing up from the water as a light mist began pour out of it, their bodies as grotesque as ever. A dozen of the little things, some hanging off of the side while others crowded around to wave their bony hands at her, turned to her and began to emit their characteristic moans.
It turned out that they didn't need their small portals, at least not all the time. They could also use the bathe.
The first time it had startled her so bad she had slipped on the damp stone the bathe sat upon and had awoke in her bedroom.
It wasn't her proudest moment.
One messenger, a small thing with beady, yellow eyes and a maw with few teeth, held its hands clasped together in front, like a salesman looking to make a dollar. Of course the top hats were present, one messenger even tipping it in her direction in a greeting.
She tried not to think about it, to think about what these things were. It was hard at times. Times like this.
She stopped a foot away, the merchant messenger gazing up at her, its mouth held open like all the others, and cleared her throat.
"So, uh, I need some help."
The merchant messenger nodded its head, an action that severely disturbed her.
They could understand her. What else did the know?
Taylor recovered, watching the messengers, somewhat worried that a couple would fall out of the bathe with how far they were leaning over the edge. They wouldn't, they never did, but she couldn't help it.
"I don't know how to use the stuff in the workshop. Can you help me with that?"
The merchant messenger continued to stare, eyes covered over by some kind of pale film. They were disgusting, but she needed help, needed some guidance.
After a minute of ceaseless moaning she continued, her desperate tones bleeding through.
"Please, I don't understand what the workshop is for or how to use it. I need help with this, help with how I'm supposed to use this to be a hero. My home, my city, is full of monsters that are hurting people, killing people. I need to know how to save them!"
She was nearly shouting at the end, desperate for some form of salvation. Her research had showed that she was heavily outmatched by most of the Parahumans in the city. She needed to have something to fight back, something to help her become that stronger person.
One messenger dipped its arm down into the water and pulled back, passing some object forward and to the waiting hand of the merchant messenger. It took the item and held it aloft, its hands curve and beckoning to her, as if giving an offering.
She tried not to think about it.
Reaching down she took the object, a small piece of vellum, she recalled, its edges burned from some fire. It was faded yellow with age but was surprising malleable, folding like fresh leather. She didn't really know what to make if it. How would this help her?
Taylor looked down at the merchant messenger and it seemed to motion toward the object.
She turned it over and beheld a curious symbol. It was a similar to a trident, a long line pointed downward ending in three spokes. The two outer spokes were bent so that their tips reached inward, crossing an invisible line just sightly above the middle spoke. At the intersection was a single dot, a small mark, completing the strange symbol.
She didn't know what to say. What was this thing? What did it mean? What did the symbol mean? Why did the messengers give it to her and how would it help?
She looked down at the bathe, the messengers seeming more alert at the moment.
"Thank you."
She tried not to think about how afterward they swayed with glee.