Birdcage

by Kahlil Johnson

Shahs

15. B4

Welp, time to see how things play out.

Bloat 5.2

I've been played.

I can't kill Tattletale. She's come to me for help and she's being chased by a Nazi. That's all anyone will see, and she knows it. If I kill her, not only am I doing a Nazi a favor in public, but I'm also telling everyone that I will break the rules if you ask me for mercy. I don't want to be known as a loose canon. I need to project an image of stability, so no gouging the Thinker.

I can't attack Purity. First, I don't think Purity's in the wrong here. Tattletale did cross a line, and it's taking a lot of shattered ribs not to tear out her heart right now on principle alone. Second, starting a fight with Purity here is going to cause casualties. Lots of them. Instigating a mass killing is also bad for business, so no blitzing Purity.

I can't back down. If I do, it'd be taken as an implicit approval of the Empire's revenge, if not straight-up sympathy with their movement. I don't want to be known as a Nazi, and cooperating with Purity to any degree is going to get me branded as an apologist at the very least. Mr. Doe said to think of worst-case scenarios. White Rose, killer of the head of what used to be the most prominent Asian gang on the East Coast, who's spent a lot of time being seen with Nazis, letting a Nazi kill a teenager in cold blood in front of her? The press would have a field day. That means I can't leave Tattletale to her just fucking desserts.

Purity raises her hand and the glow around it builds in intensity. "I won't ask twice."

I need time. Time to think and figure a way out of this that doesn't brand me a murderer, a Nazi, or a stooge. A movie scene flashes to mind. It's stupid, but I don't have any better ideas.

"Parley."

The glow around Purity's hand dims. Slightly.

"What?" I can practically taste the shock in Purity's voice. I use her moment of surprise to position myself between Tattletale and the most dangerous Blaster in the North East. Now she can't kill the Thinker without killing me. Not the safest place for me to be, but maybe it will make her hesitate.

"Parley. Let's talk this out." I lift my hand from Tattletale's shoulder to her mouth and form a muzzle. Letting her butt in on the delicate negotiations that are about to happen sounds like an excellent way to get dozens of people killed. That, and if she lives through this I'm going to consider tearing out her tongue. "You have grievance with Tattletale. Tattletale claims she didn't do it." Both Purity and I think that claim is bullshit, but I need to stall and hope one of the passive bastards behind me calls the Protectorate. "Let's figure this out."

"I had a family. A life." Purity sounds furious but fragile, like a storm inside an eggshell. "A baby girl. A beautiful baby girl." Her voice cracks. "I didn't even get to say goodbye." Her hand doesn't waver, but her shoulders heave. I stand there, struck silent.

Oh hell.

Purity is a mother. And Tattletale took away her daughter, however indirectly.

I think about the pain of losing Mom. Then I flip the feeling around and try to imagine what it would be like for a mother to lose her child and turn the sorrow into hate, to want to lash out instead of withdraw.

In. Out. Mask on.

The public's opinion of me is becoming less and less persuasive as time goes on.

I feel a scrape on my hands and turn to look at Tattletale. She's pointing to her mouth, eyes pleading for release. I pull her close and shrink down my lifts enough that I can look her in the eye. She makes a talking motion with her hands. I lean over to her ear.

"Do you have a way to prove you didn't do it?" I whisper before releasing the muzzle.

"No, but I can-" I reform her muzzle before she can attempt to use her power to warp my mind. Then I turn back to Purity, a plan forming in my head.

"I can't let you kill her." No matter how much I want to. "Not here. And I can't let you drag her away, not when she came to me for help." I leave out the part where I really wish I could be the one to crucify her. "What if her loss was proportional?"

Purity laughs. Once. It's a dry, hopeless sound, closer to a sob than anything else. "I lost my daughter and my freedom. What can she lose?"

"A pound of flesh." Tattletale is tapping furiously against my backplate, but I ignore it. I'm trying to save her life. If she didn't want me to she should've ridden a dog off into the sunset with the rest of her team. "I can't let you kill her, but what about a hand? That, and a public de-masking." I motion to the surrounding cameras. Tattletale can live without a hand, and the face reveal would be a reasonable comeuppance. "An eye for an eye."

"That's not even close to a fair trade." Damn. Purity's hands begin to brighten again. "Now move."

Plan B.

I pull Tattletale into my arms and push out as much bone as I can, moving us into the bone and away from Purity, making the dome bigger even as I feel the silent light boring through it. Gotta get away.

We emerge from the sphere with the glare of an angry star shining behind us, and I waste no time sprinting away. It's only a matter of time before Purity realizes we've gone. I tear off Tattletale's gag.

"I hate you." I hope she understands the level of self control it's taking me to resist the urge to grind her into a paste of flesh. "Help me get us out of here."

"She's going to be distracted for maybe another few seconds, you need to get out of the open." She's whispering and her eyes are wide behind her mask. Good. Maybe now she'll be able to see the full scope of her fuck up. I dash into an alleyway and start thinking of alternatives. Take cover indoors? No, she'd just level the building around me. Underground, maybe?

"Right!" Tattletale hisses. I juke and a beam of light tears a nearby dumpster to pieces. I hazard a glance up. Purity's there, aiming another shot. I crash into the side of a building to avoid it. Tattletale hisses in pain. Right. Have to focus. I turn my attention back to the road.

"Stop!" I stab a pillar of bone through a window and halt my forward progress. My eyes sting as something way too bright passes in front of me and I hear the ground shatter. Fuck, I'm blind. Need cilia. I extrude some and keep running, Tattletale keeps telling me how to dodge, and Purity keeps destroying the scenery around me.

I'm not fast enough to outrun her, no matter how many extra limbs I grow, but she's not quick enough on the draw to beat my agility and Tattletale's direction. I keep moving away from the shop, away from population centers and towards the Docks, somewhere the collateral damage can hopefully be minimized.

I lose track of time. The outside world gets less and less sensible until there's only the ground beneath my feet, Tattletale's voice in my ear, and the occasional moment of blindness when silent white light takes my vision from me. Everything else fades into the background until it almost feels like I'm dreaming.

Then something goes crack crack crack. I briefly think it's bone, but there's no pain to go with the sound. Then the lights stop and there's only Tattletale's voice. It's different though. Less panicked. Less frantic. Something else. I come back out of the haze.

"-litia , it's Miss Militia!" She's almost hysterical, laughing too high and too breathlessly for anyone to mistake it for happiness. "Home free!"

I slow to a stop. Somewhere along the ride Tattletale had wrapped her arms around me and I had wrapped her in bone. Now only an inch of bone and her catsuit separate us. I slowly loosen the bindings and try to put my thoughts in order. I can feel the not-bone parts of my body trembling, maybe from adrenaline, maybe from relief.

What a rush.

When Tattletale lets go of me, she stumbles and hisses. My hand shoots out and grabs her by the shoulder.

"Thanks, you were holding me a little close there. Cut off the circulation, and now I've got pins and needles-"

"You used me." Now that I don't have a vengeance-seeking Nazi trying to spread my insides over a city block, it's time for a fucking reckoning. Tattletale looks up at my mask, smile back on her face, apparently unconcerned with her imminent dismemberment.

"And you liked it. Every second on the edge, every close call was like chocolate, a briefcase of money, and good sex all rolled into one. Not sure why you're not in the Wards, it's one of the only places- really? You don't like authority? No, more than that. You hate authority, hate having to trust anyone with more power than you, including-" I don't like where this train of thought is going. I decide to halt it. Her eyes widen as I grow a thin blade of bone in my free hand. Not sure what I'm going to do with it, but I'm real fucking sick of hearing her jabber. Now where to start?

"Okay, motivation is off-limits, got it. Hey, would you look at that, it's the authorities! Hello Velocity!" I stay my hand and turn. The local speedster is, in fact, here. He has one hand on his belt and the other on his ear, talking quietly to himself as he stares at the two of us. I look to the side. A few rooftops away, Miss Militia is looking at us, a very large and very scary-looking gun held across her chest.

I let go of Tattletale, and she stumbles back, eventually collapsing to the ground. I pull the blade back in, and close my eyes.

In. Out. Mask on.

When I open them back up, the hero has let his hand drop from his ear to his side. I look at him, then at Tattletale, who's sitting on her ass rubbing at her legs and glancing between the two of us with undisguised curiosity. I look back at the Protectorate hero.

"Hello Velocity." I keep my voice as casual as possible. As if he hadn't just seen me ready and willing to maim another cape who wasn't a threat. As if he wasn't considering bringing me in as well. As if this was just a regular Wednesday afternoon. He nods once.

"White Rose." There's a moment of silence. "Would you be willing to give a statement about how you ended up here?"

"Once I talk to my lawyer." Mr. Doe is going to throw a fit. I'm not sure what the fallout of publicly offering to mutilate a teenager for a Nazi is going to be like, but I'm going to assume not good. I needed his help twenty minutes ago. Velocity tilts his head.

"A statement isn't something you really need a lawyer for. It's not," he fumbles for words before shrugging. "It's more of a 'I was on the scene and this is what happened.' You don't have to provide one if you don't want to," he clarifies. I sigh.

"I choose not to give a statement." Velocity processes that for a moment, but doesn't comment. Instead, he motions past me.

"I'd like to secure Tattletale now. If you would please step out of the way?" I move aside and watch silently as he walks over to the Thinker and explains a few things to her. She nods along and extends her hands. Velocity zip-ties them together and stands back up, looking towards me. "You can leave now if you want."

I nod and start walking back towards my shop. I need to run damage control, see if anyone was hurt, call Mr. Doe, and figure out how this is going to affect my business. I can already feel the waves of exhaustion from the multiple late nights that it's going to take to fix this.

About half a block away I stop and slap a hand to my mask before turning around and walking back to the hero. He waves at me cautiously. I sigh.

"Which way is Maroon and 125th?"

Once I'm back at the shop, I have exactly enough time to talk to the manager and confirm that no one was hurt before I get handed the shop phone.

"This is bad." Mr. Doe says. "You could've managed this better. On the other hand, at least you stood your ground against a Nazi."

"How sarcastic was that last comment?" I ask, pushing past a few concerned employees into the back room. "On a scale of 'you're fucked' to 'this is fine?'"

"Not sarcastic at all, and while this isn't fine it's also not a total disaster." I can hear the pounding of a keyboard through the phone. "You screwed up when you tried to negotiate with the Nazi and compounded it when you went for the Shylock method of bankruptcy, but saving a teenage girl from said Nazi probably brought you about even. We still need to write a press release and convince everyone that you're not insane and that your store isn't about to get strafed by an angry white supremacist." There's a pause. "Is it?"

I sigh. "Honestly? I have no idea. Purity's not going to be happy and she's at large, so maybe she will try to kill me. We didn't exactly have a chance to hash it out over drinks."

Mr. Doe makes a noncommittal noise. "Either way, it's probably for the best if the shop isn't open tomorrow. Or the day after. Maybe on Saturday, depending on how the employees are feeling. My advice? Go home, have dinner, and get some sleep. We'll assess damage and figure out the public response tomorrow. For now, just don't run across a Thinker's hidden base or an S-class threat by accident."

I laugh harshly into the phone. "I'll try." He hangs up after that. I give the employees who haven't left yet some bone souvenirs and leave my number and Mr. Doe's instructions with the manager. Then I go outside and head home.

Dinner is quiet, and Dad's been paying close attention to me throughout. After about ten minutes or so his fork clinks as he sets it down against his plate. He looks me in the eye.

"Taylor, are you alright?" he asks.

I sketch a false smile on my face, so fake that I know I'm not fooling anyone.

"I tried to make a good first impression with some people and it didn't turn out the way I wanted."

Dad frowns and takes another bite of his mashed potatoes.

"I know a thing or two about recovering from a bad start. Anything I can help with?" I imagine Dad trying to negotiate with Kaiser, or talk down Armsmaster. I almost laugh. I shake my head instead.

"No, not really. I've already asked someone for advice, and they told me to let it cool down for a few days before I try to do anything else about it. Something about letting people process."

Dad's face becomes thoughtful as he rubs his chin.

"I mean, there's merit to the wait-and-see approach. On the other hand," he lifts his fork, a few green beans speared on the end of it, "Waiting means that whatever impression you made, good or bad, is going to be the only image in their heads for a while. If you don't take steps to correct that, it's only going to become more difficult to fix in the future. Maybe try again? Take the initiative, set up a meeting, and see if you can't set things straight before they come to their own conclusions."

I take a bite of chicken and mull it over. I could go in for some volunteer hours at the hospital, or pull another 'petals in the park' stunt. Nothing controversial, just something to make sure that people know I'm not dead.

It's either that or laying low, staying hidden, and letting someone else tell the story.

I swallow the chicken. "Yeah, I think that could work. Thanks Dad." I put on another smile, this one a little more honest. Dad grins back.

"Glad I could help." The dinner is still quiet after that, but the silence isn't as heavy. When I go to bed, I think about booting up my computer and trying to justify my actions on PHO. I think about it, but I don't. That's tomorrow's problem. Instead, I change into my pj's, turn off the lights, and go to sleep.

I dream of dancing between flashes of light, chasing something, and being happy.

Last edited: May 5, 2018

542

T0PH4T

May 5, 2018

View discussion

Threadmarks Bloat 5.3

View content

T0PH4T

T0PH4T

[Verified Accessory]

May 12, 2018

#2,004

Y'all ready for this?

Bloat 5.3

"You're taking this remarkably well."

Mr. Doe (John, now that I've actually paid his fees) looks up from his Caesar salad with his mouth full and an eyebrow raised.

"The last time you took me here, it was to explain how I was screwing myself over." I say as I take a bite of steak. "I figured that this was going to start with a lecture."

He shrugs and swallows. "I'm not in the habit of attacking people for things outside their control. You did have control over whether or not you went out to play hero," — I twitch under my armor at the contempt in his tone — "and you did not have control over whether or not a criminal would stop by your shop and place you in a catch twenty-two. My clients getting themselves into trouble irritates me. Other people getting my clients into trouble," he shrugs, "That's how I earn a living."

I nod. Defend people from others, not themselves. It's a weird sort of code, but I really shouldn't be throwing stones. "I still threatened someone with dismemberment in public."

"You were bluffing." He looks me in the eye and I can tell he knows I wasn't. "That's your story and you're sticking to it. You were trying to stall for the Protectorate and started babbling to try and convince a murderous neo-Nazi not to kill someone. None of the videos circulating online contradict that, and over-the-top threats aren't exactly new to the cape scene."

I go back to my steak and he goes back to his salad. When we come up for air he starts talking again.

"You need to make a public appearance of some sort as a way to bounce back from this before it can get too much momentum. Something unambiguously good. You said that you worked with Isidis, right?" I nod.

"I think we get along." Insofar as a pair of people with complementary powers and no real reason to hate each other get along. That, and we have a similar sense of humor. I smile as the memory of sitting on an operating table getting my eye regrown comes back to me. John nods back.

"Do some volunteer work. The store will open again on Saturday. Be there." I think back through my schedule and wince.

"I won't be able to make Saturday." That's when I'm taking the GED. I found a place that offers the test once a month, and I don't want to put it off any longer. John shrugs.

"Then we'll re-open on Sunday." He doesn't press for the reason why and for that I'm thankful. I don't want to lie to him, but I'm pretty sure telling someone that you're taking a federally-registered test on a certain date is a good way to reveal your civilian ID.

A heart wrenching sob from a suddenly-childless mother comes to mind and I shut down that thought process. Dad's going to be safe. I'll be careful. No one will hurt him.

The rest of the meal passes in amiable silence. We split the bill this time (using my brand-new debit card, which was set up by someone in John's office) and part with a handshake. I promise to look into getting a better phone and he promises to look into finding more painters for me to work with. As poorly as yesterday ended, watching the spheres transform from dead tissue into works of art was a lot of fun and extremely profitable. Commissions wouldn't be too hard to do on my end, and there's a lot of potential room for growth.

When I head to the hospital, it's with a light heart and looser muscles.

When I leave the hospital, it's with an empty stomach and a mind craving stimulation. I saw nothing new today. I know it sounds insensitive, but fixing any sort of clean break is boring now, and the compound fractures aren't much more difficult. It's good that I'm bored and that exotic injures aren't happening regularly, but that doesn't make the volunteer work any less of a drag.

"Welp, I've got no plans for the rest of the day." Amy stretches her arms over her head as we walk out of the hospital. I can hear vertebrae pop as she works out the kinks in her back, and she sighs in relief as her arms drop down to her sides. She glances to me. "Want to grab a bite? I found a pretty nice sandwich shop." I nod, then pause.

"You're not going to eat with your family?" Her expression changes, slight enough that I could've missed it if I wasn't looking at her. I wince internally. "Did I bring up a bad topic?" She shakes her hand and waves at me.

"Nothing bad. Just some odd coincidences. Carol's working late, Vicky's on a "special date" with Dean," she adds air quotes and gratuitous amounts of eyebrow wiggling, "and Dad went out to a poker night. I'd be eating at home alone and I don't really feel like trying to get through a whole pizza by myself." There's a note of melancholy in her tone and I remember all the quiet nights when Dad stayed late at the office trying to keep the union afloat. I place a hand on her shoulder and give it a sympathetic squeeze.

"I'd love to have dinner with you." I'll leave a message for Dad. I can't imagine him complaining about how I'm hanging out with a friend instead of eating at home, and I feel like Amy might need someone to take her mind off of things tonight. That, and after we move past the awkward phase our meals tend to be a fair bit of fun.

"Thanks Rosie," Amy says, patting the hand on her shoulder and smiling up at me. "It means a lot."

"Any time," I answer, smiling back behind my mask. I drop my hand as we move on and think about the relationship between Amy and I.

What I have with Amy is not what Emma and I had. We don't cry around one another, we don't share the real extent of our worries, and for the most part we try to stay away from real topics. Part of that is public versus non-public cape, but more of it is... not wanting to risk things by escalating. I don't know what sort of skeletons she has in her closet (I stifle a chuckle at the pun) and she doesn't know about mine. Well, besides the obvious ones.

Maybe we could go farther, but for now this is nice. Just two co-workers who have a good time with one another, go out for food every few days, have regular physical contact...

A thought occurs. I stop in my tracks and Amy looks back at me, a questioning look in her eyes.

"Are you coming onto me?" I ask. It's blunt, but I really don't want to leave anything ambiguous here.

Amy stares for a moment. Then her shoulders start shaking. And her lips turn upward.

"I didn't want to-"

The rest of my apology is drowned out as peals of laughter spill from Amy's mouth. I see a few smokers down the street stare at us for a moment. I feel my flesh go red under my armor and have to actively resist the urge to hide my face in my hands. Amy is likely the only one who heard my response, and I think I can rely on her to be discrete.

Literally falling to her knees is a tad much though.

Once her fit has passed, she stands back up and brushes her self off, a giggle still occasionally escaping her. She looks up at me.

"You think I've been hitting on you?" She can barely finish the sentence before laughing again. This time she at least has the grace to try and stifle it. I sigh.

"You've invited me to eat with you a number of times. We get along well. You asked me to strip. I think it's a not unreasonable conclusion." I mutter the last bit and stare over her head. One of the advantages of being tall is that you don't have to make eye contact when it's inconvenient.

"Sorry, you're not my type." Amy walks past me, slipping in a slap to my backside and giving me flashbacks to another female member of New Wave. "A little too skinny." After a few steps she turns around, an eyebrow raised and a smirk on her face. "Is the sudden lack of romance the end of our dinner date?"

I catch up in a few steps, then shrink to a more reasonable height to match her stride. We walk for a while in silence, mine embarrassed and hers simply comfortable.

I decide to break it.

"So what is your type?"

I spend Friday reviewing for the GED, have a nice dinner with Dad, then wake up at six in a nervous sweat. After a cold shower followed by a warm hug of bone, I review all the reasons I have not to be worried.

It's just a test. One day and I'm done. I'm not actually competing with anyone. It's an inanimate object that harbors me no ill will, and the creators of it are probably just as passionate. I know the material and the bar is low. I only need to get seventy-five percent of the points, and I got eighty on the practice tests. I'm already out of school, this is just a formality. Even if I fail, I can just try again next month. Or the month after that. There's no pressure to succeed immediately. Heck, I only want it to ward off the truant officers, and they're so jaded by the Brockton Bay educational system that they'd probably be thrilled to hear I'm using my skip days to study.

I still spend an extra ten minutes worrying in the shower, and it takes Dad knocking politely on the door to jolt me out of my daze.

"You okay in there?"

"Yeah!" I say, shutting off the water and wrapping myself up in a towel. "I'll be just a minute!"

Once I'm changed I get to work on breakfast. Bacon, eggs and toast, simple but filling. I make a mental note to grab a lunch on the way there for the break between subjects. Dad comes downstairs as the last of the food finishes cooking and we eat together.

"You're going to do great Taylor."

"I know. Just pretest jitters." I thought I had left them behind in middle school, but maybe no test at Winslow had actually mattered enough to me to trigger them. Dad smiles, and ten years fall off his face.

"You know that Annette used to panic before her lectures?" I almost choke. Mom, the rock, a paragon of mental stability, scared? Dad starts twisting the wedding band on his left hand and gets a far-away look in his eyes.

"One day it got so bad she called me in the middle of a meeting and started babbling, trying to explain how she didn't know enough, how she wasn't sure if she could explain the ideas in her head, how she should've given up earlier and taken the job at the Library of Congress because at least then she wouldn't be out of a job when she screwed up here." I stare at him, breakfast forgotten. He pauses, then shakes his head and looks at me.

"So I left work early, broke a few speeding laws, and drove to the college. I got there just in time to enter the lecture hall. I had no idea what was going on." he shakes his head, smile now rueful. "I hadn't taken an English course in at least fifteen years and it was a three-hundred level seminar. I caught a glimpse of some of the notes the student next to me was reviewing and I couldn't make heads or tails of it. I didn't have the book, paper, a pencil, or anything else besides the clothes on my back."

"Then she walked in, nervous as a guy on his first day laying bricks, and scanned the audience until she saw me. Time stopped for a minute there. I don't know if any of the kids noticed it, but I sure as hell did." He puts both his hands on the table and stares at them, lost in his own little world. "She dropped her lecture notes on the podium and started talking. I had no idea if it was connected to her lesson plan or not, if inspiration had struck her out of the blue, if she was just falling with style, or if it was academic at all. All I know is that every single person in that room was transfixed. She was our oracle, and I learned more about the Odyssey in those two hours than I ever did in high school." He snorts. "The kids were so caught up in the moment they stayed after class asking questions for another hour. Eventually, they trickled out until it was just your mother and I." Then he looks up at me, the smile still on his face. "That night, we went out, had a nice dinner, and conceived you."

"Daaad!" I groan, covering my face as I flush. "Too much information." Ugh, now I can't get the image out of my head.

He laughs. "It took your mind off the test, didn't it?" I open my mouth to object, but pause. He's not wrong. The anxiety isn't gone, but it's a lot farther away. He nods his head and checks his watch. "We should probably get going." I nod back and we finish off our now-cold food before putting the plates in the sink. The car ride to the testing center passes in comfortable silence, and Dad stops to pick up donuts and morning beverages. He takes one, but the other three are for lunch.

Once we're there, he gets out of the car to give me an awkward hug. I return it. Then I ask a question.

"That story you told... is it true?" It seems a little convient. Not impossible, but implausible. Dad shrugs.

"It's the truth, even if it didn't happen." I blink.

"One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest." Dad nods.

"I used to read along with her courses. She'd bounce ideas off of me and I'd pick out the undergrad level issues." His expression droops a little, but he forces a smile back on his face and leans against the truck. "Maybe I'll pick up the habit again. I've certainly got the time," he jokes. We stand together awkwardly for a moment.

I clear my throat. "So... I'll see you at five thirty?" I'm not sure how to end this. Neither does Dad, and he nods uncomfortably before getting back in the truck.

"Good luck." He drives off. I follow the car with my eyes for as long as I can. Then I turn to look at the community center where the test is being hosted. It's in the nice part of town, so the graffiti on the walls is tasteful and the windows are unbroken. I can see a few people milling about in the lobby, all at least a little dressed up.

I close my eyes and take a breath of the slightly-salty, very-polluted Brockton Bay air.

In. Out. Mask on.

Then I open them and walk into the building.

The bar is lower than I thought it was going to be.

The reading and the writing sections are a joke. I've spent enough time getting familiar with the cape scene that I've got the current events part of social studies on lock. History and literature go hand in hand, so I wasn't worried there either.

I was concerned about the math until I started playing with my bones in frustration. Then I realized that I could make a rudimentary calculator under my skin. Make a row of fourteen indents on my shoulder blade, copy twenty seven times, and be aware of the total of three-hundred and seventy-eight indents. Rinse and repeat. By making arbitrary but uniform markings along my radius I could shortcut algebra and geometry inside of a second. I didn't figure out any fancy hack for the sciences, but it's not anything I didn't go over at Winslow.

When I answer the last question, I can almost feel the future opening up in front of me. I passed. I know I have. It's just a matter of waiting for the bureaucratic machine to do its work. I leave the building with a smile on my face, and when Dad picks me up I'm practically skipping. We go out to eat at an old pizza parlor, a long-forgotten haunt that we used to go to with Mom. We spend the night remembering, planning, and laughing.

I'll have to tell him about my powers, and that's not going to go well. On the other hand, being known as one of the most powerful neutrals in Brockton Bay might help soften the blow. I'll have a plan to stay safe, a way to make money, and no outstanding feuds. Hell, the E88 is the last major villain group. Who's going to be left to feud with?

Things are finally looking up, and my sleep is pure peace.

573

T0PH4T

May 12, 2018

View discussion

Threadmarks Bloat 5.4

View content

T0PH4T

T0PH4T

[Verified Accessory]

May 19, 2018

#2,066

I'm done with this semester now! Time to get a job...

Oh, and re-build my backlog of chapters. writing intensifies

Bloat 5.4

It's Sunday and the shop is as quiet as a graveyard.

I knew that the grand opening wasn't fantastic and that the chase was going to cause problems. I just didn't expect to go from packed to completely empty in three days.

The manager tried to sugarcoat it by saying that the fact a cape fight had happened in front of the store would actually bring back some of the business when the crazier denizens of Brockton Bay stopped by, hoping to see a repeat. I nodded politely as the fourth hour passed with five customers total, only three of whom bought anything. She deserved that much.

Sunday is a church day, so perhaps people are simply at services. Few people go shopping in the morning anyways. The evening is for lovers, and love means buying flowers. I have plenty of reasons to be optimistic.

That doesn't make the shop feel any less empty.

When I woke up this morning, I told Dad I was going to go out into the city for the day to celebrate passing the GED. He laughed and told me not to count my chickens before they hatched, then gave me fifty dollars for food and some luxury purchases. Once he went off to work I grew out my armor, ran to the Pale Garden and started the same routine as Wednesday, this time performing to an empty street. I didn't have the same level of excitement as I did on opening day, but the painter still showed up and we still made some art. There just wasn't anyone around to appreciate it.

It's almost a relief when Armsmaster rolls up on his motorcycle. Almost.

I stop working on the sphere and absorb it back into my armor. Painter guy (since we actually had time to breathe and no one was around, he introduced himself as Jared) notices the hero and gives me a questioning look. I nod once and he moves into the shop, out of earshot. With some semblance of privacy ensured I turn to the approaching hero, clasping my hands behind my back and taking a moment to center myself.

In. Out. Mask on.

"Hello Armsmaster. What brings you here?" More than likely it's the near-stabbing of Tattletale Velocity witnessed, but I should probably still observe the formalities. Armsmaster has his halberd at his side, non-threatening but ready for use at a moment's notice. I'm not sure how much I like him being on guard around me.

"Velocity informed me that he found you threatening Tattletale after Purity had flown off." Frank and to the point. Maybe a bit rude, but it gets the job done.

It's also an uncomfortable subject that makes me thankful for the armor holding me still.

"Are you planning on bringing legal action against me?" John's a phone call away, and if the Protectorate want to make a deal of it I'd rather bring him in sooner than later. Fortunately, Armsmaster shakes his head.

"No, but I would like to take this opportunity to discuss training with you. Not the Wards," he clarifies. I raise an eyebrow, forming a growth on my mask to mirror the motion, disturbing the gentle ocean wave patterns it's composed of today.

"Do you usually go this far for a single Rogue?" I ask rhetorically. Another type of recruitment attempt, different key but the same song. Armsmaster shakes his head.

"Normally, Rogues are a less aggressive and don't have such obviously confrontational powers. This leads to fewer engagements as they end up going out less and picking their fights more carefully. Increase either variable and the likelihood of recruitment or conscription rises dramatically. Increase both, and the length of their independence can be measured in weeks." He looks pointedly at me. I stay silent. After a moment he continues. "There is a program called MIRIS that attempts to support Rogues in society through various economic and social measures. In light of your odd case, Dragon has proposed a more militant version where Rogues are given some self-defense training by the local Protectorate to better resist forced recruitment attempts."

"That makes no sense," I state flatly. First, why would the Protectorate train random capes in how to be properly violent? That's just asking for a more dangerous breed of criminal to arise in response. Second, if anyone is willing to engage in such a program, they can probably get basic lessons from any number of places. The population who'd be interested in such a service are already being served, and entering a saturated market is a waste of time and resources.

"My thoughts exactly," Armsmaster agrees, "But it's an excuse to teach you how to take down criminals without cutting them open."

I stare at him, thinking about what he just said and wondering whether or not I should tear him apart for his slander and make an object lesson-

I flex my ribs. Stop. The messenger. Don't shoot the messenger.

"When have I done so?" I ask as calmly as I can. I need to find out if there's truth to the claims. If my rage is justified.

If it's not.

"The night of May first, morning of May second. You assaulted an ABB storehouse and encountered Hookwolf. While all fatalities do match his MO, there were a number of lacerations that were too clean to be his work. Few were deep but several scarred." He delivers the words quietly and without rancor. That makes it a bit easier to process as the spike of self-loathing and fury at my lack of control hits faster than I anticipate. "You have only killed once, and it was in self-defense. When you have used excessive force the results have not been life-threatening. I genuinely believe that the Wards program is the best way for you to learn how to use your power in the least lethal manner possible, but you have said no to that repeatedly. I hope that this compromise is more palatable and will allow us to help you keep from causing the excess harm that would lead to your inevitable incarceration." His tone never changes throughout his little speech, nor does he look away. I'm not sure if it's because he considers me a peer, if it's because he doesn't see me as enough of a threat to bother posturing for, or if he is simply a naturally passionless man.

I take a deep breath, warping my ribs to make it deeper than it could be normally, deep enough for my vision to go fuzzy around the edges. I hold it until the carbon dioxide burns and I feel a little more centered. Then I let it out in a long hiss.

No matter how the training goes, this will place me at least partially in the corner of the Protectorate. News of the program will get out, somehow, and people will start thinking I'm taking sides. That means the stupid villains who want to fight the "heroes" will come gunning for me as a way to fight a Protectorate proxy who's hopefully less skilled. One or two bad fights will convince me of the advantages of having a professional team at my back and sell me on a steady Protectorate job instead of being self-employed and dealing with villains on my own.

It's far more aggressive than Assault and Battery's pitch. On the other hand, Armsmaster is also using a hard truth to sell it.

I'm not in control.

I killed a man on my first night out. It was justifiable, but it still happened. I've crippled another without noticing, though that could be counted as malpractice on the part of the paramedics rather than explicitly my fault. The scarring can't be explained away except as "maybe a minor issue." Armsmaster doesn't know it, but I'm technically an accessory to first-degree murder, even if the victim was on her way to getting a Kill Order.

I'm not in control. Part of that is the murder-thoughts, part of that is not knowing when I'm seriously hurting people. I'm being offered a way to try to get a handle on my power, a way to both prevent future lawsuits from angry gangbangers and a way to reduce my chances of accidentally leaving someone bleeding out in the street. I shatter a few toe bones and swallow my pride.

"I want to discuss a few terms," I say slowly. "And I'm not going to commit to anything without talking to my lawyer."

Armsmaster nods. "I would expect no less. Is there a particular place that would be more suitable for this discussion?" I look around at the empty sidewalk, but see his point. No need to risk exposure.

"Time?" I ask, a sudden wave of exhaustion flowing through me. Like I just put down a huge weight, but the energy I had been using to carry it left me with it.

"Twelve seventeen," he says. I bob my head shakily.

"Are there any good restaurants nearby?"

"Two blocks east and three south is a deli that has received numerous commendations for its corned beef." I nod. Not exactly high dining, but enough for a quick outlining of terms.

"Can we talk over food?"

I get a few concessions. Nothing in writing because neither of us understand contract law, just some vague outlines about what the lawyers should be arguing over.

The location will be both neutral and private. Not the PRT or Protectorate HQ, not anywhere near my shop, and nowhere remotely close to the city. Chances are I'm going to have to commute for an hour to get someplace secluded enough, even with my Mover rating, but this way maybe I can delay the revelation of my involvement with the PRT. That, and if they extend the program to other parahumans, I don't have to meet or work with whatever new recruits they pick up.

I don't have to unmask to them, but in return I'll have to provide some collateral. We didn't agree on what that would be, but something like a dead drop with my civilian identity that I'd get back after I graduated from the program seems to be the best option.

It didn't all go my way. Armsmaster wanted me to meet the Wards, go on a ride-along with a member of the Protectorate, and talk to a Protectorate-employed therapist. A blatant attempt to use social groups to manipulate me, and when I pointed it out he also offered that making allies among future Protectorate members probably wouldn't be bad for business. Be that as it may, I'll pass on high school with superpowers. That, and I don't want to be seen openly siding with the Protectorate. After giving him a blunt explanation about why even appearing to side with the Protectorate could make villains want to fight me he dropped the subject, unhappy but satisfied with my explanation. The last point is still up in the air, and the bigger concern for him seems to be getting me in to see someone period.

"White Rose, I am the leader of the Protectorate East North East. I can count on one hand the number of parahumans with more influence in the Protectorate than me. I still attend a monthly session."

"One more reason for me not to join the Protectorate then." The woman behind the counter making sandwiches was remarkably unimpressed when two six-foot plus capes walked through her door during rush hour and asked for a private room, but the man seating people was a little more awestruck and got us a table in an otherwise empty room inside of five minutes. After the food arrived, Armsmaster activated a noise canceller in his halberd so we could talk freely.

"The sessions cut into an already full schedule," he concedes, his corned beef on rye with pickles and enough mustard to kill a horse long forgotten on the plate in front of him. "On the other hand, it's not a matter of convenience, it's a matter of health. Randomized trials and observational studies have shown significant and non-trivial correlations between regular therapist appointments and the overall mental stability of the participating parahumans." He doesn't seem to be phrasing it maliciously, but I do wince internally at the unintentional jab at my own fragile self control. Admitting you have a problem may be the first step, but it still feels worse than any type of shattered bone.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but the whole point of this program is that I'll get Protectorate-grade training without the responsibilities. Meeting a shrink sounds like one of those responsibilities that I was specifically trying to avoid." I managed to not kill the Trio for three months after getting super powers, my relationship with my father is getting better all the time and I have a job. Therapy is for people who need help, and I've helped myself already.

Armsmaster sighs. "It's not a responsibility, it's a safety precaution. The point of this program is to train you how not to hurt people. While the Protectorate can provide the proper techniques, you also need to be in the right mental state to use them, and that can only be recognized by an individual bearing a license from the state. We don't want to teach you how to safely subdue a unpowered individual so it's easier for you to kill them."

I resist the urge to bash my head against the table. He granted my first two requests easily enough and accepted my first two refusals with good grace, but apparently this is the hill he wants to die on. "I. Don't. Need. A shrink."

"In that case, I'm asking you to sit in a room with a person who bears you no ill will for an hour every other week." Armsmaster takes a sip of water before speaking again. "I would be willing to accept a third party therapist, but the funding of this program does require that you attempt to improve your mental health."

"Even if there's no problem with it?" I sigh, turning away from his visor to look at his sandwich. I finished my turkey on wheat but I'm still feeling a little peckish.

"Even then," he answers, pushing his plate towards me. I take the peace offering and use it to buy time.

I've been examined before, but it's always been in the context of how I interact with other people. John wanted to know if I'd break his rules, the Protectorate if I'd break theirs, Hookwolf if I'd follow his. The only time it was ever about me was when Doctor Fedorov started trying to pick my brain after I idly mentioned how I was calmer after acquiring my power, and it took a not-too-subtle mention of bone spikes to get her to back off. More of that sounds about as pleasant as a sharp stick in the eye.

Once I finish his sandwich I lean back in my seat and sigh. The delay didn't help; I still don't have any idea how I'm going to convince Armsmaster to let me skip therapy. "I don't think we're going to get anything further done here. How about I call my lawyer and we set up a meeting later?" Procrastination won't solve the problem, but maybe something will occur to me in the coming days. Armsmaster nods and rises from his seat.

"That sounds agreeable to me." We exit the deli shortly after, the mob of civilians out front that's only partially our fault parting before us. Armsmaster turns to me and extends a hand. "Thank you for your time." He says it quietly enough that no one should be able to overhear it.

I take his hand and nod. "Thank you for the opportunity." I don't feel thankful, but it would be rude to not reciprocate. That, and this could've gone much worse.

Now it's time to-

. . .

489

T0PH4T

May 19, 2018

View discussion

Threadmarks Bloat 5.5

View content

T0PH4T

T0PH4T

[Verified Accessory]

May 26, 2018

#2,097

So, I'm in Portland right now (a little last-second) and also nearing the end of my back log. I MIGHT have to take a week off to plan/write things ahead of time. It's a big MIGHT, but I figure I should make y'all aware of potential breaks in updates.

Also, chapter.

Bloat 5.5

Armsmaster wastes no time in sprinting to his motorcycle. I stand still, stunned silent, until he guns the engine and rolls up next to me.

"How fast can you move?" he asks. His voice is still flat, but it's a different type of flat, clipped and efficient instead of formal, the diction of a soldier without time for niceties.

"No idea," I answer. My voice sounds far away, like I'm speaking from the bottom of a well. Dad. Dad needs to get to a shelter. Needs to be safe. He's probably at his office. There should be a shelter a short walk away.

"White Rose, the rally point is the PRT HQ. Meet me there." Then he's gone, disappeared in the near-silent rev of engines and a blur of silver and blue. I stay still for a moment as civilians rush past me down either side of the street, pulling out their phones to call loved ones and find a safe place to hide. Safe-ish, anyway. Endbringer shelters don't actually stop Endbringers, they just give the civilians a place they can go to try to survive the splash damage. Civilians like Dad.

I need to focus.

I shatter toes. I still think of Dad. I shatter ribs. Dad. I break the plates of armor all over my body.

A feeling. One I've almost forgotten. Physical pain.

I reach for the feeling and focus on it. Dad will be fine. Civilians do live through Endbringer attacks. They evacuate, their shelters survive, sometimes they just get spared by happenstance. The Simurgh was the last one, so at least I don't have to rush him out of the city before he gets labeled a persona non grata.

I look around. The street is nearly empty.

I need to move.

I run, grow stilts, then legs, then fall back into the multi-limbed monstrosity that let me traverse the city back when Bakuda first went mad as I head up to the rooftops. I see three points of light streaking across the sky. New Wave. Another light, far brighter and faster, a second sun, outpaces them. Purity. The Empire can't be far behind her. I see a long, feathered serpent rising from the ground with three people clinging to it. The Travelers. There's a man in Grecian armor flitting from place to place in blue flashes of lighting. Dauntless.

Any other threat and the gathering would be a powder keg. Having this many capes in one place is usually asking for bloodshed. One wrong word, one bit of "accidental" friendly fire and it'd be a free-for-all of epic proportions.

Now all I can think of is how grateful I am that they're all still alive.

I outpace New Wave and the Travelers easily. The advantages of traveling alone. By the time I arrive, a cordon is already set up around a square of open area just outside the building. I see figures in colorful, professional costumes popping, warping, and fading into existence, typically with at least a few other parahumans. There's a Dragon suit staring out over the water at the approaching thunderheads.

A PRT agent notices me and points at the entrance of the PRT building. I nod and walk inside, weaving between new arrivals to enter a conference room. I see the Triumvirate, more Protectorate capes that I don't recognize, some corporate hero groups, a group of teenagers in costume that I figure are probably the Wards, what remains of the Undersiders, and a frowning blonde girl in a domino mask and an orange jumpsuit with the word "villain" down the side of it. After a moment I realize it's Tattletale. More capes stream through the doors, filling the room in ones, twos, and threes. Groups form, with nervous laughter and solemn silence forming the majority of the interactions between people.

I don't know where to go. Joining one of the groups is probably a good idea, but which one? The hero teams seem too tight-knit to disrupt, and I still want to see how Tattletale fares without-

I cut off the thought. This is bigger than a grudge, and it seems like she's getting her just desserts anyway.

I move towards the far wall and take another look at the room, looking for a place to be. I get a surreal flashback to my first few days of grade school when I didn't know anyone, and I almost laugh. The more things change.

I hear the clanking of metal on metal in two different tones. One grates metronomically, like two steel plates rubbing against one another. The other is chaotic and rattling, like a jar of nails turned on it's side and spun. The Empire enters the room in full regalia, a veritable tide of parahuman might.

It might be more impressive if I didn't know it was a front. That the E88 was on its last legs, hemorrhaging members and capital like a stuck pig. That the only reason they weren't all behind bars was because the Protectorate was waiting on outside help to shut them down once and for all.

I wonder which one of them is going to jump ship first? If any of them will?

Hookwolf, already blades from the neck down and surprisingly unmasked, says something to Kaiser. The Nazi nods and Hookwolf walks towards me, a somber expression on his face.

I school myself into calm. This is a public place, and a Nazi wants to talk to me. The correct thing to do is simply ignore him. I can't do anything about getting the attention, but I might be able to minimize the rest of the fallout.

"You're gonna be alright."

Once again, Hookwolf makes my brain stop.

"What?" It slips out, too fast to for me to stop it. Hookwolf continues.

"You're fast and you can take a hit. Probably only one though, don't get cocky. Don't stick your neck out for other capes unless you're sure you can get away with it. Remember that he's faster, way faster, than you think." He's in a rhythm and I think he'd go on for a while if I gave him the opportunity, but this makes no sense. I raise a hand to chest height.

"Hold on." He pauses. "Are you giving me advice?" It's not patronizing, there's almost no profanity in his diction, and he's looking me in the eye. It feels less like a lecture and more like one of Mom's explanations of Moby Dick. Which makes no sense.

"Yeah," he says before going right back to talking. "This ain't like fighting people, so ignore whatever comes easiest. Unless you've got a Thinker power, then trust that. Know who's around you so you don't lose an arm to a rookie Shaker-"

"Wait." He stops again and this time I can see irritation in his eyes. "Why are you giving me advice? And why should I trust it?"

"I don't want you to die Rosie," he says bluntly. "And I actually know what the fuck I'm talking about with this thing, so take it as gospel."

"You've fought Endbringers? When?" Why would a Nazi go seeking out fights with city-killing monsters?

"Rockaport in June of oh-seven and Duisburg in January of twenty-ten. And Endbringer, not Endbringers. Can't fly so Ziz's out, and the big bastard can fry me. Don't always get notified in time and I ain't going down to Africa or South America." He rattles off the information casually. "Now do you want to know about Leviathan or not?"

After a moment I nod. Hookwolf nods back.

"I'll be talkin' to the rest of the Empire. Walk over or don't." With that he spins on his heel, steel scraping a groove into the floor, and rejoins his gang. This time he's the center of attention, with even Kaiser deferring. I scan the rest of the room and see similar situations playing out. Wards talk to the older members of the Protectorate, the ones with thousand-yard stares who calmly finger their various implements and speak in dull but focused monotones. Armsmaster, a second halberd strapped to his back, is talking to Kid Win, whose mouth is twisted into a frown. The Ward nods and Armsmaster goes back to talking to Legend. Independents and villains speak quietly, a stilted politeness between previous enemies. I see the orange-suited Tattletale approach Isidis with Hellhound in tow, and after a short conversation the latter two leave the room. Then Legend walks up to a podium and the room falls silent.

He gives us the odds. One in four dead. He explains just how scary Leviathan is. How smart. How fast. He explains that we can't afford to play it safe, and that experience means more than power here because most fatalities are first-time volunteers. I get an armband from a Ward. Legend explains how to use them and how to call for help. When he asks for people who can interfere with movement, I stand up. We'll be going to the shoreline to try to blunt the effects of Leviathan's waves with Eidolon. Bastion, a man in metal armor reminiscent of a castle, motions for us to gather around him. Once the other groups are formed, Eidolon walks over to our group and claps his hands.

A moment of disorientation later and we're on the beach, increasingly large waves already turning the sand dark, rain coming down in sheets. Eidolon floats into the air without another word and flies off over the Bay, leaving us with Bastion, who has to shout to be heard over the roar of the ocean.

"We got a nice, early warning thanks to Armsmaster, but that doesn't mean we have forever so I'm going to make this quick. Don't think in absolutes. You're not going to be able to stop all the water and we're not going to be able to hold him in place for longer than maybe a few seconds. Think about how to minimize damage. If you're a matter projector, remember that Leviathan can toss your stuff around. Create responsibly. Focus on wave breakers for now and wait for orders when he does show up."

He gestures and a tent-like pair of force fields appear on the beach. Shielder steps up next to him and a jagged blue wall forms next to Bastion's construct. More and more types of barriers appear, everything from a series of organic-looking bubbles to a block that slowly shifts through the colors of the rainbow. A few people just stand still and talk, their Shaker effects subtly or not-so-subtly changing the landscape around them.

I shake my head. Observation later. I have a job to do.

I keep Bastion's words in my head as I push out bone. No absolutes. Minimize collateral damage. That means a lump of bone the size of a semi truck is probably a bad idea. The wall should be flexible, capable of breaking off pieces at a time without going all at once, and porous enough to let the water through after it absorbs the momentum from a wave.

I think back to my experiments with the botanist and nod to myself. I know of a few things that can take nature's worst.

I start warping bone into thorny stems, long and thin, packed loosely. I keep growing the blackberry bramble, pushing it down the beach in either direction, just behind and between the other creations. When a wave crashes into some of the growth, the bone flexes but doesn't break. Another wave breaks against it further down the line, going from a single cohesive mass to droplets as it pushes through the pseudo-mesh.

The idea works. Now I just need coverage.

I keep pushing until I can't see either end of my bramble. Then I turn to Bastion, who's staring at his tent city of force fields. I'm not sure how long they'll last, but he's covering at least fifty square feet all by himself.

"I can't see the ends of my reinforcements. I'm going to need to move if I want to expand them further."

"How fast can you do it?" Bastion asks. His eyes never leave the beach and I see another tent forming slowly where his attention is focused.

"Mover rating fast," I answer. He nods once, a quick, jerky motion.

"Do it."

I'm stilting up to speed as soon as he finishes talking, a single tendril keeping me connected to the bramble as I travel north. When the end of my formation comes into sight, I start pushing out bone again, forming braids and lattices and tangles as I let my feelings and half-formed thoughts work their magic, only taking real control when I have to twine between the creations of the other Shakers who've also traveled up along the beach. One of them is building something out of black and white pillars of some alien material, noises echoing oddly as the pillars rest against one another. A different cape is standing in front of an amp the size of a car, a cigarette between his teeth and an electric guitar held across his chest, occasionally strumming it and sending all the rain around him radiating outwards.

Soon I'm alone, growing the wave breakers maybe half as fast as I can move. I take a moment to look back and see the results of my handiwork, and a little bit of hope springs up as I see the extent of my reinforcements. Maybe it won't be as bad as Legend made it out to be.

Then I feel a shattering sensation behind me and my armbands starts chiming.

Leviathan has made landfall. Bastion down, QR-8. Goesgone down, QR-8. Cyster deceased, QR-8. Spindle-Eye down QR-8, AbblyBabbly deceased, QR-8 ...

Edit: fixed Leviathan.

Last edited: May 28, 2018

527

T0PH4T

May 26, 2018

View discussion

Threadmarks Bloat 5.c

View content

T0PH4T

T0PH4T

[Verified Accessory]

Jun 2, 2018

#2,129

Update is late because my door broke. Not the lock, the door.

Bloat 5.c

They say people make sacrifices for art, for science, and that nothing worthwhile was ever done without the risk of failure. They aren't wrong. Even something as simple as a variable-setting laser pistol takes forever to grow from the seed of an idea to the guts and wires on a table to a functioning pre-approval prototype. The process of creation is taxing, painful, and occasionally embarrassing. Everyone knows that making things is hard, but what almost no one talks about is what you do with your work once you've actually finished it.

I look down at the alternator canon. I built it so I would have something to whip out for when I ran into an A-class threat. When, not if. Armsmaster likes stressing the importance of preparation. It works well with his specialty. He can have a tool for every occasion, every situation, all because he can somehow manage to cram all the tech he could need into spaces so small even other Tinkers want to call it ridiculous.

Me?

I just try to have a tool period.

I pick up a power screwdriver with a groan and start pulling apart the one thing, the one piece of work, that I was actually proud of. Gone because I couldn't wait to show off.

The first thing that I extract is the power source. Power plant, really. Enough energy for a basically unlimited number of shots in succession. I leave it on a table with another three half-completed projects and put a sticker on it, a big red "X" on a white background. Piggot wanted it dismantled, but she never specified how small she wanted the pieces. Maybe I can salvage something from it?

The rest of the dissection is an exercise in emotional control and patience. I didn't make a lot of these parts for easy removal, and it shows. A few things break and get tossed into the scrap bin for recycling. A few more get out intact but are too niche to justify hanging onto. They get placed by the way side, to be disassembled into even smaller parts and tossed in bins of generically useful stuff. There's a lot of pedestrian crap that's not worth trying to organize. I'm eventually left with a hunk of metal and disconnected wires, the vital organs and beating heart, all laid out next to each other, some broken, some not.

I look at the result of my hard work. Then I tear my gaze away from it and look at what's left.

The power source. It generates more energy than I can use right now, but if I keep it intact I might be able to cut time off other projects in the future. It's small enough to fit in a backpack, so power armor? I shake my head and push it off to the side. That's a long term thing. Really long term, for when I know what I want a full suit to look like.

The control panel. Too complicated to take apart easily and it's got a lot of buttons. What about a multi-purpose controller for stuff? Again, keeping it in storage could shave a few days off other projects by using this as the interface for turrets or something. I might have to reconfigure it to make sure that all my future projects can actually connect to it, but that's a problem for future-Chris.

I examine the anti-grav ring for about six seconds, then move on. The first thing that springs to mind when I look at it is a projectile launcher that can take any sort of munition. The next thing is that I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be able to spin a railgun to the advisory board after this screw up. That, and I've got plenty of guns. No, I need something new, preferably something that's not one hundred percent offense-oriented. A non-combat tool that doesn't scream "amatuer Tinker at work."

The focal drive. The thing that gathered all the different energy inputs and put them together. Mixing energy sounds cool, even if I can't use it right now. A floating force multiplier, maybe? I've only seen it mix together traditional stuff like electricity and heat, but if I could modify it to take Blaster emissions and ambient radiation I could get a similar effect to the cannon...

I cut off the sudden rush of ideas, barely, and nod firmly. Different song, same tune. Still a long-term project, but a little more achievable than a new suit of power armor. Also not a non-combat tool, but since it would need teamwork to fire it would sound better than "super-sonic rock-thrower."

"Chris?" I startle a little at the voice and turn towards the door. It's Carlos, mask in one hand and a smile on his face.

"Yeah?" I ask. He points at the clock on the wall. I look at it. It's nearly five. Right. Home. "Just give me a minute to pack some of this stuff up," I say, motioning to the mess scattered around me.

"I'll be waiting," Carlos says, waving casually as he walks out of the room. I watch him leave and sigh.

It must be nice having such a simple power. Hard to put down, good mobility, and reasonably family-friendly as long as no one catches him trying to shove his liver back into his torso. I look back at the scattered viscera from the alternator cannon and sigh again.

It's going to take a long time to make up the ground I've lost today.

It takes maybe thirty minutes to drive from the PRT HQ to the Medhall lab were I'll be working. The agents in the back of the car don't speak much, but I don't take it personally. Piggot's come down harder on breaches of discipline ever since Missy started "borrowing" some of their more creative swear words, and while it hasn't stopped them from making the occasional dry comment when they overhear us ranting about the public it did put a damper on the small talk.

The PRT agents escort me through the building along a pre-planned route until we get to a pair of double doors where I'm greeted by a man in a lab coat holding his phone out, tapping at the screen furiously. That quickly gets put back into his pocket, and a broad grin spreads across his face as soon as he sees me.

"Welcome Mr., uh, Kid Win?" The scientist stumbles over my name, sheepishly scratching the back of his head and looking at the impassive visors of the PRT agents. He's gone grey early, but his hairline isn't receding and he has a lot of laugh lines on his face. I wave my hand casually and put on a public event-grade smile even as I hear the click clack of combat boots walking away.

"I'm not really a mister yet. Just call me Kid. Or Win. Either/or," I say. "What's your name?" Gallant's the best with people, but I take second place. It's one of those things I can get right without my screwed up brain getting in the way, and getting those little wins helps hold back the bitterness of coming near dead-last in every other category. Sometimes.

"Well, Win," he says, almost stumbling over the word, "It's a pleasure to meet you!" He extends his hand and I give it a shake. He holds it for a moment too long, then awkwardly lets go and motion towards the doors. "Anyway, here's the lab. And I'm Dr. Singer," he adds, name almost an afterthought. I nod in acknowledgement and push into the room to start looking around. I'm serving punishment detail, but it's a punishment detail where I get to tinker, so maybe it's a blessing in disguise. As I take in my surroundings, I revise my expectations. Beakers, bottles, burners, and a lot of other stuff I see at school in chem, except bigger and more expensive-looking. All of it pretty useless to me.

"Um, is this it?" I ask, motioning around at the lab. When Singer gives me a look, I clarify. "I mean, I'm not sure what I can do with a bunch of chemicals. I typically make my batteries and stuff out of metals." Armsmaster can make some really weird drugs, which is one of those fuzzy areas where sometimes wet and dry tinkering overlap. I haven't tried anything like that yet mainly because I don't want to accidentally give anyone a heart attack when my tech screws up.

I see the realization dawn on the doctor's face as he slaps his forehead. "Right! Sorry, when you asked for a lab I thought science lab, not an engineering shop." He shakes his head and walks over to a computer. "I'll try to see if anything is available, but I wouldn't hold your breath. The prototypers tend to be pretty jealous of their tech time." I sigh and hop up onto a lab stool. My legs don't even touch the ground. Eventually, he groans in frustration and drops his head to the desk.

"I got us some time on Tuesday, but until then," — I see his shoulders slump further somehow — "This is the only lab that's open. Damn, damn damn." His last words are quiet enough that I think I'm not supposed to hear them.

"I mean, it could be worse," I say. When the doctor turns to fix me with a flat glare, I hold up my hands in surrender. "I mean, I'm not a great Tinker. It'd be different if it was Armsmaster cooling his jets, but me? You're not missing out on much." The doctor snorts derisively.

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get a Tinker to share a lab with a normie?" Singer asks, shaking his head as he sits across the table from me. "You're quite literally the second one I've ever worked with, and the first one used his lab materials to escape." I laugh at that.

"You don't have to worry about that," I joke. "Piggot would skin me alive if I tried to get out of this." He has a chuckle at that, then the room descends back into an awkward silence as we stare at each other, trying to figure out something else to say.

Just because I'm the second best at PR doesn't mean I'm good at it. Why are people so hard?

"So you don't work with chemicals?" Thank you for picking up the thread, Dr. Singer. I wiggle my hand up and down and shrug one shoulder.

"I mean, it's more that the review process for stuff that affects people is a lot more intense than the process for working on tools," I say. "Armsmaster can self-approve some of his own stuff because he has a lot of experience, but if I wanted to make an extra-strong coffee it'd take five forms, three meetings, and an interview." I mean, it makes sense, but that doesn't mean it's not a pain. Dr. Singer nods.

"Like getting funding for basic research compared to getting funding for practical research," he says. When I give him a blank look from behind my visor, he clarifies. "Basic research is asking questions like 'how do people respond to seeing different colors in a stressful situation?'. Practical research is 'should we make traffic signs red or purple?'" I nod sympathetically, not quite seeing the connection but not wanting to alienate him. He continues on. "So, you haven't worked with chemicals because you don't want to handle the paperwork?"

"That, and I don't want to hurt anyone," I add. Never let a second-rate Tinker mess with your body. Singer makes a dismissive noise and waves his hand.

"That's what lab rats are for. Want to give it a shot while Medhall is paying for the specimens?" I lean back a little, trying to keep my face neutral.

"I don't really want to hurt rats either," I say quietly. Singer tilts his head.

"You know we breed them to die, right?" I nod.

"Still doesn't make me want kill them," I answer. He sighs.

"Right, not a med student." I'm not sure if I should be offended, and it must show on my face because Singer waves his hands in front of himself, more than a little sheepish. "Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to come across like a jerk. It's just that a lot of the people I work with have gotten used to testing on mammals. You get used to accepting that you're going to mess up, and that messing up is going to have consequences. Better to mess up on a rat than on a person. Am I making sense?" he asks, scratching the side of his head. I think about all the time I've spent shooting at dummies to make sure that my tech won't accidentally blow a hole in a person.

"Yeah, I kinda I get it," I answer. Singer nods.

"If you don't want to test your stuff on rats, how about crayfish?" I blink.

"Crayfish?" I ask. Singer nods.

"Crustaceans. Dumb as rocks, breed like mad, and not much higher up the totem poll than insects. If you don't want to hurt a small furry animal, how about the ugly-as-sin cousin of a lobster?"

"I don't think that addresses the main problem of hurting things," I say slowly, trying to steer the conversation away from making drugs.

"C. elegans?" he presses. "They're so simple that we've mapped their growth from birth to death almost completely. It's like experimenting on really big bacteria."

"Why are you trying so hard to get me to work on drugs?" I ask. He raises a hand, pauses, and groans, the hand going to the side of his head as he leans back and grimaces.

"Ugh, sorry, it's just," he fumbles for words, waving his hands around his head a bit before giving up and looking at me. "You have a power, right?" I nod slowly. "And it's one that maybe, just maybe, can help advance medicine, which would help a lot of people. Even if us regular mortals can really only 'get' one percent of it, it could still help a lot. Like, we discovered a new non-addictive pain killer by just looking at one of Sweetwater's drugs. I can't force you to do stuff you're not okay doing, but I can try to pitch as many ideas to you as I can and hope that one of them sticks because I honestly think that I could learn something from watching you mess around with biology. I'm trying to frame the messy parts of biology in a way that makes you more comfortable with the idea of pushing boundaries." He runs a hand through his hair and leans forward onto his arm. "You've got the power here. Literally and figuratively. If you don't want to do wet science, you're not going to do wet science. That doesn't mean I can't try to convince you to give it a shot anyways."

He stops talking and I take a moment to reassess him, looking for more than just general feelings this time. He clearly wants to press the issue more, to get me to do something, but he tightens his jaw and doesn't go any further.

I don't like the way he's been talking to me. It sounds like a lecture, and even though he's trying not to be too condescending it's still pretty obvious he doesn't see me as an equal. Maybe he's just not good in social situations, but even so he's coming across as kind of a dick.

On the other hand he's trying. That, and sitting around drawing stuff isn't going to pay off my debt.

"First we're going to need something to test," I say. Singer's face lights up and he leaps to his feet, slapping his hands on the table and causing me to jump a little.

"Fantastic! What do you need? We've got a lot of common stuff on hand, and if you need something more complex we can synthesize it in a few hours." He stands up and drags over a whiteboard, pulling out a marker and pacing in front of it as energy suffuses him. I look around and start thinking, heart rate spiking.

"Um..." Great. Now I'm freezing up. "I'm open to ideas?"

"What's your specialty?" he asks, turning around with his pen ready to write. I wince.

"I don't know." He lifts his free hand and shrugs with one arm.

"What have you made that you're proud of? Start with whatever you think is coolest."

"The alternator canon," I answer immediately. Then my mind catches up with my mouth and I cringe, looking down at my lap. Singer doesn't seem to notice, though.

"What's that?" he asks.

"... the thing that wiped your data banks," I mumble quietly.

There's a moment of awkward silence.

"Well, what did it do?" I look up. He's a little less excited now, but he's still attentive. "I mean, it'd be pretty poetic if what got you into this mess got you out of it," he says, a corner of his mouth quirking up. I smile back nervously.

"It mixed a lot of different types of energy together," I say, trying to keep it simple. "Radiation, electricity, kinetic, heat, a bunch of stuff. It could also moderate it. Beam dimensions, intensity-" I cut myself off. "Basically a lot of power with a lot of control."

"Could you make something that did that with drugs?" he asks, scrawling 'lots of stuff into one' on the board. "Maybe something that scans blood, diagnoses problems, then mixes up a cocktail to treat them?"

An image flashes through my mind of a device that looks like an IV drip with a lot of different vials attached.

"The injector, yeah," I answer, forcing myself back to earth. "I think someone would have to put in the actual medicine request manually, though." He writes 'fast drug mixer' next to a bullet point and makes another one.

"What about an autodoc?" I shake my head.

"Too complicated," I say. "I can't code that well."

"What about a tool that can change in response to a changing situation?" he presses, flipping the pen in one hand. "A scalpel with variable length, a drug that can can do multiple things depending on where it's applied, flesh grafts that can go anywhere-"

"The scalpel," I interrupt, a design flashing into my mind. "A multi-tool, with a head that can be changed out."

"What can it do?" he asks, drawing a line to divide the board in half and writing 'variable-use surgical instrument' at the top of it.

"Tweezers, flesh separation, flesh repair, sterilization..." I keep going, he keeps writing, and when I run out of steam he flips over the board and starts throwing out more ideas.

By the time the PRT agents come by to pick me up and take me home, we've moved off the white boards and onto a computer, writing in a word doc filled with shorthand ideas. We shake hands and he waves as I leave.

"Looking forward to tomorrow!" he says, smiling honestly.

"Me too!" I say, waving back. To my surprise, I mean it. Somewhere in the conversation we stopped being cape and scientist and became into two people discussing creation.

Maybe this won't be so bad after all.

Four days later I'm busy lathing a port for a vial of chemicals when an idea hits. Those have been coming more and more frequently, and while I'd normally push them to the side when I'm working, this part of the build is simple enough that I feel comfortable letting my mind wander. There's no reason the injector needs to be only an injector, is there? I could make it a multi-purpose instrument with delivery tools that can switch between aerosol, intravenous delivery, and pill creation. Come to think of it, why don't I try that with my guns? Broad blasts for crowd control, continuous beams for Brutes and Shaker constructs, rapid-fire for multiple targets, anything and everything. There's no reason I need to limit myself to using just one at a time-

I have an epiphany.

"I. Am. An idiot," I say, keeping enough presence of mind to stop the machine and step away from it as I slap my hands over my face. "Such an idiot!"

"What do you mean?" Singer asks. I turn towards him. He's looking up from a carton of Chinese take-out, genuinely curious.

"Switching stuff out. That's it. That's the thing that's always there. That's the common thread!" I say. I'm starting to ramble, I know. I grab a pen and walk over to another whiteboard. "The multi-tool? The handheld scanner? The cannon? All of them did different things!" I start sketching out anything that comes to mind, too many images in my head to be coherent. I think I get the gist of them though, and more images keep coming and I curse my hand because it can't keep up.

"You're not making any sense. One's a tool, one's a camera, and one's a gun. Of course they do different things," Singer says. I hear the soft slap of rubber against ceramic as he walks towards me. "What are you on about?"

"My specialty!" I say, spinning around. His eyes go wide, but I keep going. "Multiple parts, multiple settings, multiple modules! The reason I can't get a project done is because it's never done! I need to get an idea, start with a core, then just keep making parts for it and swap them out when I need to! I need to make things I can upgrade, that are future-proof!" It makes so much sense! All my guns, floating around my anti-grav ring to deliver whatever munition I need. A suite of medical devices, all slaved to the same control board. The control board! I still have it, I can use it to-

"Win?" I snap out of my fugue and notice that Singer is staring at me.

"You kind of zoned out there," he says, eyes tight with concern.

"Sorry, I got carried away," I say sheepishly. Jeez, freakout much? I take a deep breath, then let it out. And again. When I feel back at baseline levels of Win, I sit down by the lathe and go back to smiling. "I just," I wave a hand at the air as the other starts re-securing the part. "It's like everything suddenly makes sense now!" Armsmaster can have a million tools available because he can shove them into a space that's too small to be sensible. I could have a million tools available because all my tools are other tools too!

"Win." I snap out of my daze again and turn to face Singer. He's back at the table and his eyes are focused on me again. "You just zoned out again."

"I'm better now," I assure him, turning back to the lathe.

I get way more done in that one afternoon than I did in an entire weekend of tinkering before knowing which paths to look down. I get an impulse? I ask if it helps me make something more versatile. If yes? Apply. If no? Ignore it.

When I leave, I'm practically skipping with glee. I send an email to Armsmaster telling him the good news and asking for ideas. I also request a look at his tech, too. Maybe now I can make a useful suggestion and start paying him back for all of the help he's given me.

I'm halfway through creating yet another head for the multi-tool when a group of PRT agents burst into the lab, weapons drawn. Singer puts his hands up immediately as one of them trains a rifle on him and I sit bolt upright, tinkering forgotten, as another agent levels their weapon at me, visor impassive.

"Kid Win, Master/Stranger password. Now." I blink in surprise, but instinct takes over and I rattle mine off.

"Kilo Mike Sierra One-One-Six-Eight."

"Eight-Zero-Niner Alpha Fiver Delta," the agent says back, nodding once. "We've got to go. Leave anything that's not going to explode."

As I step away from the table I catch a glimpse of Singer watching me with wide eyes. Then he's gone and I'm being escorted down the hall, out of the building, into a van loitering in the parking lot.

Once we're underway, I turn to the officer escorting me. "What's going on?"

"Medhall is a front for the Empire," he says, voice flat and emotionless. "Your contract with them is now null and void. A separate team will retrieve your tech as soon as possible, but getting you out took priority."

I sit there, processing. I try to reconcile the memory of Hookwolf slapping Vista aside with the one of Singer and I cheering over a successful test of the auto-stitcher. I try, and I can't. Medhall. Empire. Singer. Kaiser. They don't match. This doesn't make any sense.

"We're not sure how deep it goes," the agent says quietly. Implicitly, the PRT isn't certain that Medhall employed only Nazis. Maybe Singer's one of the good ones? "It's going to be looked into. You are not culpable for anything your tech does. I'm sorry," he adds.

The rest of the ride is silent.

The city is still reeling, still trying to figure out how to deal with the loss of Medhall when the sirens sound. I pack up my stuff, call Mom to tell her I'm going, then head to the rally point. Once I'm there, I find Armsmaster talking to Legend. Their conversation is short, and once Legend walks away I ask Armsmaster what I should do. He tells me to stay in the backlines and play support. I don't have any tech that can hurt Leviathan, and there are never enough capes that know how to heal. Glamorous? No. More important than trying and failing to hurt an Endbringer with my low-power armaments? Yes. Medhall even sent my stuff back as soon as the sirens sounded, along with the personnel most familiar with it.

I take a look at the results of three weeks of tinkering. Tinkering where I knew what I was doing, where I managed to work with my stupid scattered thoughts to get projects ready for the field. The two multi-tool handles with a dozen different heads, waiting for injuries. A syringe gun and backpack of chemicals, ready to mix up nearly any combination of drugs a patient could need. A full body scanner that fits in one hand, the thing that ties it all together. The refitted anti-grav ring, now supporting half a dozen different guns that I can control from my helmet. I'm an even better shot when blasting from the eye.

All thanks to a Nazi.

Singer didn't know Mehall was a front. He didn't know that Max Anders was Kaiser, or that his company was systematically depriving people of service based on their race.

He did support the Empire though. He had gone to a few rallies, and a look into his internet browsing habits and criminal record showed a few things that made my stomach turn. He didn't know, but he probably wouldn't have cared if he had.

When I get to the medical tent Singer is waiting with Othala and Victor, talking with them in a somber tone. I meet his eyes. He has the decency to look ashamed. Victor looks between the two of us, comes to some conclusion, then slaps Singer's shoulder and walks away, Othala trailing behind him. I walk over to Singer and we stare at one another silently for a moment.

"I'm, uh," he begins, but I shake my head and he stops. I hand him one of the multi tool handles. He takes it gingerly.

"You know the most about this stuff besides me," I say quietly, moving into the tent and standing next to a table. "I don't know enough about how injuries work, and the scanner is still finicky." I look at him. "I'll need your help. If you need the tool's head changed out, let me know."

Singer nods and we wait for the battle to begin, for the injured to come.

It doesn't take long.

A/N: I'm going to changing my update schedule. This is partially due feeling a little burnt out on the weekly plan, partially due to preferring these longer chapters, which take exponentially longer to write than the 2k-3k things I was writing previously. The next chapter will be on schedule (that is, June 9th), but the one after that will have a two-week gap (June 23rd). Once I write the last chapter, I'll return to the once-a-week plan, but that's no sooner than August.

Figured you guys should know. Anyway, H4T hanging up, have a good weekend.

Last edited: Jun 3, 2018

500

T0PH4T

Jun 2, 2018

View discussion

Threadmarks Burst 6.1

View content

T0PH4T

T0PH4T

[Verified Accessory]

Jun 9, 2018

#2,166

To remind everyone: this will be the last of the short chapters. From here on out, I update on a biweekly basis.

Also, new arc smell! Very similar to salt...

Burst 6.1

By the time I arrive back at the beachfront where we had set up, Leviathan is long gone, leaving behind only carnage and seawater. The Search and Rescue teams are already on-site, picking up the people who look salvageable and leaving the bodies where they lie. I see a massive slab of concrete carrying a young girl in a black and red robe along with another cape in a bodysuit that appears to be made entirely of zippers touchdown nearby. The cape in the body suit disappears, then reappears next to a pile of rubble. Bits and pieces of rubble start teleporting next to him while other capes pile injured onto the the girl's ride.

I see three bodies. One's a shirtless, muscled teen, missing his head, the stump of his neck slowly leaking blood. Another girl in red and yellow has pieces of metal protruding from her abdominal cavity. The last corpse looks steamed, like boiling water burns but a million times worse.

There were more capes on this beach than lived in Brockton Bay. I could practically see reality peeling apart at the seams as the world was bent around them. Dozens of powers at work, the sand flooded with constructs.

Flooded. I almost laugh.

What a poor choice of words.

Two parahumans look at me, one in black on white polka dots, the other in white on black pinstripes. After a moment they merge into one body that's equal parts both then walk over to me, body tilted forward and head craned back to look me in the eye.

"If you're on S , get to fuckin' work. Dragon can send you to the nearest folk, gotcha?" He points at the bracelet on his wrist and slaps my arm. "C'mon, ain't got the time to be standin' around."

"Containment," I say faintly, shifting my gaze from him to the mobile slab of concrete. It lifts off, taking no fewer than seven other people with it. Seven. In seconds. Levithan tore through seven people in mere seconds.

"Oi!" I blink and refocus. The polka-dot-stripe man is snapping his fingers in my face. Once I'm back to looking at him he points of into the distance. "The beastie's thata way. Ask the nice lady for direction if you can't hear him." He points to his wrist and taps the bracelet there twice. Right. Dragon. She'll tell me where to go. I turn to leave, but stop when I feel an hand on my back. I turn around.

There are two of him again, both looking at me.

"It ain't a laughing matter, lassie-" one starts.

"-but keep your head on your shoulders and you'll come out alive," the other finishes as they both nod in sync. They turn in the direction of the cape with the zippers, run over to him, and start digging through the wreckage alongside him.

I turn away and ripple my ribs, taking comfort in the familiar motion. Mask on, White Rose. I stilt up, start running, and heft the bracelet to my face.

"White Rose, I'm with Containment. Which direction is the battle?" I say, forming a shade over my head and wiping my lenses dry with a tiny brush of bone as the rain continues to pour down. After a moment a red arrow appears on the screen, pointing up and to my right. Good enough. I nod and push out more stilts, moving to the rooftops, trying to catch sight of the action.

I don't have to wait long.

Bursts of light bright enough to make the rain sparkle blaze through the sky in a dozen different colors. Massive lashes of water tear through the air, occasionally snuffing out a moving pinprick of light. I catch glimpses of strange constructs through the gaps in the buildings trying to hinder something big and green and fast.

I think it's Leviathan.

I throttle back on my speed a little, enough that I can turn on a dime. It's caution, just making sure I can avoid being pancaked. That's what I tell myself, and I keep telling myself that as I get closer and closer to the fighting, the sounds of which are growing louder and clearer. The sounds of water slapping against concrete, of water breaking concrete, of different Blasters scoring hits on the beast, of the discharge of tinkertech, of-

Then he rounds the corner. Big, bigger than Lung, and much more alien. Grey-green, with four eyes distributed unevenly on his face. He's hunched, more simian than reptile, with long arms and some surface-level damage across his body.

I move to the side out of instinct. Fear. Something.

It barely keeps me alive.

He flies forward far faster than something that big has any right to move, and I catch a glimpse of his hand striking out almost dismissively. I bring up a shield of bone on reflex, then gasp in agony when it shatters and I'm sent flying back.

Pain. Actual pain, not broken bones pain. It feels like the ache in my legs after my morning runs, but a thousand times worse and all over my body. My muscles, I think.

I just got hit so hard that my muscles tore.

Then I crash into a wall and feel my backplate fracture and I'm awake again. Not awake. Aware. Damage control now. I fuse my skeleton together at the joints and suddenly I feel like I can move again. Good. Next step, control of my body. I shift my shell around to grab a ledge and Jesus apparently moving muscles without actually flexing them still fucking hurts. I have to bite my tongue to keep from screaming.

Why is this so much fucking worse than a broken bone?

I wrench myself to standing and push all the hurt down into a tiny fucking ball of hate and forget about it. I can still move. It hurts, but life fucking hurts.

Hookwolf was right. I could only take one hit.

I see half a dozen different people in costumes dash past me as I try to regain my bearings. Leviathan. Chase. Get some fucking vengeance. I try taking a step. Pain. I weave bone into my muscles, a miniscule lattice that fractures a little every time I move it but keeps my muscles from tearing further. I take another step. Pain, but easier to manage this time. I sprint after the receding capes, extending more limbs and looking for the fight.

I am not going to stop. Not from one hit.

I catch up with one of the slower capes and match his pace. He's in some home-made getup of blue biker leather and shards of mirror with a full-face mask, stepping on a series of small circular force fields that disappear behind him as new ones form under his feet, panting lightly as he bounces forward at a decent clip.

"Need help?" I ask, forming handholds on my back. He nods once then jumps onto me. I stumble for a moment, a few limbs fracturing under the new weight, but I grow more and get back up to speed.

There's a thunder clap followed by half a dozen eye-searingly bright beams flying down from the sky. I can almost make out Legend through the downpour, along with beams of scarlet and white that are probably Purity and Laserdream, as well as a few more esoteric colors.

There's the fight.

"I'm Springboard, with Containment," the cape on my back says. "You?"

"White Rose," I answer. "Same." I crawl us over a ruined building and catch a glimpse of the battle. Alexandria and what looks like a black skeleton are tearing gouges in the creature's hide while projectiles rain down upon all three of them, turning water into mist with an audible hiss even as the sounds of at least a dozen different projectiles drown out almost all other noise. I can see rents and scorch marks all over Leviathan's skin and places where black ichor flows freely.

I think he's losing.

"Tidal wave incoming."

"Get close to me!" Springboard shouts from my back as two more capes group up near us, one a glowing figure that makes me think of a female tree-person from Lord of the Rings and the other a guy in a purple tunic with bandages around the lower half of his face. Four circular force fields pop up around me, forming part of a dome in the direction of the ocean. Another force construct grows between them, less like New Wave's creations and more like a time-lapse video of a plant growing, green and transparent and organic-looking, and the purple man lifts both his hands palms out towards the incoming wall of water and oh shit bone bone bonebonebonebone-

It hits and I feel fractures but no complete breaks. Thank God.

"Heavy casualties, please wait."

Oh hell.

I pull back the bone and assess the damage. Huh, I grabbed Springboard and the two people around me with tendrils of bone. Don't remember doing that. The force fields are still there and I feel Springboard struggling against his bonds. I pull the bone back in and he brushes himself off, nodding at me. The plant construct and tree-person are gone and I'm holding a naked woman in their place, who's clutching at her head as blood flows from her ears. A Breaker? Changer? The man in purple was at the edge of my range and I can see his right arm sporting a new compound fracture.

A broken bone. I can fix that.

I motion towards him, hands out. He looks up at me, eyes screwed up in silent agony. I point to his arm.

"I can fix that, you just need to let me-"

"Watch out!" Springboard shouts and four force fields appear behind the man in purple. I look just in time to see a horizontal bar of water crash into them, practically detonating as it impacts the fields. Enough slides under and around them that both purple guy and I get swept off our feet. I hear a feminine cry of pain from behind us before my head submerges.

After inhaling liquid, I push myself back up and hack it out of my lungs. The sounds are gone again, leaving only the pitter-patter of rain and the rumble of particularly massive blows. I feel a hand on my shoulder and turn around. Springboard's looking me in the eye, tapping my mask with one hand.

"Good. You're here. Listen, if bone's all you have, switch to Search and Rescue." I feel my hackles rise at that, but he keeps going. "All you're going to do is fill the air with shrapnel. You didn't know that then, you do now. Look after these two," he says, pointing to a now-kneeling purple guy and semi-conscious naked woman, surrounded by fragments of bone. I blink twice, staring at the mess around me.

He's right. I'm not useful here.

"I'm going back to the fight," he adds after a moment, stepping up into the air onto one of his force fields and rushing off towards the sound of battle. That arrogant little shit who does he-

I shove it down. Fine. I can't stop Leviathan. Nursemaid it is. I thumb the button on my communicator and lift it to my mask.

"White Rose, switching from Containment to Search and Rescue," I say as I walk over to the man in purple and hold out a hand. He grabs it and pulls himself to standing, swaying on his feet. After I get a nod from him I head over to the naked woman, who still has her hands over her ears, but is slowly getting back up. "You okay?" I ask and she winces, hands going to her ears.

"Quiet place," she whispers, barely audible. "Place to rest. To change." Purple guy walks over to her and covers her with part of his cape, giving me a pointed look as he does so. Right, time for the Rescue part of Search and Rescue. I start growing limbs, tall enough that purple guy has to crane his head back to look at me. After an awkward moment I grow a set of stairs that lead up to my back.

"We don't have all day," I point out, and he nods in agreement. Slowly, oh so slowly, he helps the naked woman up the steps. Once I've grown a harness around her and the guy in purple has a solid grip on the handhold I pushed out, I stilt up to the rooftops and head towards the PRT building, looking for the triage center. It's pretty easy to find, what with all the brightly-dressed people flying in the same direction towards it. I start moving, trying to keep my gait even for the sake of the people on my back. I'm not sure how well it works out, but inside of ten minutes I'm there.

It's a madhouse, but an organized one. A thousand different sounds clamour over one another. Boots splashing through water are overlaid with the distinct noise of at least three different types of teleportation and the howl of something big and canine. Somehow I can still make out shouted orders through the din. Movers are arriving and departing rapidly, each one dropping off the wounded and picking up hale capes from their own designated landing pad. A telefragging countermeasure? That structured organization is actually a problem since I haven't been assigned a space, so I'm forced to stand around awkwardly waving a tendril of bone at nearby EMT's. Eventually one of them notices the fifteen foot bone monster with the two injured on its back and comes sprinting over.

"How bad?" he asks, motioning for the guy in purple to come down.

"He's got a compound fracture and she's got something wrong with her head. Power based, I think. He doesn't speak," I add and the doctor nods, water spraying from his hood.

"Can you get them down?" I nod and make stairs again. Once they're off, I shift down into my knight's armor and tap the unbroken arm of the guy in purple. He pauses and looks back at me

"I can fix your arm," I repeat, pointing at the awkwardly bent limb. The EMT and guy in purple exchange looks, then skeptically turn to me. I make a rose in my hand and hold it up. "I can shape bone," I state. "Mine and any I can see. I've worked with Isidis before-"

"What the hell are you doing out there?" The EMT interrupts, grabbing me by the arm and dragging me away. "The healer tent is over here!" I barely resist the urge to lacerate him for his disrespect, and instead dig in my heels and shake off his hand.

"What are you talking about?" I ask. "I can cover distances quickly and make barriers. So what if I can fix a break?" It's not like that's so impressive. You still need to cut people up for it to work, and Isidis needs to make sure my bone grafts actually take. The EMT stops, pinches his nose, and takes breath. I flex a rib in irritation. Yes, condescend to a cape at an Endbringer fight, that can only end well.

"There are a lot of Movers and Shakers," the EMT states slowly. "Capes that can help people? Nearly zero. Victor is just a really, really good surgeon, and he's one of the top five medically-oriented capes in the North East. Othala? The only person I've seen with a power even remotely close to true healing, and I've been to seven of these. So when you tell me that you can fix shattered limbs on a level that Isidis found useful, forgive me for being a little short. We've got a lot people who can carry bodies," he says, eyes going tired for a moment, "And not a lot who can fix them."

We stare at each other for a second, two people still in a storm of activity. Then I grit my teeth and nod. I'm just behaving optimally. Prioritizing. It's not the sickening fear of Leviathan that keeps me from walking away. Not the knee-weakening relief at the thought of staying away from the fighting, from the messy bodies, from attacks that actually hurt.

I tell myself that and I still feel like a coward.

"Lead the way," I say, quiet enough that I can barely hear it over the rain and the rush, quiet enough that the shame in my voice gets washed away in the cacophony.

"Less talk, more fixing people," the EMT says, turning away and motioning towards the two white flaps. "'C'mon, no rest for the wicked." I stifle a retort and follow him into the medical tent, leaving the chaos behind me.

Last edited: Jun 10, 2018

504

T0PH4T

Jun 9, 2018

View discussion

Threadmarks Burst 6.2

View content

T0PH4T

T0PH4T

[Verified Accessory]

Jun 23, 2018

#2,229

Ah, fucked up sleep schedules. I mean, I did it intentionally but now I'm going to be posting at a very strange hour where I live. Oh well, gotta work, gotta eat. Anyway, chapter. Next on is on the 7th of July, with maybe an interlude on the 30th, but I make no promises.

Burst 6.2

The inside of the tent smells like copper and has far fewer screams than I expected. More shouting though, and it feels less like a funeral parlor and more like the shop on its first frantic day of business.

"I need a unit of AB blood!"

"Next person!"

"I can't fix this, wait for a better healer."

A pair of twenty-somethings with power washers and mops are desperately trying to keep the floor clear of gore. Operating tables are spread out across the room with at least one person in a costume by each. I see Othala manning two on her own, switching between each patient every few seconds while Victor barks commands to the orderlies around him at the table next to her.

"Take her to Sanguine to be cleared of potential contaminants, the danger is over for now."

"Wake up, wake up!"

"I need another bucket of hash!"

Kid Win is working with a pair of people in lab coats, three small cylinders floating above a man's open chest cavity, light glinting off the humming metal. There's a cape with red hair and skin that looks like it's made out of scabs standing next to a pair of people in domino masks laying down on stretchers, tendrils of blood flowing from him into each of them from his outstretched hands. In the background I can see half a dozen teams of conventional surgeons hiding their own patients from view behind translucent curtains.

"I've got a cape who can fix broken bones!" the EMT shouts. I shake my head, pushing back against the sudden sensory overload. Right. Helping people. Why I came here.

"Broken ribcage over here," one of the surgeons at the back of the tent shouts. "Can they fix that?" I have a flashback to the time I spent volunteering at the hospital. Yeah, I can fix that.

"Show me the bones," I say, leaving the EMT behind and weaving through moving bodies to get to the table. "I need line of sight on everything, along with all the pieces." Isidis could just graft in replacements, but I haven't see her in this tent. I'll need to find her at some point, see if she-

"Patient got thrown into a wall and broke all the ribs on her right side and several bones in her right arm," the surgeon says, disrupting my train of thought and bringing my attention to the cape on the operating table. She's a girl not much older than me, with her costume cut open and skin peeled-back to show some gently-bleeding meaty bits. "There are splinters of bone in the surrounding flesh. We've picked out most of them, but-"

"Not a problem," I interrupt. "Hold the bones near one another." I've seen this before. Not this exact fracture, but this type of injury. It sounds (and is) bad, but I also figured out a way to fix them. The surgeon shoots me a glare but complies, pressing the two fragments of the highest rib on her left side towards one another, close but not touching. Perfect. I reach out and pull, willing the solid bone to flow like liquid. Tiny bits of white leak out of the surrounding tissue and the separated parts of the rib, fusing the break together. I'm not sure if all the bits are actually a single whole, but it's good enough for now.

"Not sure if the fix is perfect," I caution. "I usually have Isidis check it over." Don't want people re-breaking these because they weren't properly healed.

"Less talking, more fixing bones," the surgeon says, hands already holding the next two fragments close. I grit my teeth and pull again. Same shit, different location.

Eventually, the girl's rib cage and shoulder blade are in their proper shapes again. She gets picked up and dragged away, another person replacing her. I settle into a rhythm with the surgeons. Find the broken areas, fix them in order of most to least serious, send them to somebody else for faster healing, get another patient, repeat.

I don't always fix them fast enough. A man in a white robe and domino masks stops moving as soon as they put him on the table, and halfway through straightening his femur the lead surgeon shakes her head and pulls me away. Another time it was a semi-conscious Changer, partially made of metal, and no matter how hard I pulled her spine wouldn't change. They gave me three tries, and after that I kind of...

Stopped thinking so hard.

Bone. Melt. Reshape. Make right. Right-er. Focus on the most damaged parts. Follow the surgeon's instructions. Wait for another patient.

There are two hundred and six bones in the adult human body, but every patient I see has the same three injuries: limbs, ribs, and spine. That's probably because anyone with a skull broken by Leviathan isn't getting back up, and any fractures in the smaller bones are something for better healers than I to worry about.

Working at the hospital felt like what I imagined a fast food job would be like. Banal, with brief moments of activity but generally low-effort and low-engagement. It paid the bills and it wasn't hurting anyone, but I'd never be happy there.

This?

That same level of fulfillment, but with twice the panic and more urgency because every second someone was here in front of me was a second they weren't fighting Leviathan, a second where a hold up on my end might mean that a heavy wound turns into a fatal one. It's a special kind of hell that would make me sick to my stomach if I hadn't pushed all of the vomity parts of my mind so far beneath the bone that I couldn't feel them anymore.

I keep working, patients keep coming, and rain keeps pounding against the top of the tent, a constant reminder of what precisely is responsible for all these broken people.

Eventually, I make a mistake.

"Fuck, that is not how a knee is supposed to look!" a surgeon shouts, snapping me out of my daze. He's right. It is, however, a perfect tulip blossom.

There's another impact on my shoulder and I turn to look down at the source. The head surgeon has green irises. I didn't notice that before.

"Can you undo that?" I nod, then look back to the knee and fix it. When the patient gets taken away, I feel a tug on my arm. It's the head surgeon again. I follow her and end up in a slightly-quieter corner of the tent where she pulls down her mask and looks me in the lenses. She has a smattering of freckles across her nose, crows feet, and the corners of her lips are turned down in a slight frown.

"How old are you?" she asks. I stare at her. She can't be serious. She snorts. "Fine, what level of school are you in?"

"...high school," I say quietly. The head surgeon sighs and rubs her temples.

"Fucking- okay. I need you to take a break." When I start to protest, she raises her hand. "Apapap, none of that. Right now you're wiped out mentally, and that's only going to do bad things to your patients, who are also my patients. Go out, get coffee, get something to eat, and relax as best you can for at least ten minutes. I don't want any more slip-ups, okay?" After a moment of hesitation I jerk my head up and down. "Now get," she says, shooing me away. "Trust us grown-ups to handle things for a minute."

The urge to hang this presumptuous bitch by her own spine is positively feeble and I manage to get it under control without so much as a finger flex. I'm just too fried to put in the effort. Instead, I turn around and exit the tent, stepping around a pair of EMT's carrying a stretcher between them.

For a while I just wander in the rain among the tents, taking in the frantic action and furious movement, the sea of desperation and manic energy. I'm not entirely there, but I manage to keep out of the way of everyone. At some point I end up under a pavilion where half a dozen people in raincoats try to keep food and beverages flowing between different groups of clustered capes.

"I'm getting bad vibes from that plan, man, you gotta not do that y'know?"

"Okay, so we're thinking too hard right now, how do we get Leviathan-"

"Dead doves! Dead doves everywhere!"

"More bad vibes!"

"Oh hell, does anyone have anything concrete for me?"

"Schrodinger won't die today, barring interference from the individuals who can't be predicted."

"I'll be sure to tell him not to be worried about anything other than the fucking Endbringer!"

I move past the capes bickering around a bank of computers and head for a table covered with food. One of the attendants sees me and immediately loads up a coffee carrier. Once I'm within grabbing distance he shoves it into my arms.

"There's a tent for non-Thinkers that way." He points to the left and I follow his eye. Yup. three capes, sitting or standing under a covering, barely out of the rain. I grab the carrier and walk over to them. Listening to circular arguments isn't going to help me get my head back in the game.

It's a strange group. One of them is dressed in expensive-looking street clothes that hang off him in a way that I assume is supposed to be fashionable, smoking a cigarette as he reclines on a trio of chairs pushed together to create a makeshift couch. A dozen indistinct shades surround him, the same blue-grey as the ashes on the ground next to him.

Another cape is pacing clockwise around the perimeter in long, even strides. A dead white overcoat with mud stains nearly up to their knees conceals their gender. Some sort of morph suit derivative covers their head completely, and as they pass I notice that there aren't any openings for the eyes or mouth.

The third is a nervous wreck, hugging his legs to his chest and pressing his chin into his knees. The dollar-store first-day-out vigilante costume that he probably threw together at the last possible minute is covered with dried mud stains, and the balaclava that's supposed to be protecting his identity is pulled down around his neck, his entire head sticking out through the mouth hole. He's got brown hair and a boyish face that's at odds with his otherwise mature frame, and I think he'd be kind of cute if not for the miserable look on his face and the trembling shoulders. I recognize the type from some time I spent in the pediatric ward. Short breaths, long exhales, tight eyes, and a gaze that's focused on something other than what's in front of him. The look of a child getting ready for their shots, or for surgery, or for something that the kid knows is going to hurt.

"Café," the guy on the chairs moans, making a grabby motion with one hand at me. I pause for a moment, then walk over to him, stepping between the shadows and getting a better look at his face. He's got a pair of snowboarding goggles around his eyes and his hat pulled low, with his hands folded neatly on his stomach. The goggles are glowing slightly, so I assume it's tinkertech of some sort. I leave the cup just out of arm's reach on the ground and move on to the person circling the tent. "Puta," he groans, but the words don't have any malice in them, and when I turn back to glare at him he inclines his head slightly before lifting the cup to his face and chugging away.

I decide to move on and walk over to the striding person to offer them a cup. They take it without so much as a thank you. Rude. They hold onto it in silence for a moment, still walking, but eventually I see their arm come up to their face. No mask change though, so the fabric must be liquid permeable?

I'm distracting myself from the crying elephant in the room. I grit my teeth, turn around, and head over to the last person. When he doesn't look up at my approach, I nudge his shoulder with the half-empty drink carrier. He startles, almost upsetting the remaining cups, but a few spikes of bone in the right places stop his error from compounding. Once he's got his breathing back under control he looks me up and down, eyes wide and jaw open. I shake the container.

"Coffee?" I don't know what to do. I never talked to Amy about helping people through emergencies, or how to deal with shock, or anything close to counseling. So this? Not a situation I should be trusted with at all.

On the other hand, I'm the only one here that seems to care.

He nods and takes a cup, holding it between his legs in both hands. I stand by awkwardly for a moment, then violently shatter a rib to get my ass in gear and sit down next to him, forming a bone chair that places me on roughly even level with him.

The silence isn't. The rain is deafening, echoes of esoteric abilities carry over from the frontlines, and there's the constant splat of the person in white's boots.

"How-" the boy stops. I wait for him to continue. He makes a few noises, then smacks the side of his chair with his hand helplessly and whimpers. "How do you do it?" I take a sip of coffee. I never liked the taste before I became a cape. I blame Amy for getting me hooked.

"Do what?" I ask. Lie to my father half a million different ways every day I see him? Fight people who have a good shot at killing me and are known murderers? Maintain a shred of something that, if you squint and have a particularly profound disdain for the literal meaning of words, could be called neutrality? Manage to fuck up one of the easiest jobs in the world because I got fucking tired?

"How do you deal with the pain?" I blink. "I mean, how do you go back to it? Like, I thought I'd be okay 'cause a guy shot me once and I walked it off pretty easy but I tried going after Leviathan and I got thrown into a wall again and again and again and it just..." He shakes his head and sips at the coffee, grimacing. "It was bigger than getting hit with a forty-five. Like my whole body was wrong for a second. I can take it, I know that." He's rambling now, not really talking to me. "I tested a lot of stuff, figured out what I could get away with. Turns out that's pretty much everything. Fell off a skyscraper once, y'know?" He tries to make it a joke. It's not.

Another silence.

"I don't like getting hurt." It comes out as a whisper. "Is that wrong?"

I almost laugh. Almost. Instead I take a deep, shuddering breath, hold it, and let it out.

"No. It's not." He looks at me. It's a fragile gaze, one that's equal parts scared and hopeful, craving affirmation. Not one I should be trusted with, but one I have to respond to. "I don't think you should be forced to get hurt. I don't think we should be here." He doesn't react to that, but the guy in street clothes is looking at the two of us now. "This is a job for people who know what they're doing. For heroes who don't think twice before they act." People who wouldn't want to get paid for healing. People who don't have to suppress the urge to slaughter their former friends. I look down at my coffee. "I'm not one of them."

"¿Entonces dónde están?" Street-Clothes is looking at me, leaning forward with both hands resting on his thighs, white knuckled. He makes a show of looking around, shading his eyes with one hand, then lifting both hands helplessly.

"I believe she means the Protectorate." The person in white's voice sounds staticky, like it's coming through on an AM radio frequency. I twist my head to look at them, but they're still pacing. Street-Clothes shakes his head, eyes still locked on me, the glow of his goggles brightening slightly.

"Ellos no son héroes. Son una pandilla que le agrada a la gente." My Spanish was never great, but I can decipher enough to get the gist and shake my head.

"I don't mean the Protectorate. They get paid to do what they do. It's their job to stop crime." I pause, trying to get my thoughts in order. "I mean people like Vikare. People who tried to be heroes before anyone else knew what that meant. Like, going out there?" I point towards the city. "That's extra. Way extra. We shouldn't have to fight that."

"¿Quien es Vikare?" Street-Clothes looks towards the person in white.

"The second parahuman. He was never a member of any official team," they reply. Street-Clothes pauses at that, then looks back at me, leaning into his chair a little.

"¿Enserio?" he says, a note of surprise in his voice. I meet Street-Clothes' gaze and resist the urge to duck my head.

"Random, fucked-up people who have no idea when they're really in the right shouldn't be called on to do public service. Maybe it'll work out for a while, but eventually they're going end up in a situation that they can't deal with, one that forces them to choose between what they want and what's right. And they'll make the wrong choice." I take a sip of coffee. "On the other hand, you're right. There aren't a lot of heroes around."

"Somos los unicos." The words are flat. I nod in agreement.

"I don't know about you, but I wouldn't trust me with this." I form a bone spike in my free hand, sharp and fast. The boy next to me shivers a bit and I wince internally. Damn. "On the other hand, I can't give it away and I can't make it hurt less. So I found a way to make it do what I want anyway." I form the spike into a rose. I've spent so much time working with flowers it's practically second nature by now, but there's still something pretty about the process. Something soothing. "I hurt every time I use my power. So I made the hurt useful. I work with what I have. We don't have heroes. I do have this." The rose turns back into a spike.

"...so what should I do?" The kid's words draw a bark of laughter from Street-Clothes.

"Lo que quieras, niño." I don't remember enough basic vocab to understand what he said, so I turn towards the person in white.

"He says to do what you want, and I am inclined to agree." They stop pacing and look at the boy. "Feel free to ignore our advice. We are not good citizens." Street-Clothes snorts and goes back to laying down on the trio of chairs even as White Coat resumes their walk. "On the other hand, we did show up. There are worse people to emulate."

"Cabo entrando." One of the shades flickers out, revealing a man in some sort of black desert robe and jet black sombrero, positively soaked. He stumbles for a moment before shaking his head, shedding water left and right.

"Cuttin' it a little close there amigo," he says, his voice a tad more clipped than I think someone talking to a friend would be. Street-Clothes waves his hand dismissively, then holds it out for a high-five.

"Mi nombre es Snapback, gringo," the other cape (Snapback?) says, still just as apathetic as when he called me a bitch. The man in the desert robes nods reluctantly and slaps Snapback's hand. Another ghostly image springs up roughly where he's standing, and Desert Robes walks up to White Coat.

"How much longer am I good for?" White Coat looks him up and down once, unnaturally still while they examine the other cape.

"Seventeen minutes. Near the end you'll experience decay on the effect. I recommend not being mounted." Desert Cloak snorts.

"Don't need to tell me twice." He stomps the ground twice and a massive horse erupts from the mud, at least ten feet tall and made of what looks like solid shadow. The cape in black staggers for a moment, then steadies himself and motions at the beast. It kneels, huffing in irritation as he mounts up. After it stands, he tilts his hat at the two of us.

"Ma'am." Then he's off, a positively bloodchilling whinny tearing its way through the night. I watch him go for a moment, then turn back to the kid.

"What have you been doing?" I ask. He chugs the rest of his coffee, then puts his feet on the ground and squeezes his knees with his hands.

"I heal. Really, really well." I nod. If that's it, then he doesn't really- "They were cutting pieces of me off for some... pool. Filled it up with a lot of body parts, then sort of" — he makes circle with his hands — "cut it up. A girl went in and started healing people." He takes a breath and leans back. "They were flushing it out, preparing for a new batch that has the right mix of stuff again and I" — he shudders — "I needed to take a break." I think I can hear the mucus in his nose.

Oh.

I finish my own coffee, thinking about the time I provided tissue for Isidis when Triumph was injured. Then I take away my pain tolerance.

That'd be a problem.

"Can you do it?" I ask. He shudders, then stands up.

"It's what I've got." He pulls up his balaclava then nods to me. "Thanks, um?"

"White Rose. Yours?" I stand up and absorb my chair back into my armor, then step next to him. He barely reaches my shoulder.

"I don't really have one yet." Hmm. Healing, no costume themes, afraid of pain.

"Dorian." He thinks about it for a moment, then nods.

"Dorian." He extends his hand and I take it. It feels strange, like foam wrapped around steel. I pump it once, then let go.

"Come on. There's work to be done."

A/N: One hundred thousand words. Probably not, actually. Between these author's notes, the occasional joke at the beginning of the chapter, and me ranting about my life, we're probably closer to 95K.

Still.

One. Hundred. Thousand.

That's a lot.

This is the single longest-running story I've ever written and it's not close. It started of rocky, smoothed out a little, took a few nose-dives, but it's coming back and I feel good about it. Proud.

Now, a little road mark: we're approaching the end. In a big way. I have a set end point for this story, and while it could take as many as four or five more arcs to wrap up, it could also take two. I don't know for sure, but I do know that it's there. We're past the half-way point, if not in word count then in spirit.

It's been a hell of a ride everyone. Here's to the final stretch.

Edit: fixing Spanish. It's a work in progress.

Special thanks to JP115 for helping me make this make sense!

Last edited: Jun 24, 2018

493

T0PH4T

Jun 23, 2018

View discussion

Threadmarks Burst 6.3

View content

T0PH4T

T0PH4T

[Verified Accessory]

Jul 7, 2018

#2,332

Once more to the plot!

Note: This chapter has more gore than the rest of the story. Like, a LOT more. If that disturbs you, I suggest you pause your reading here.

Burst 6.3

I find an EMT and send them to the main medical tent with the message that I won't be coming back. I have no idea if this is anything close to the correct procedure (if there is such a thing for Endbringer attacks), but leveraging cape synergies is probably more productive than just assisting regular surgeons. Then I follow Dorian to another tent, this one with a pair of PRT troopers at the main entrance and a truck near the back. The troopers give us a nod as we pass between them, and I return it, taking a moment to really think about what they do. Regular people, wearing body armor rated to help them survive maybe a few gunshots at most and armed with rifles that don't do more than tickle half the threats they face. And once they're done fighting villainous capes, they come here to offer assistance against monsters that Alexandria has reason to fear. Plenty of parahumans don't show up to these things. It's not a sign of weakness: it shows that you have a healthy respect for your own life. Sure, the heroes shouldn't skip out on an Endbringer fight, but it's not mandatory they attend.

Endbringers are above and beyond the call of duty. And the PRT, the vanilla humans, are still here.

They're far braver than I am. So brave it makes me sick.

Then we're past them into the tent, where the scent of blood and meat is overwhelming. Dorian shudders for a moment but keeps moving, and I start breathing shallowly, trying to smell as little of it as possible. There's a man in a white suit who's so pale that he has to be a cape standing next to an industrial-grade inflatable pool, and when he notices our entrance he nods once to the both of us, a distinctly creepy smile plastered across his face. The smell tickles a memory, but I can't quite-

"Hey. Funny seeing you here," Amy- Isidis says, putting on a forced-looking smile that's a little too tight around the jaw as she waves at us from a plastic lawn chair in the middle of the pool. She's positively caked in gore, with small blood splatters on her face and red coating her from the neck down. Whatever costume she's wearing, it's going to be ruined by this. In fact, I can't quite see any fabric at-

I slam a pair of shutters closed over my eyes even as I turn away. "Why are you naked?" I ask, flexing my torn muscles because maybe screaming out in pain would be less mortifying. Beside me Dorian groans and the pale man laughs.

"Took me a while to get used to it too," Dorian mumbles. "Anyway, she's-"

"Going to explain this set up on her own," Isidis interrupts. "Now quit being a prude and get next to the pool." I reluctantly pull back my blinders and slowly step after Dorian, taking care to look in any direction other than Isidis's.

"Okay, you remember the pit where we worked on Triumph, right?" Isidis asks, shaking one arm and flinging droplets of blood to the ground. "Think of this as a bigger version of that. I'm naked because my power operates on touch. By exposing as much skin as possible and slipping and sliding all over someone while we're surrounded by processed dead people, I can fix big things way faster." There are still a few small puddles at the bottom of the pool. I think I can make out flaps of skin. "The problem is getting the necessary material. The boy here-"

"Dorian," he interrupts, drawing the gaze of the other two capes. "She called me Dorian," he says more quietly, pointing at me. I sigh internally. "It's my cape name now." Isidis rolls her eyes and Alabaster snorts.

"Why yes, name yourself after a fag's delusions of grandeur. I'm sure that doesn't have any unintended implications," Alabaster says sarcastically. I blink.

"You've read The Portrait?" I ask incredulously. Why would a Nazi read the works of one of England's more famous gay authors? Shouldn't they be focusing on Nietzsche and stuff?

"Dorian and Alabaster," Isidis says, voice louder and more commanding than either of ours, "are two Brutes that can regenerate fast enough to be useful, and while Alabaster here doesn't feel pain we can't just feed him into a woodchipper over and over again."

"Indeed," he says, adjusting his suit jacket. "My body is adept at taking harm, but not that adept, and while the two of us can certainly supply a sufficient volume of flesh, the issue lies with transforming our bodies into paste of an appropriate consistency. Most parahumans with powers capable of doing so are out there" — he points towards the entrance of the tent — "attempting to fight Leviathan."

"At any rate, we need a better way to turn them into material and I ran out of my normal mash after the first rash of casualties." Amy continues. I nod in understanding. When Brockton General began asking people to volunteer their corpses for her use, there was nearly a riot. Things have gotten better since then, but there's a reason Isidis can't just fix everyone who comes in to see her. "Anyway, you're here now," Isidis says, twisting her neck and letting loose a sickening series of pops. "I'm still running out of bone faster than anything else, so if you could feed the meal some calcium that'd be great."

"Where are the troopers?" Dorian asks quietly, looking around. Isidis winces and Alabaster turns to face the boy, smile still just as unsettling as when we first walked in.

"They refused to continue cutting me after you stepped out for your rest. They felt" — he waves his hand in the air dispassionately — "disturbed, even though I assured them that I myself do not feel harm." There's a bite in the words aimed at Dorian that makes me want to test how little pain he actually feels. Then he pulls out a distressingly large knife and twirls it in his palm. "I sent them for an axe with which we can take turns butchering one another, though if you have a better plan I'm more than open to it."

"Oh," Dorian says, deflating next to me. Damnit. This is exactly the sort of demotivating shit that I was trying to undo. Isidis shrugs and waves her hand dismissively at him.

"You're a kid. Chances are one of them is a parent or an older sibling. Hurting you would bring up all sorts of bad images. It's not your fault," she adds, cracking a small smile. It's fake though, and Alabaster just rolls his eyes, tugs up a sleeve, and slits his wrist. Blood spills out in small jets, joining the puddles at the bottom of the pool and slowly beginning to fill it. Despite the lingering smell there isn't enough material left in it to pack a gouge the size of a few fingers. I can only imagine how busy Isidis has been.

"While your attempt at levity is appreciated, it doesn't solve the problem," he says. His flesh flickers and the knife strikes down again, renewing the cut. "What about you, Miss Rose? Any ideas?" I shake my head and point my arm at the pool, away from Isidis.

"Nothing off the top of my head," I say, starting the rippling effect I used when I had to fill up Isidis's pool at the hospital and oh God that hurts too much stopstopstop! Argh, why does it hurt more now!?

"Are you alright?" Isidis asks. I shake my head and regain my bearings.

"I'm fine. Just... wasn't prepared," I answer. There are a pair of bone spikes stabbing into the ground, holding me up in a sort of slouch. I try to lift myself up and wince. Right. Shredded muscles. Isidis is leaning over the edge of the pool, one hand on my mask and the other waving in front of my eyes.

"Not prepared for what?" Isidis asks. Alabaster scoffs.

"Much like Dorian here," Alabaster says, mockingly stressing the other cape's name as he slashes his wrist again, "It appears that White Rose does not share my pain tolerance."

"Wait, so your nerves are still connected to your bones?" Isidis asks, looking at me incredulously. Behind my mask I grimace. Crap. The one person who might care.

"Not sure about that, but I do feel my bones. It's not a big deal, the bigger problem is that Levithan hit me and it messed up my muscles. All I need to to do is hold still and-"

"Yes this is a big deal!" Isidis says, grabbing the sides of my head and dragging me around to face her. "Were you in pain when you were giving me strips of bone while you were volunteering? What about all the stuff in your shop? Did that hurt to make? How long have you been hurting yourself to use your power!?"

"Since day one," I hiss, getting my feet under me and pushing her arms away. "It's fine. I just need to get used to the muscle thing and-"

"You're walking around with torn muscles?" Isidis interrupts, looking me up and down incredulously as realization slowly dawns. "No. You're not using your muscles. You're just puppeting yourself with bone. You're making it worse." I grit my teeth and suppress a growl. She's just worried, and if I explain why it's not a problem we can get back to figuring out how to help people. Now shut up and listen.

"Yes, moving hurts, but I don't need to move to supply you with bone. Now if you could please step back so I can just-"

"Jesus fuck," Isidis says, bringing both of her hands to her face and groaning. "Just because you can stand something doesn't mean it's a good thing. Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell someone?" she asks, spreading her arms wide. "Being in pain all the time is not good for you-"

"And what would you have done?" I snap back, clenching my fists and standing ramrod straight. I'm towering over her now, leaning forward and trying to convince this little wretch that I. Am. FINE. "How would you 'fix' this?"

"Painkillers!" she says. "Therapy! Fucking meditation! Seriously, you're basically cutting yourself every time you use your power! Do you think that isn't going to mess you up? I don't know enough about the long-term effects of that sort of stuff to actually say anything with absolute certainty, but it's not going to be fucking-"

"This is neither the time nor the place for this discussion," Alabaster interrupts, face smooth and placid, a sharp departure from his previous amusement. Both of us stop talking long enough to glare at the the worthless scum who would dare stick his nose in our business. His politely disinterested expression doesn't change as the knife flashes and more red spills from his arm. "White Rose, would you be able to enact a similar level of destruction on my own limb? If I were to tourniquet my arm I suspect that we could create enough biomass to keep this pool filled for as long as necessary." I think about it for a moment, then stomp on the ground and start extending bone. Two, no, four legs for stability. A cylinder, tilted down into the pool, filled with teeth and blades, wide enough to fit an entire torso, nevermind an arm. I don't know what a woodchipper actually looks like, but this should be good enough for now.

"Excellent," Alabaster says, shucking off his suit coat and rolling his sleeve all the way up to his shoulder. "Now, if someone would be so kind as to find a hose?" He looks meaningfully at Dorian, who's eyeing the contraption I've built with no small amount of fear.

"I'll... I'll do that," he says, stepping backwards then spinning around and practically sprinting out of the tent. I feel a hand on my shell and turn towards it. Isidis is glaring at me.

"When this is all over, we're going to talk, and you're going to tell me more," she says, her voice low and hard. I recognize the tone. It's the one she uses when she needs to boss around people who aren't listening to her, right before they get man-handled into medical restraints.

I don't like being on the receiving end of it.

"Fine," I say, wrenching my arm out of her grasp. "We'll talk later." I push down the sick feeling in my gut and start fiddling with the woodchipper, trying to pretend like there isn't a naked girl standing next to me with a mixture of hurt and worry on her face, like I'm not acting out of fear. She stands there for a moment longer before stepping back into the pool and plopping herself back down on the lawn chair to continue glaring at me.

I almost say something. Almost try to reassure her, try to justify and explain.

I don't have the words for it.

Instead I turn away and think about the problem. Isidis said she needed more bone in the meal. In order to avoid forcing her to search around in the soup for little flecks of calcium, I should probably provide some more. I start forming a tube below the main feed to shoot pellets out of before withdrawing it. No, it should be mixed into the main slush. Maybe detachable blades? Those could be a stabbing hazard for her though. Nubs then, ones that grind and tear. It'll hurt whoever's sticking their arm in there more but hey, Alabaster said he didn't feel pain. Also, fuck him. I warp the inside of the tube, making the tooth placement irregular and hollowing out the bases even as I start tweaking the internal structure to compensate for the lack of cutting power. Gears, maybe? I add toothed mashers to the end and give them an experimental crush. Yup, that stings, but not unreasonably so.

I keep changing the device as the silence in the tent becomes truly oppressive. At some point Alabaster switches to cutting off his fingers and starts humming to himself. He's actually pretty good at it; I can tell it's an actual piece and not just something off the cuff.

"Got the tourniquet," Dorian says, jogging back into the room with a loop of fabric and a buckle. "The nurse showed me how to use it so-"

"That won't be necessary," Alabaster says, snatching the thing from Dorian's hands and slipping his arm through it. "I know how to hurt myself."

"Applying a tourniquet isn't necessarily harmful," Isidis says, stretching her arms above her head. "It's primarily used to keep people from bleeding out." The dried blood on her skin cracks and flakes, and she absentmindedly starts rubbing it off, exposing her-

I cut off the thought and turn back to the woodchipper. Focus. I almost break a rib.

"It is harmful when I use it," Alabaster says flippantly. He tugs a few times on the buckle to check the tightness and nods. "White Rose, if you would be so kind?" he asks, gesturing to the woodchipper.

I take a deep breath, let it half out, and start shifting the teeth around. It's slow at first as I get each individual tooth extending and retracting in time to create the illusion of movement, then I speed them up once each protrusion is in motion. I wince at the brief flashes of pain that accompany the collision of the teeth as a rattling noise starts coming out of the cylinder.

"What's that sound?" Dorian asks, standing a good two arms lengths away from me.

"Bone shards," I answer absentmindedly. "Don't worry about it. Alabaster, you're up." Time to see if this works.

The pale man puts his arms into the the teeth are already snapping off in bits and pieces more bone more bone more bone! I grow blades and teeth to replaces the ones that snap as they get caught in the meat of Alabaster's arm even as I hear the wet tearing sound of flesh being cut. Dorian goes a little more pale as I feel bits of arm fall down the tube and splat into the pool. Okay, so this is a little more difficult than I thought it was going to be but-

"Can you get it smaller? This stuff is more 'cubed steak' than 'pink slime'," Isidis says. I turn to give her a flat look. She holds up what I think what used to be part of Alabaster's hand. "Also, can you stick your chest in there or something? This isn't going to be much use unless I'm only healing arms," she adds, looking between the two of us.

"No I cannot," Alabaster says as he examines the red, shredded stump of his left arm. A flicker, then it's back to normal. "I suspect he can though," Alabaster adds, looking towards Dorian as he shoves his arm back into the cylinder. I turn to stare at Dorian, head slightly cocked.

"What. . . is your power?" I ask. Alabaster's set up a rhythm of his own now. In, one second of shredding, out two three four. Like a metronome. It's oddly relaxing. Dorian fidgets in place, then sighs and pulls down the hood of his balaclava, mussing his dark hair with both hands as he groans.

"I don't know how to explain it. It's like... Okay. Imagine a soap bubble. If you coat a pair of scissors in soap you can put the blades through it without popping it, right? Same thing with me," he says, miming a chopping motion at his arm. "Goes right through. The bubble never pops, but, uh, I still feel the pain. Still splatter blood everywhere if I jump off the Chrysler Building."

"But can you regenerate your organs?" Isidis asks, leaning against the side of the pool as small flecks of gore spatter her leg. Dorian nods reluctantly, going tense for a moment then relaxing.

"If you could make another thing, I could get in there," he says quietly. I meet his eyes with a lump in my throat. Mincing Alabaster hurts. I don't want to make another one. I don't want to help this kid hurt himself. On the other hand, not shredding him would be hypocritical on a level that would make me have an aneurysm on principle alone. I helped him get up the nerve for this, now I need to help him follow through. Needs outweigh wants.

I almost laugh.

And since when have I gotten what I wanted?

"Give me a moment," I say, sticking out my other arm and forming another woodchipper. This time the feeding tray is wide enough to take a whole body, the cylinder is as tall as he is, and I make the blades a lot thicker. I form a pair of handles near the top, along with a ladder to allow him to get up to the entrance. I see him hesitate for a moment, locked in place while he contemplates the size of the thing, but it doesn't stop him from metaphorically girding his loins and moving towards it.

"Hey!" Isidis says and he freezes, turning towards her with wide eyes. She motions to his lower half. "Pants. Remove them. I don't want to be picking threads out of people once you're done with this." Despite myself I chuckle at the sudden blush that covers Dorian's face, and apparently Alabaster finds it amusing as well because I hear a full throated laugh over the sound of grinding meat.

"Don't worry, she does this to everybody," I say, turning politely away and forming shades over my lenses. "Tell me when you're ready." I start spinning the blades up to speed and try to think of something motivational to say. Then I give up and settle for something that I know works. "Some advice: think about who're you're trying to spite or what you want the most in life. Use those to handle it."

"Thanks." The words are muttered but not ungrateful. Good enough, I guess. There's a rustle of cloth on cloth, followed by the sound of flesh slapping against mud, and I feel the pressure on the rungs as he climbs to the entrance of the woodchipper. When I don't feel the sensation of flesh on bone, I drop the blinders from my eyes and look at him. He's naked save for the balaclava around the lower half of his face, and he's perched on the edge of the cylinder, gripping each handle as he stares into the whirlwind of blades. For a moment I think he's going to back out, to tell us to find someone else to feed the pool and settle with not being able to fix organs. Then he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and mutters something in a language I don't recognize. A prayer or a curse.

His eyes open and he slides into the blades.

Then the screaming starts.

Last edited: Jul 10, 2018

486

T0PH4T

Jul 7, 2018

View discussion

Threadmarks Burst 6.4

View content

T0PH4T

T0PH4T

[Verified Accessory]

Jul 21, 2018

#2,476

Fucking schedules and shitty, shitty user interfaces.

Burst 6.4

"Next load coming in!" a PRT agent shouts, holding open the back flap of the tent as EMTs carry stretchers towards the pool. "Two critical, three paralyzed."

"Place them near me and pull these guys out," Isidis yells back, spread-eagled and rubbing her limbs over four nearly-insensate naked people like she's trying to make some sort of snow-angel in the soup of blood, bone and flesh. "Internals and bones are done, last things left are scrapes and bruises." A little bit of the slurry slips down her throat and she starts coughing. "Bleh! A little less chunky, please!"

"I'll try," I hiss between my teeth. "Also, why don't you make multiple garbage disposals of murderation next time?" I like Isidis. Really. But I can't be held responsible for what happens to her if she tells me to adjust these fucking pain machines one more time!

The EMTs carefully step over the edge of the pool, glancing towards me nervously and staying well out of my reach. I hazard a glance at my armor. Hey, frilled spines again. Down. I pull the bone back in, but by then the EMT's have already picked up the mostly-healed people and Isidis is back to doing her gore-angel thing. I don't blame them. None of the normal people seem to want to stay in here for long, and the few lucid capes that end up in the pool aren't any different, hauling themselves out as soon as they're sure they won't fall apart.

Maybe it's the hash of body parts they find themselves nearly-submerged in. Maybe it's the naked teenager. Maybe it's the pair of macabre bone devices beside me constantly spewing forth waves of meat and blood as it tears into a pair of regenerators.

Or maybe it's the fucking singing!

"Germany was having trouble, what a sad, sad story," Alabaster sings out, punctuating the end of the stanza by shoving his arm into the blender. Not quite an orchestral accompaniment, but since he doesn't regenerate constantly it doesn't affect his speed much.

"Needed a new leader to restore its former glory!" Dorian manages. I'm not sure how he's capable of forming coherent words when I'm trying to turn his lungs into a fine mist, but apparently this is one of the only songs the both of them know. He's the one who started this actually, and I let him because it was better than the screaming.

Now I'm being forced to reconsider the wisdom of that decision.

"Where oh where was he?" Alabaster calls, a note of despair that is one hundred percent genuine in his voice. "Where could that man be?" Maybe he knows it's supposed to be satire. Maybe he doesn't. Either way, his musical palette is limited primarily to German composers, songs about Germany, and Death Metal, so the rest of us have to work around that.

"We looked around," Dorian groans, barely audible over the sound of his tearing flesh, but I think I can make out a glimmer of amusement in his voice, "And then we found . . ."

"The man for you and me," the two sing together as I mentally brace myself for the chorus.

"AND NOW IT'S SPRINGTIME, FOR HITLER, IN GERMANY!" Isidis belts out, shockingly tunelessly. "DEUTSCHLAND IS HAPPY. . . AND GAY!" How a lesbian, a Nazi, and a nearly-new cape reached this song as a compromise I'll never know, but apparently Isidis likes The Producers? I also have to assume that she's intentionally butchering the melody because how else could she be so out of tune? "WE'RE MARCHING TO A FASTER PACE! LOOK OUT, HERE COMES THE MASTER RACE!" Hell, she's even missing notes entirely. Dad sings in the shower with more precision.

I count patiently to ten, timing it to coincide with my breathing. Two patterns, twice the relaxation. When that doesn't work I almost shatter a rib. Almost, because when I suddenly stilled during the first rendition of 'Guys and Dolls' Isidis figured out why and started glaring at me in a way that expressed disappointment, sorrow, and pleading, all at the same time and made something sick well up in my throat. Then the first few patients started arriving and I decided that their treatment took precedence over me blowing off steam.

That, and I found another outlet.

Alabaster slaps his woodchipper twice. I'm on deck. I form a cylinder over the pit, festooned with teeth. A bar runs parallel to it, with long, flexible strips of bone almost touching the cylinder itself. A music box, of sorts. Amazing how versatile bone can be.

"COME ON GERMANS! GO INTO . . . YOUR DANCE!" Isidis finishes with all the theatrical pomp of an eight year old at their first school play, and I start spinning the tube.

There is literally no way for any of us to tap dance in this scenario. Even if we had the shoes, solid ground to step on, and the time in between patients to do so, none of us know how. So instead I improvised and made this during an argument about whether to do a Phantom song next or literally anything else. Once I assured Isidis that flexing bones doesn't hurt nearly as much as breaking them (and that by "hurt" I meant "tickled aggressivly"), she stopped worrying and began heckling my song choices. Since this was immediately after her murder of Sandy's lines in You're The One That I Want, I decided to listen to Dorian's appraisals of my performances instead.

The end result is a semi-continuous rhythmic clattering that kinda-sorta sounds like the original tap dancing. Honestly I think it's terrible, but this gets me out of singing and I somehow doubt that anyone's going to be critiquing the flat nature of the notes. No one involved in this particular production seems to care, at any rate. I mean, we're down three different voices for this as it is.

"The Fuhrer is coming!" Dorian calls out. Oh boy.

"The Fuhrer is coming!" he says again, unaware of what disaster he's about to unleash. We never did figure out who precisely was going to be the number one most hated man in history. I assume Alabaster is going to want that role.

"The Fuhrer is coming!" I send a quick glance to Isidis, who's also dragging in a breath. The people around her are more or less healed, so she can afford to fuck around like this.

And just as both the pale man and the healer are about break out into song and shred this fragile truce of ours...

"Heil my-self." The voice sounds like it belongs to a chronic smoker six weeks dead from miner's lung. Its owner doesn't look much better. "Heil to me." An old man, withered and grey and looking less like a person and more like a sack of bones wrapped in elephant skin slowly stands up in the pit, eyes covered by a now-bloodstained white blindfold. "I'm the kraut who's out to change our history." He rolls his shoulders, kicks his leg all the way to vertical, and clears his throat before spitting, the black phlegm flying clear across the tent. "Heil myself, raise your hand." He cartwheels out of the pool, one long arm reaching down to the ground and the rest of him spinning out in a light spray of blood. "There's no greater dictator in the land!" His voice grows deeper and healthier as he walks towards the entrance, muscle filling out his frame as I watch. "Everything I do, I do for yooooooooou!" he finishes, no longer old, no longer withered, holding the note until the tent flap closes behind him.

For a few brief moments, the only thing that can be heard is the slap of Isidis's limbs as she applies dead meat to weakly moaning bodies and the wet churning of Dorian's insides.

"Well, I don't think I'm capable of topping that," Alabaster interrupts, generating another meaty splat to emphasize his point. "Do you two know something other than show tunes?"

We graduate to Top 40 songs (which Alabaster takes no part in), and when an unusually blase PRT agent comes in with a small laptop and a foldable table we set up a playlist of karaoke videos, relieving me of the pressure to provide musical accompaniment. If it wasn't for the constant stream of gravely injured naked people and the occasional solemn silence as an EMT pulls an unmoving corpse out of the pool, I could almost enjoy it. That, and Dorian's bitching about the lack of sufficiently obscure artists, Albasters dark comments about 'jungle music', Isidis's insistence of being the lead in every other goddamn song-

We're all feeling the pressure. It's just manifesting differently for each of us.

When a Ward died, Dorian started missing lyrics. It wasn't much, not compared to the near-complete lack of skill Isidis has, but it was noticeable. He also began to sound less in pain and more...

Lost.

Alabaster's the next easiest to read, actually. He doesn't seem to care much for basically anything, but seeing one of the Valkyrie capes come back with her stomach torn open shook him. A lot. Dorian tried to talk to him, and in return he got a stream of verbal abuse. Since then his arm has been in and out on a steady beat, once every four seconds, precise enough to set a watch by.

I think Isidis is coping the best. At the very least, she's around the same as she was at the beginning of the fight. She's still singing poorly, still scooping guts into people and sending them back out onto the killing field. Part of that must be experience, hard-won from attending more Endbringer fights than most people can name. During one of her bathroom breaks I ask a PRT agent if she knew how many Isidis had gone to.

"I've been on-duty three times when the sirens sounded," the agent says, helmet off and a cigarette in her hand. Leviathan's still fighting but the number of capes arriving to help has dropped substantially. Hell, some have gone back home. Tinkers with wrecked gear and people who just signed up for something out of their depth. "The Protectorate shows up every time, even when their powers aren't going to do shit versus what they're fighting. That girl over there," — the agent points across the open field to Isidis, who's stepping into a food tent clothed in a hospital gown — "is the only independent cape I saw all three of those times."

I thank the agent with a rose and went back into the tent, staring at the congealing blood in the pool and inhaling the sticky smell of fresh meat. I see the indents in the mud where my wood chippers were anchored, the trampled area where Alabaster was standing, and the path the EMTs stomped into the ground as they went in and out, the boot prints deep from the extra weight of the patients.

I put myself in the EMT's shoes, imagining the scene unfolding. Rain pouring down, breath coming in pants as they attempt to move quickly but smoothly, trying to strike the balance between getting the wounded to healing as fast as possible and not aggravating injuries any further. Then they push back the tent flap and see four people, two of them kids and the other two freaks, singing show tunes as blood and gore pour over one of their number. Wounds that are supposed to never heal completely vanish in seconds under the ministrations of a naked teenage girl, the worst singer of the bunch, and over the sickening sound of blades slicing through bodies a ragged harmony can be heard.

It sounds like something out of a bad horror movie.

"Donut?" Amy asks, startling me out of my trance. She's standing at my side, a pink cake donut with sprinkles extended towards me. Dorian is polishing off a maple bar while Alabaster reclines in a lawn chair flipping through a thin volume with a title in German. I look from the pastry to her, and take it. She has some odd metal caps on her fingers, pointed and dull. I wonder what they're for?

"How long until we're needed back?" I ask in between bites, not bothering to try and control my mask. If it looks creepy, it looks creepy. Not like that's going to actually stand out here. Amy shakes her head.

"They need us back as soon as we're ready, which means 'don't do something stupid like burn yourself out'. I'm ready here," she adds, turning towards the other two. "You guys?" Dorian swallows the last of his treat and nods.

"Soon as White Rose sets us up again," he says, stripping down. This time he doesn't bother waiting for anyone to shield their eyes. He looks nice enough, I guess. Muscled but not obscenely so, with more definition than Dad's dockworker friends. I hear the snap of paper on paper and turn in time to see Alabaster folding his coat around the book.

"Once more into the breach," he says, rolling up his sleeve and sliding the tourniquet to the midpoint of his bicep. "Though I don't suppose it'd be too much to ask for a little bit more control over the musical selection?"

"It is too much to ask," Isidis says, peeling off the hospital gown and sitting with her legs crossed in the center of the pool. She motions towards me. "Paste them, please." I shake my head and step forward, pushing out bone and mentally bracing myself even as Isidis uses her currently-clean hands to queue up another set of songs.

The blades start whirling, meat starts mashing, and a new song comes on. One that's a little more somber than the near-carnie levels of cavalier the previous ones were.

I don't think any of us mind.

"Woke up in London yesterday, found myself in a city near Piccadilly, Don't really know how I got there."

We give a lot of repeat performances. Capes with powers that make them difficult, but not impossible to hurt, who are in a strange grey area between Alexandria and Alabaster in terms of durability make up most of them. I choose to believe that the ones we don't see a second time have learned to avoid getting injured.

Others are short-range Blasters who shoot from far enough away that Leviathan's water whips don't cut them in half but close enough that he can still reliably hit them. Ballistic stays stoically silent while his pulped leg gets rebuilt and Crys- Laserdream shows up gasping for breath with most of her chest caved in. I don't think the man who died in that particular group of patients would've survived anyway, but Isidis...

She got more tense after that.

The rarest group of capes are the famous ones. I don't think any one of the main eight capes that appear on the Protectorate recruitment posters ever show up in the pool, even the ones without Brute ratings. I don't know whether that's due to being important enough to be seen by better healers, the efforts of their fellow capes trying to keep the leaders alive, or raw experience and survivability standing the test of time.

It's an encouraging thought, so I focus on that while the others sing, focus on the idea that there are capes out there who don't die to Leviathan or the other Endbringers. Capes who can face the most dangerous monsters on the planet and come out unharmed.

It's an encouraging thought until it's not.

During a rush, when the pool is nearly full, a cape in what looks like a modified blue and black limo-driver outfit appears in the middle of the room accompanied by a thunderclap. Off his shoulder hangs a limp and terrifyingly familiar form clad in blue and white.

Legend. The leader of the Protectorate. Maybe one of the top ten most dangerous capes in the world, with more charisma in his left toe than almost any other parahuman I've ever met, including Kaiser.

And he's barely breathing.

"He needs healing!" the cape says, striding over to the pool and gently sliding Legend into the meat. The cognizant patients who are capable of moving shuffle away from his still form. The hero's limbs are askew, tilted at angles that I recognize as more than broken, with a floppiness to his chest that brings bile to my mouth.

What happened to him?

"I need his costume off!" Isidis says, one of the only people not stunned, still slathering meat onto other patients. "Until that's gone I can't do anything!" I break a rib. No time to be shocked. No time to be awed.

Move.

I leap over the side, a knife already growing out of my arm. I hear a squawk of alarm from some of the other people there, but Isidis also speaks up, something indistinct and high-pitched. I'm not paying attention. A wafer-thin blade slips under the collar of his costume, then grows as I push mass into it. I can't afford to try again. No broken slivers, no second chances. I drag my arm down, slicing open his costume from neck to groin. Isidis is beside me almost immediately, one hand going to his chest and one to his neck, a handful of hash in both. I keep cutting, peeling the man out of his suit as Isidis tries to put him back together.

Then I take a closer look at her hands.

Her fingers are jabbed inside him, yanking open the hero's chest as she shoves meat into it. When I look up his neck is no better. I blink, almost messing up my cut along his pant leg as I see her peel back some of Legend's neck, a slush of blood coming out before she fills it in with flesh.

Oh. That's what the metal caps are for.

I toss the remnants of Legend's costume out of the pool, shakily reemerging and turning the new piece of information over in my head. I mean, it makes sense. To get to the deep-tissue injuries, she'd need to get access to them. Touch access. In the hospital, she probably has a team of surgeons for that. Here, the volume is so high she can't afford to. That, or they get prepared for it ahead of time when they come in as part of the stripping-down process. It makes sense, but now I know that she's had to stab at least half of the people she's healed here, and she hasn't so much as batted an eye at it.

"Fixed. Go to the nurses station and have them rouse him," Isidis says, lifting Legend and pushing his unconscious form back into Strider's hands. "Now get." Another thunderclap and he's gone. I look the empty space where the two heroes used to be, the adrenaline finally catching up with me.

Is that it?

"Can you start the blades again?" Alabaster asks. "I think you left Dorian in something of a jam." A hissing wheeze escapes the massive tube and I turn towards it. There's a pale hand sticking out of the top, waving at me. Right. I have a job to do. I get back out of the pool, forming treads on my feet to counter the light coating of blood on them. I try starting the wood chippers again. No dice. I check my connections. They've snapped. I must have forgotten to extend them when I jumped into the pool. I groan.

"I'm going to need to pull them apart," I say, crumbling away the edges of the one surrounding Dorian. "Broke my connection, which means I can't manipulate them as freely." Inside, Dorian's stabbed full of heavy blades. I start pulling them out, and as soon as he can actually move his arms he helps. Alabaster snorts.

"Well, back to mincing myself, I suppose," he says and once again the knife comes out. "Now then, how is the battle going?" The question is addressed to one of the cogent patients, a young Asian woman who's standing up and crossing her arms to try and preserve her modesty.

"No idea, this is my first fight," she says nervously, flinching away from the spray of blood from Alabaster's wrist. Then she looks down at her now flat-as-a-board chest with something like shock in her eyes. "And, uh-"

"Listen, we've got man meat and not much else," Isidis says, slapping the breastless woman's thigh sympathetically as horror dawns on the older woman's face. "After the fight I'll give you back your tits, just like how I'll give some other women back their ovaries. Survive, alright?"

"O-okay," she says, stepping over the edge of the pool and looking around. "So, where can I get some clothes?" Dorian's finally pulled himself free and takes a moment to work the stiffness out of his system, then points to the side of the tent.

"Hospital gowns and domino masks there, then head out and to the right. Look for a group of capes arguing, and a PRT agent will get you a generic bodysuit-"

The rest is cut off as a spear of light the length of a car phases through the wall and pins Isidis to the ground.

Last edited: Jul 21, 2018

489

T0PH4T

Jul 21, 2018

View discussion

Threadmarks Burst 6.5

View content

T0PH4T

T0PH4T

[Verified Accessory]

Aug 4, 2018

#2,564

I don't really have anything clever to say here.

Burst 6.5

I'm moving before I consciously recognize what just happened, nearly slipping in the mud as the tread on my boots fail to catch. I fix that by growing them longer and sharper as I sprint for the wall, ready to rend the life out of the maggot who dared to attack what is mine!

The tent wall is a plastic-y sort of cloth that parts easily as I spear into it, ripping open a tear wide enough for me to lunge through, head snapping from side to side. Where is the walking corpse? I see another spear of light flash out and pull myself to the side with my shell, barely dodging the projectile. There they are. I start sprinting, barely registering the panicked noises and gunshots going off around me because they didn't try to kill Amy!

The walking corpse is a naked woman with long black hair, small enough to be mistaken for a girl. Next to her is a naked man, bald and muscular, with folded arms and face set in a savage grin. They both get to die, then.

The man notices me first, tapping the girl's shoulder and saying something I can't hear over the rain and distance. I see her stamp her foot and send out one more lance of light before jumping onto the man's back. He starts sprinting towards the city and further away from me, moving at an inhuman speed. Oh no you fucking don't!

I put on the gas, but I'm not going to catch them before they get to the line of buildings. I don't like my chances of keeping track of them in that rat's nest, so I improvise. I form a javelin of bone in one hand even as I gauge the distance between us and start timing my steps, figuring out angles and optimal push-off points. Have to get this right.

I shift my stance, take a few more steps, and hurl as I bring my foot down. I never stop pushing out bone, trying to impart as much power as I can into the spear right up until I fracture my last connection to the projectile. I keep shaping it, adding grooves to spin it and fins to keep it on course as the white thunderbolt cuts through the air and slams into the back of the girl/woman, disrupting the man's gait and sending them both tumbling to the ground.

Now to finish them off.

By the time I reach him the man has risen to his knees and is trying to push himself all the way up, a task made more difficult by the corpse pinned to his back. The spear tip is lodged deep, right by the lungs, which explains the splatter of blood on the ground in front of him that grows larger with every wet cough that escapes his mouth as he struggles for air.

Good. Suffer.

He looks up as I move in front of him, a grin with too many teeth to be human crawling across his face.

"You're too late," he taunts. "We already got you fuckers-"

The rest is cut off as I stab him through the eye with a needle of bone, expand, and spin.

He twitches once, then stops moving.

No one attacks what is mine.

The girl shuddered, coughing up blood. I watch dismissively as she lifts her arm weakly, a lance of light slowly forming in it, pointed at me. No. I flick out my other hand and a blade of bone slices out, opening up her neck. Blood wells, then slows, and her hand drops again, the light dissipating into nothingness.

None of that.

I sprint back into the camp, eyes narrowed and searching for more targets. None present themselves, but the bundle of Thinkers is now smaller and surrounded by PRT agents. The medical tents are in disarray, spilling forth patients and personnel alike as chaos reigns. I can see craters in the sand where projectiles have landed, and the Mover landing pads are in ruins, the previously well-organized reception teams now stomping all over the spray-painted circles and walking through caution tape without a care in the world.

What the hell happened?

Eventually I get back to the tent, PRT agents parting before me as I re-enter through the front of it at a dead-run. Isidis is inside the pool patching up her stomach, grimacing weakly all the while. I pause at the door, relief washing over me and weakening my knees. If that spear had hit a little bit higher it would've cut her heart in half. A bit more than that, her brain.

Isidis is lucky. That, or she has someone up above looking out for her.

She looks up, locks eyes with me, and jerks her chin.

"Get over here," she shouts. "We're going to need some more raw materials soon." I nod dumbly, puppetting my limbs with bone to stumble over to the edge of the pool. No rest for the wicked. The three PRT agents in the room back away as Alabaster re-applies his tourniquet, uncharacteristically quiet. I get the wood chippers back online, Dorian slides into his, and soon enough the pool is filling up again. A load of patients comes in and Isidis goes back to making gore-angels, replacing gaping wounds with mended flesh.

As the process restarts, a PRT agent steps up next to us, rifle held across his chest and finger outside the trigger guard.

"We're informing all capes about the relevant details of the attack," he says, slow and stiff, as if he's reading off a teleprompter. With the amount of tech that must be packed into that helmet, that could very well be the case. "Receiving this message does not mean you are a special target, nor does it mean you will receive special treatment." Well, this doesn't sound good.

"After being forced away from the main group, Leviathan disappeared downtown. As our Thinkers and Dragon attempted to locate him, a nearby construction site collapsed, taking several capes down with it. After the main group had re-engaged Leviathan, a Thinker noticed movement in the debris and decided to remotely investigate. A large, monstrous parahuman erupted from the rubble and proceeded to flee the scene. Since then, numerous Search and Rescue capes have disappeared with their tracking bracelets failing to register them as missing."

"That brings us to this attack. Several of the parahumans participating in the assault exhibited powers similar if not identical to the missing capes. This in conjunction with testimony from a source close to the parahuman in question has lead us to believe that the new parahuman, codenamed Erinye, has a Master/Trump power of some sort which lets her control parahumans and adjust their powers."

I feel myself go cold at the trooper's words.

Did I just kill heroes?

No. They attacked first. Unprovoked. I was just defending others from future assaults. With prejudice.

"Who did they get?" Isidis asks as she lathers a ragged chest wound with slime, interrupting my train of thought. "Any big names? Anyone who could level the city?"

"Any parahumans can level a city if they're smart enough," the trooper says tightly, off-script for a moment before returning to his original tone. "A full list of missing parahumans is being compiled as we speak, but we can assure you that none of the Triumvirate or Protectorate Division Leaders have been caught." His posture relaxes and he leans back on his heels for a moment. "For now, Leviathan seems to be backing off. The people with the speed to stay on him are going to keep trying to damage him, but everyone who's less mobile is forming up around here and settling in for a siege." He twists his head from side to side. "Erinye and all the capes that have sided with her are considered kill-on-sight targets, so weapons free." Alabaster nods as the PRT agent leaves.

"I do hope they'll let me borrow one of their guns," he muses idly. "It's been a while since I really cut loose."

"Oh yeah, the low-tier regenerator cutting loose," Isidis deadpans. "What are you going to do, bleed more aggressively than normal?"

"No, I was thinking I'd shoot them in the head from a hundred feet away," he says as he turns to look at me. "You slew the ones who tried to kill Isidis, didn't you?" Fucking- does he have a Thinker power or something?

"They hit her first. That made them fair game," I say, spinning the blades a little more aggressively in Alabaster's wood chipper. It doesn't faze him at all, unfortunately.

"So there's another Endbringer?" Dorian asks. The sudden spike of fear in the room is a physical thing, like a cold, slimey blanket.

"Not even close," Isidis says, slapping a recovered parahuman on the ass when they don't get out of the pool fast enough. "They'd have told us if it was an S-Class threat. Worst case scenario, Legend takes a minute off from hitting Leviathan to turn the new cape into a grease smear and we never have to hear about them again."

After that things quiet down. At least, for a certain measure of 'quiet'. There's a brief spike in warm bodies needing colder flesh as the casualties from the ambush pour in followed by a long stretch of peace, presumably to let the capes who are trying to fight the new monster regroup. When injured do come by, it's only three or four at a time, and we're really not seeing any new types of injuries. Just more broken bones and ruptured organs.

When shit goes south, it goes south fast.

A trooper storms into the tent, a rifle in each hand and bandoliers of ammunition slung across her chest.

"We're moving out," she says in a tone that will brook no disagreement. "A Certain Indefinite Didact and Mercury Haberdashery are detecting an incoming group of parahumans. Not ours," she adds. She holds a rifle out to Alabaster. "Do you know how to use this?"

"Oh yes," he says, taking the gun and examining it, nodding contentedly as he runs his fingers over the sides. "I believe I can work with this," he adds as he unclips the tourniquet from his arm. A moment later his coat flickers and it's back on his arm and buttoned up, once more in place rather than hanging loose. The agent looks at the bone cylinder holding Dorian.

"What about you?" she says, voice slightly raised. I shake my head.

"He can't answer you right now," I say. "Give me a minute." I close my eyes and pull the bone wood chippers back into myself, my armor becoming coated with blood and meat as I reabsorb the bone. Dorian slowly emerges from the woodchipper, finally stumbling out once he's no longer filled with blades, a pained grimace on his face.

"Why are we stopping?" he asks, looking around curiously. Isidis is already out of the pool, biological material sliding off of her to reveal long, bare legs and-

I snap my attention back to the PRT agent, who's holding a rifle out to Dorian. He's eyeing it like it might bite him. Alabaster sighs and walks over, picking up the rifle and pushing it into Dorian's hands.

"Come now, I'll show you," Alabaster says, doing something with his hand next to the barrel as he holds his other hand out towards the trooper, who deposits two belts loaded with magazines into it. "Shooting is the easiest thing in the world with guns as nice as these," the white man finishes, pulling a still-naked Dorain out through the tent flaps. I raise an eyebrow as I watch them go. Powers of a feather, I guess. I turn back to Isidis, who's once more clad in a hospital gown, her hair held back by a scrunchie. She jerks her chin towards the agent.

"Come on. Let's go," she says, striding forward. I follow as she passes me, leaving behind the pool of gore and the torn-up sod of the tent.

Outside it's chaos, but organized chaos, in a way that reminds me of the landing pads earlier in the day. Black-clad PRT troopers usher capes from place to place, moving with purpose and managing to stay out of one another's way. Different colorful figures are also coming in and out of the periphery of the camp, slowly draining the population. It's dizzying to watch, like putting my face right next to an anthill, and the noise is near deafening as orders, calls for help, and the cacophony of movement all overlap into something halfway between the roar of a stadium and the rumble of a freeway.

"ETA on Strider is two minutes, taking ten people!"

"Do not send Thinkers out with Scarlet Circle, her power interacts very poorly with enhanced perception!"

"Listen, if you're scared of dogs you can fucking wait!"

"A-1 capes to Pad 5!" a plain-clothes police officer shouts into megaphone, pointing it up and at an angle to avoid deafening passersby. "That means healers and Thinkers, you know who you are and you know who you aren't!" Isidis starts pulling me that direction, barely making any headway through the crowd.

"That's us," she says, shouting to be heard over the crowd. "Come on, let's go!" She pulls me forward only to come to a sudden halt as a line of EMT's carrying injured between them cuts us off. I growl behind my mask and step close to Isidis. We don't have time for this!

"Hang on," I say.

"What-" the rest is cut off as I sweep her up into bridal carry and stilt up, tall enough that I can step over the whole mess. I stick to two legs, pushing and pulling bone into myself to adjust my center of gravity and maintain my balance. I get a few stares as I literally walk over people, but not any more than the various fliers streaking above us do as they transport everything from medical equipment to insensate patients.

"There," Isidis says. I look down and follow her pointing arm. "There's the landing pad." A post with the number 5 is sticking out of the ground, a group of parahumans already gathering around it. It only takes a few steps to get there, and when we reach it I gently let Isidis slide back to her feet.

"Sorry about-"

"It's fine," Isidis says, flashing me a small smile. "If I had a dime for every time Vicky did that I'd work for free." After taking a moment to steady herself, she walks up to a nearby agent and clears her throat.

"Isidis. I can graft dead flesh to people and make it take perfectly." The trooper holds up his finger for a moment, then waves her through before motioning to me. I step up to him, trying not to loom too much.

"White Rose. Bone manipulation, anything visible, and I can project more of my own," I say. He holds up his hand for a moment.

Then he shakes his head.

"You're on the long list," he says, pointing away from the pad. I stand there, looking into his blank faceplate.

Huh.

I guess I'm not that important.

"No no no," Isidis says, stomping up beside the trooper in a spray of mud and water. "I need her to chunk material for healing. Without her I'm basically useless." I nearly laugh at that. Anyone with a sufficiently destructive power should be able to pulp people for her, and the right type of regenerator is more important than that anyways. That, and she doesn't need either of them anyway, just a corpse, the knives on her fingers, and some time. She grabs my arm again and tugs. "Come on-"

"Ma'am, she's on the long list because she doesn't have a power critical to the battle against Leviathan and what she does have lends itself to fighting capes," the trooper interrupts, placing an arm between us and looking down at her. "We're trying to get everyone out before they approach anyway, but-"

"Fuck that!" Isidis spits, slapping away his hand. "Listen, she comes or I don't!"

"Isidis," I say. Her head whips around, hair plastered to her skull and cheeks, an almost angry look in her eyes. "I'll catch up, okay?" I say, grabbing her hand and giving it a squeeze. "I mean, he's right. I can handle a lot, and there are more important capes who can't. It's like triage, right?"

"Triage is for prioritizing the wounded, not deciding who gets left behind!" Isidis snaps and now she really is angry, hands clenched into fists and teeth bared. "Don't give me any of this self-sacrificing utilitarian shit! You can heal, you can help, now-"

"Tee-off in one minute!" a feminine voice calls out. "All passengers please get on the ball!" The trooper looks meaningfully at Isidis, who spares him a withering glare before punching me in the chestplate lightly.

"Don't die," she hisses, the water on her face shining in the floodlights. Then she hugs me. After a moment of not knowing what to do with my hands, I wrap my arms around her too.

"I won't," I promise as I let out a small snort. "It'd be anticlimactic if the girl who killed Lung on her first night out died to an Endbringer." I feel another impact, this time just above my liver. Again, soft.

"Don't tempt Murphy like that," she mumbles before pushing me away. On impulse I reach out to her ear and form a flower, the stem tangling in her hair and the petals gently snapping off my armor as I release them. A hibiscus. She fingers it for a moment, looking at me with an odd expression on her face.

"Think of somewhere sunny," I say, putting what little cheer I can into the words. "We'll grab a meal somewhere outside later."

"Thirty seconds!" the voice calls out again. Isidis shakes her head, then walks up the hill without replying to join the group of five capes at the launch pad. Once they're all within a circle spray-painted on the ground, a stocky woman in a neon orange shirt, khaki shorts, and a plain white domino mask motions at four of them, and at her gesture an opaque sphere pops into existence around them. She picks up a golf club, takes a few practice swings, and then strikes the ball. There's a loud shattering sound, like metal striking glass, and I see the wake in the rain and clouds as the sphere disappears into the distance.

"White Rose?" I look back at the trooper, who's pointing to a group of people at the other end of the encampment. "Head over there. They'll figure out where you should wait." I nod, and stilt back up into the rain.

"Melee, ranged, or other?" the agent says curtly when I finally reach the front of the line.

"Melee," I say. "So where-"

"Over there," he says, pointing to a clump of capes idly standing around at the far end of the clearing. "Next!" he shouts, motioning for me to get out of the way. I shift to the side, shoving down the irritation and urge to cut him for his insolence and head towards the gathering.

I recognize Snapback, the cape in white, and the black cowboy-hat cape. There's also a small parahuman in a domino mask and heavy leather duster decorated with feathers who nods once as I approach. She looks even younger than I am.

"Hello," she says, barely loud enough to be heard over the rain. The part of her face that isn't covered by her mask is spotted with acne, and she barely comes up to my shoulders. Snapback cranes his head towards me, arms crossed and baggy clothes looking even less practical now that they're soaked through. The cape in white stops their pacing for long enough to turn completely towards me.

"White Rose, was it?" they ask, staticky voice somehow carrying more clearly through the rain. I stick out my hand.

"Yeah. We saw one another earlier," I reply. They look at the hand for a second, then back at me. Black cowboy barks out a laugh.

"Yeah, Whiteline don't care for the courtesies of us regular folk," he says, walking over to me and giving my open hand two quick pumps. "Name's Gaucho." He lets go of my hand and points to Snapback, then the new cape. "That's Snapback, and she's-"

"I can introduce myself," the girl snaps, a little fire entering her voice. Gaucho raises his hands in feigned surrender, smiling as he backs away from me. "I'm Big Game," she says, looking me in the eye like she's daring me to comment on it.

I don't.

"Nice to meet you," I say, extending a hand to her as well. After a moment of surprise she shakes it, squeezing a little harder than she needs to before walking back over to her spot by Snapback. Gaucho chuckles, shaking his head.

"Don't take her personally, wouldja? Little miss there doesn't much like anyone," he says, slapping me once on the back. I manage to bite back a threat to him and his life to match his disrespect, and settle for a frosty silence instead. "Now come on, let's put together a game plan," he says, moving to form a half circle next to Big Game. After a moment, Whiteline stands across from him, leaving enough room for me. I steel myself, step forward, and close the circle.

"I will begin," Whiteline says, hands behind their back, inscrutable as ever. "I am a Five by Six Trump who specializes in temporarily manipulating the boundaries of powers. Snapback and Gaucho can attest to my effectiveness." The other two capes nod, Gaucho's face solemn and Snapback's too covered up to tell.

"Master/Blaster. I shoot things I've killed," Big Game says, holding open her hand. A fuzzy wire-frame of a bird appears in it, with what looks like ice filling out the middle. "If it breaks I don't get it back."

"Saben que hago," Snapback says dismissively. Gaucho rolls his eyes.

"The boy taps people, makes ghost copies of 'em, and can call back the real McCoy anytime he wants," the older man drawls. "Got a whole toolkit set up with Whiteline here. I make horses," he says, shifting his tone to something more serious. "Lotta little ones or one big one, and I make 'em outta this inky black stuff that only I can touch, 'less Whitey here gives me a tweak." There's a pause, and after a moment I realize it's for me.

"Bones," I say belatedly. "I can project mine and shape ones I can see outside my body." Whiteline nods, then pulls off a glove. Underneath is a scarred hand with crooked fingers, no nails, and flesh that looks both partially melted and partially torn, apparently left to heal in a way that strikes me as wrong. I'd almost think it must have been intentional, but the scarring is so haphazard I can't possibly imagine why they would mutilate themselves this way. It's not pretty or deep or expressive. It's just nauseating.

I manage to keep my feelings from showing on my mask. I think.

"Let me see," they say, static hissing with something that can only be excitement.

A/N: I'm running a quest! Votes will be tallied sometime in the coming week, so if you want to get into this on the ground floor now's the time. So far it's basically me throwing ideas out there and seeing how people vote, and things are already shaping up to be...

Interesting.

It's also on SV if that's your preferred questing site. Anyway, H4T out.

Edit: Continuity and terminology errors fixed.