Horizon
An; A short chapter to get back into this.
— O —
01–05–10, Tue. Afternoon, Brockton General.
The frantic scrubbing of pen scratching paper was the only thing that could be heard in the small hospital room, if you discarded a pair of synced breaths and muttered curses almost too low for anyone to hear.
Sarah bit her tongue, desperately holding back another expletive from busting through the iron seal of her lips. The last time she had slipped, a nurse had poked her head in, eyes searching and narrowed into a smoldering gaze that made Sarah shrink and her mouth sealed tight.
She revised the events of the day: her boss's strange attitude, the fight in the middle of the street, the sudden cut-off and apparent theft, and the way the city kept fracturing and splintering, only the first remnants of Boston now coming through yet still enough to cause tension and unrest.
Speaking of Boston…
Turning her head towards the TV mounted on the wall, Sarah clicked the remote a couple of times, bringing up the volume just enough to be heard without crossing the 'obnoxious' line. A woman in street clothes was speaking into the microphone, visage marred by lines carved from grief. Her face seemed brighter than it should, though, more hopeful than one would expect after an attack by the Hopekiller.
"—hind me you can see the relief team already helping with the search and rescue tasks outside the Dome, built and deployed mere hours after the fact by a combined effort between Hero, his pupil Armsmaster, and the everpresent Dragon."
The camera panned out by a fraction, the Dome now visible. It was an ugly thing, clearly built more for purpose and reparability — or, god forbid, replaceability — than anything else. Figures in the background shuffled around, moving crates of supplies this way and that, some Heroes even using their flight or super-strength for a not-insignificant boost to the transportation efforts.
The most prominent aspect of the scene was, most likely, the figures with predominantly white clothes; golden symbols representing a blazing, rising sun emblazoned in most of their garb. Some of them wore golden masks, their clothes armored or padded, the various distinctions between them and the other figures marking them as capes.
"And as you can see here, Gold Morning is already invested in the relief efforts and providing as much help as they can. With their presence here, the nascent threat of a Fallen attack has all but evaporated, given the hostility between Gold Morning's primary enforcers in the city — Haven, in this particular case — and the Mathers branch of the infamous Endbringer cult."
The sound of the TV faded into the back of Sarah's mind as she continued scribbling schematics, trying to fix the problems in a theoretical Hive focused primarily on scouting and espionage drones -— the issue was the same one she always had, materials and tools.
This was one of the faster instances she had seen of Scion's Church mobilizing so fast. It usually took around another week for the relief to arrive, with the Church's Enforcers always getting to the affected area earlier than anybody else to ward off attacks: be it from the Fallen, opportunistic villains, or even the Slaughterhouse themselves, rare as that may be.
As Sarah looked over her half-assed sketches and blueprints, the idea of going out hunting for materials started to look more and more attractive. She'd been contemplating buying electronics second-hand, but well… she'd honestly prefer something less likely to get her tortured by a convention center's worth of scuffed WWII LARPers. Y'know, like going up to Kaiser and telling him you dug up and violated Iron Rain's corpse.
Well, she supposed the Spandex Brigade could always get to her first. No doubt it would be better than spending the rest of her life talking to guys that insist they 're not racist they just really like Hugo Boss, but she wasn't exactly enthused at the prospect of spending the rest of her days putting muggers into shibari while dressed like she had an unhealthy fascination with air pumps and latex.
And as for Lung… well, deep-throating a lamp-post would probably be a less painful way to commit suicide.
That left the people that had tried to spirit her away the other day as… Huh. She didn't know.
Sarah grimaced. You'd think nothing could be worse than sex traffickers, slavers, and literal Nazis, but well… she had extensive experience at what happens when one fails to plan for the appearance of an even worse devil than the one they know.
As her hand kept drawing blueprints for the project she wanted to make first and foremost — a Hive that produced multipurpose worker drones, used as tools to make better, more precise Hives — she squeezed her other hand, the one intertwined with Taylor's. The warmth that greeted her grip helped center Sarah, and distract her from the absolute clusterfuck that was brewing in the streets, one that was only sure to get worse in the coming months.
So immersed she was in writing down the ideas that kept piling inside her head that she missed two people entering the room, startled out of her fugue only by the clack-clack of metallic boots resonating against the walls.
"Ahem."
"Jesus fuck!"
Thankfully her notebook landed on the floor closed. She didn't know what would she do if she outed herself by something as stupid as leaving her notes open to be observed by someone who would know what they were.
She bent over to retrieve her notebook, but an armored hand beat her to it, presenting the offending piece to her with a nod.
Sarah chanced a look upwards to find two figures staring at her. The first was covered in what was obviously power armour; polished silver that reflected the light, accompanied with blue accents, a faint whirring sound and, frankly, over-engraved pauldrons. Topping off the 'Knightly' motif was a helmet ripped straight from the pages of a shitty 1900s comic about futuristic space Britain.
No, she wasn't bitter at being taken by surprise. Perish the thought.
The other one wasn't any better — a glaringly red spandex suit with a utility belt, some protection for the chest and a, if it could be described as such, 'vanilla' helmet. It honestly resembled a motorcycle helmet more than anything, if the motorcyclist in question had the "brilliant " idea of stripping off anything below the nose, saying something about "breathing better". Although, they would have a point: the most optimal airflow for the body is laying on the street with your head ripped off, exposing your entire trachea to the wind.
"Can I help you?" she said as she took her notebook, a clear undercurrent of 'I'm just being polite, please leave' painting her words, obvious for anyone that heard her.
"Yes, I'd say so," said the one Sarah identified as Gallant. Clearly, he was deaf. "We were just making the rounds around here, seeing the kids and all that when we saw you here, and curiosity pulled me in." He shifted, and Sarah tensed. What was he on about?
Assault was uncharacteristically quiet too, given what she knew about him in PHO.
"Yeah? Well, here I am. What do you want?" Shit, that had come out a tad harsher than she needed. Just enough hostility to appear irritated, but not suspicious. She had done it a thousand times in school, but caught by surprise, she was having trouble finding her footing. A quick squeeze to Taylor's hand helped alleviate some of the pressure in her chest.
Gallant raised his hands, palms facing her way in a show of peace. She didn't buy it for one second.
"Nothing untoward, I assure you. Just a bit of a flight of fancy mixed with a dash of curiosity, nothing else." He crossed his hands, back resting against the wall opposite to her.
Sarah mulled over for the brief moment of silence that settled into the room, and decided to go with "I'm just her friend — the best and only one. I visit every day, but you probably already knew that." She shrugged, trying to shed some of the tension held there.
Gallant hummed, and separated himself from the wall. "Well, thanks for entertaining my curiosity. Sorry if we bothered you, and have a good day."
At that, they both left, leaving a sense of ease and dread pooling at the bottom of Sarah's stomach. Had she missed something? Something important?
Wait, wasn't Gallant a Tinker?
And she hadn't seen or heard them enter. He could have just taken a photo or video of her notebook as she was lost in her inventive haze and she wouldn't have noticed.
Sarah took her hands to her face, her body limp against the chair of the hospital.
So much for staying underground.