By: AirBreather
Self-insert with one broken ability: summoning. To fully break it, however, will lead him across…
Status: ongoing
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2019-01-06
Words: 43347
Chapters: 15
Original source: threads/682825
Exported with the assistance of
0.1: Fever Dreams1: Fever Dreams
Toronto, Ontario, Canada - January 7th, 2018
==== OWT ====
I blinked my heavily encrusted eyes, slowly, before pain and fatigue pulled me unconscious once more.
…
'Another day at work finished,' I thought to myself, tired, head laying against a clear plastic support. Hands in my pockets, my hunched form was trying to grab whatever sort of pseudo rest anybody could on these horrendous excuses for padded seats.
My subway ride wasn't being helped in the slightest by my fellow riders. A particularity loud pair, almost directly across from me - with which a glance confirmed them to be a jewelry bedecked 'bro duo' - were bitterly, vulgarly, and explosively complaining about a stolen money clip.
"- telling you fam, that hot gold shit was -"
As hard as I tried, I couldn't help but continually, vividly imagine the item in question: a cash-dollar sign golden clip, stuffed to capacity with Canadian paper currency. A pulling sensation, combined with a brief bout of exhaustion, had me suddenly jerk awake to the texture of folded dollar bills bound by smooth metal in my jeans' pocket.
"What the -"
…
"- fukkkkkk…?" I rasped out. The insides of my mouth felt both dry and rubbery. I didn't want to think too hard about what had happened to get them that way.
…
'This can't be happening,' I thought, incredulous. Subway train after subway train passed by, as the hard orange plastic of a waiting area bench dug into me. Ignoring the metaphysical weight of a fully loaded money clip, I was more concerned with what my panicked Google searches were revealing.
I thumb swiped through search results on the screen of my smartphone, passing by biographies, contact details and more. Every single page - or, more correctly, the absence of the pages I were looking for - told me a Sheogorathic fairy tale: I didn't exist in this world. Nor did my parents ever meet up. Apart from those details, I couldn't discern any notable differences about this Earth.
I pushed aside a more grim imagining: that I was utterly insane and had dreamt up my entire life, and that this world was 'normal.'
… At least the TTC still has free wifi.
…
My entire body ached with the agonizing prickling of countless needles. It was success, of sorts, as feeling meant that I could feel - instead of the numbed, dead alternative.
Progress!
I tried to tilt my head towards where I remembered the dim glow of the digital calendar-clock would be, but -
…
Another hundred dollar bill joined the small stack on the desk counter. I met the clerk's eyes over it with a tight-lipped smile.
"Nothing obviously illegal, right?" The slightly balding man asked, eyes narrowed.
A lift of my arm showed off the contents of a large, clear plastic bag: a sleeping bag, pillow, heavy duty keyed lock, and a thin box labelled with pictures of a feature-rich digital clock.
"I'm just looking to have a very low profile place to crash at for a few months," I said, shrugging. "Might not drop in that much - or even at all - but I want it accessible."
At the mention of 'months,' my prospective illegal landlord gestured towards the money. A long sigh and some more padding on the pile caused a transformation on Tyrone's face: now grinning, he swiped the stack and said, "welcome, Mr. John Doe! You'll have access to storage locker number two-oh-three. Keep in mind that…"
…
I sat up suddenly, coughing out a wad of chunky mucus close beside me. I purposefully ignored where it splattered, and tested out how I felt with a few small shoulder rolls. Clean up was next. The gunk on my eyes was removed with rapid blinking and some unhygienic, blunt-fingered picking. Once I started to pull off the plastic cling wrap from my hands, the stretchy cotton black stretchy gloves came off with them accompanied by tearing sounds, revealing two simple rings in the dim, ambient light. They were on each of my index fingers. With both hands held up near my face, the one on my left was a thin, silvery band, while the one on my right was golden.
"Regeneration and sustenance," I hoarsely whispered to myself, dry mouthed. Not that I knew which was which, of course - simply pulling those two objects from whatever distance they came from and ensuring they landed directly onto my fingers was enough to - put it bluntly - kill me. Focusing on them, I could get a vague, nebulous, path-like sense of where the rings had come from. Fragile and easily severed, barely even a trail of bread crumbs, I had high hopes that those astral cords wannabes would make pulling things from those realms slightly easier.
A new bout of coughing fully cleared my lungs and nose, finally allowing me to smell the surroundings. 'Ugh!' That was a mistake, as only a sudden, awkward twisting of my torso prevented a new pile of acidic bodily fluids further fouling my thin sleeping bag.
Once the latest set of dry heaves finished, I fumbled around on the painted concrete floor until my LED lantern was found and turned on.
More blinks, and the newly lit room was revealed in all its insipid glory: scuffed grey semi-gloss paint beneath me, orange-coloured corrugated metal walls on three sides, and a pull-down, garage-style door on the fourth. The ceiling was fine wire mesh, with the upper limits being some sort of concrete spray-covered girders. A number of pine tree-shaped air fresheners hung down from the wiring.
I slowly got up, stretching, then started to strip and throw the now-ruined clothes in a corner. Their passage stirred up a puff of dust, which led to some more surprised coughing.
'How long did that all take?!', I thought, the edges of panic swelling up inside me. Some plastic wrap sock covered hopping and dust sweeping away revealed the - gloriously still functioning! - form of my digital clock. The date - January 7th, 2018 - and time - 7:18 PM - relaxed me enough to let out a small breath of tension I'd been holding. Even in the most aggressive interpretations of the verbal agreement I had with Tyrone, I still had over a month and a half left before the pay ran out. The duct-taped piece of cardboard beside it showed when I began this not-quite-suicidal process, written in heavy black ink: October 18th, 2017.
'The dust began to make a lot more sense,' I mused to myself, as I finished a simple clean up routine. Messed up wet-wipes, clothes, plastic wrap and more, all went into empty black garbage bags, and fresh clothes came out of a masking tape sealed one.
Dressed in a simple matching black ensemble of slim jeans, Blundstones, long sleeved tee, and a weathered leather jacket, I began to feel a bit more human. 'Do I need to do anything else here?' I thought, while filling my pockets. Smartphone, keys - both useless and useful - and other small errata lined my clothes' interiors while I looked around.
'Aha!' I dug out a small notebook from my jacket, turned to the first available blank page and tore it out. Some more pocket patting had me with a click-based pen in hand - click click click! - and I dug into my memory for the proper phrasing. I gave that up after a few seconds, shrugging, and kept things short and sweet: "Dear Past Self, the summons for the rings of rapid regeneration and sustenance succeeded. Proceed! Regards, Future Self."
The note disappeared as soon as the final, punctual period was dotted down.
==== OWT ====
Summons
Ring of Rapid Regeneration: [Encyclopedia Magica DRAGON Magazine 120] Original: The standard ring of regeneration restores 1 point of damage each turn (and eventually replaces lost limbs and organs). It will bring its wearer back from death. (If death was caused by poison, however, a saving throw must be successfully rolled or the wearer dies again from the poison still in his system.) Only total destruction of all living tissue by fire, acid, or similar means will prevent regeneration. Rapid: This ring acts as a normal ring of regeneration with one major difference - it regenerates 1 hit point each round [1 per minute] rather than 1 each turn [1 per 10 minutes].
Ring Of Sustenance [Ultimate Equipment]. This ring continually provides its wearer with life-sustaining nourishment. The ring also refreshes the body and mind; its wearer needs only sleep 2 hours per day to gain the benefit of 8 hours of sleep. The ring must be worn for a full week before it begins to work. If it is removed, the owner must wear it for another week to reattune it to himself.
0.2: Delightful Deeds2: Delightful Deeds
Toronto, Ontario, Canada - April 11th, 2018 - Approximately three months later.
==== OWT ====
The warm sensation of a wet cloth on my face woke me from my dozing. I kept my head still until the fabric lifted, then opened my eyes.
"Good afternoon, sir." A grey-haired, older gentleman greeted my sight.
I sighed, then shook my head, and the cleaning process continued down my neck.
When the dabbing finished, he pulled back and tucked the stained facial tissue in an inner suit pocket. Staring at me, he commented, "I'm afraid that that shirt will need cleaning, sir. If you'd allow me, I'll take care of it."
A glance confirmed that layers of brown, dried blood had thoroughly caked over and through my black t-shirt. 'Eww,' I thought, both mildly disgusted and familiar with the sight.
"Not right now, Mr. Deeds," I began, waving him off, then pulled thick elastic bands off of my left hand. Freed, I carefully manoeuvred the small silver hand bell it had held to the counter beside my easily cleanable plastic lawn chair, and slipped my hand out of thin rope loop that had bound it. I double checked the simple Rube Goldberg setup it was attached to while I stretched - the rope threaded through a few metal eyes before disappearing behind the kitchenette counter - but it seemed fine. I'll give it a more thorough inspection later.
I followed my butler to the living room, bare feet transitioning from the crinkling of double-layered heavy gauge plastic sheets to the more comfortable texture of high-pile carpeting. 'This apartment is much more comfortable than that storage unit.' Settling onto the couch there, I gave him a wave to begin.
The black suited figure of Mr. Deeds stood at relaxed attention in front of the largest of many different sized dry erase white boards. Almost every single one was filled with multi-coloured, bullet-pointed sets of precise wording. The headings ran a gamut of plans and contingencies: 'Mr. Deeds: Read This,' 'If Master Is (Currently!) Dead,' 'Stock Items to Acquire,' 'Standard Research Projects', 'Computer Activities,' 'Note-taking,' and more. An organized pile of newspapers were in one corner of the room, and notebooks were in the other.
With a clearing of his throat, Mr. Deeds indicted a prominent check-mark on the 'Master Plan' board. "I have successfully returned an excess of finances to every individual and organization you have recorded as being 'unconventionally borrowed from,' sir."
I gave him some silent applause while inwardly grimacing. Unlike the funds created through Mr. Deeds' own forms of genie-like summoning, my own methods actively took - no, stole - those assorted currencies from different people around this world. As I didn't want to default myself into comfortable, see-no-evil thievery, I'm aiming to 'balance the books' whenever I am rendered all but the most impossible to do so.
He gave a slight nod in acknowledgement, and continued. "Your neighbour in unit one-oh-two is still very amiable to the prior arrangement. Nearly all your wanted digital titles have been purchased, which I have gone through," a white-gloved hand gestured towards a high-end laptop, lid up and running, on top of a slim, minimalistic desk, "and annotated." He straightened his posture. "From your own logs, you have just woken up from a six-day bout of unconsciousness and will soon cycle through onto your eleventh day of lucidity since mid-October of last year." He paused. "Was there anything else, sir?"
"No," I replied. "Thank you, Mr. Deeds. Please have a seat."
He responded to my direction with a more formal nod, and went and placed himself onto the office chair by the desk. Rotating it to face me, he somehow made that padded luxury item be more akin to a rigid dining room chair than the bastion of comfort it was supposed to be.
"Alright… Now where was it…" I patted down my jean pockets, and waved away the rising form of Mr. Deeds. "One second." I closed my eyes and began to concentrate. What? Laser pointer, small, chrome-like sheen. Where? Nearby; area of this apartment. When? Now. How? Falling into my open hand from the distance of a few inches.
The impression of an invisible cord successfully snapping into place formed, and I held out my right hand in expectation and yanked on the connection. I reflexively grabbed the dropped object as my head swayed into brief unconsciousness, and I wiped my nosebleed with my already brown-stained t-shirt.
"Alright. One more time." I clicked the laser pointer into operation and directed the red dot onto the 'Summoning Development' white board. "While enduring the damaging physical side-effects of summoning anything in a reasonable time-frame has been mostly managed," I began, while my thumb absently stroked a silvery ring, "none of my efforts to pull things from… Other… Dimensions, universes, and so on, have notably changed in how difficult - namely, lengthy - the process is." Case in point, my total inventory of out-universe items consisted of two rings and a silver hand bell.
'Such a first world problem,' I thought, half-smiling at the complaints of how hard my impossibilities were.
I waved the red laser dot back and forth over 'Method to increase summoning ability.' "The latest results are…" I repeated the mental mantra of 'don't be too optimistic' while I pulled out a tightly folded piece of paper from my pocket. A simple thing to be the results of six days of unconsciousness. Clearing my throat, I began to read it out loud. "Dear Past Self, Han Jee-Han's 'Gamer' abilities don't seem to work outside of his Gaia-influenced magical setting. Regards, Future Self. P.S.: Google translate sucks for this. Please get a magical translator effect already." I didn't bother announcing the written call-sign identifier the message finished with.
'Well. Crap,' I thought, disappointed, slumping back into the couch. While a large part of me had hoped the Gamer power would be the end-all, be-all solution to my problems, the concepts of conflicting magical paradigms were nothing new to me. At least not new to me now. I didn't bother referring to my notes, as I had memorized the universal results: nothing I had checked via the 'quick' future messaging method has given me a means to reliably develop my summoning ability. Develop new powers, yes - but those in turn would create new problems, new dependencies, and new complications. Some, like RWBY's Aura power, would be generally helpful, but… I'd rather not spend the better part of a year just to acquire a glorified force field and body booster.
A blank piece of paper and a pen were handed to me once I sat up straight.
"Thanks, Mr. Deeds."
"Glad to be of service, sir."
He returned to his seat while I copied the future note's details onto the blank sheet. The 'new' version disappeared the instant I completed it. I was quick enough to see the 'future' note's hand writing and creases subtly adjust themselves. I tossed it behind the couch right after.
'Paradox is my friend, eh?'
"So."
"Yes, Mr. Umbrella?"
I gave a quiet little chuckle at the name. While it wasn't my actual one as such, the personal history behind it gave me a slight smidgen of optimism. I needed that. I could always change it for something more suitable, in an appropriately dramatic moment.
"I appear to have exhausted all the easy power boosting sources I made a note to check." I pursed my lips. "How has your own searches gone?" My method of living life with a brick on the fast-forward button via unconsciousness gave the moments I was awake more significance: news, accumulated assets gained through Mr. Deeds, and the chance to catch up on some reading without worrying that I'd exhaust the sources.
"One option comes to mind, sir. Have you thought about dice?"
Dice, dice… DICE? I frowned. "I doubt that a connection between X of the Cube That Changes Everything and this world would be either possible or helpful. As far as obtaining the Final Dice itself goes, I think that that little gamesmaster has tied administrative loops around its functions very tightly. Then there is the whole 'winning' process… No…" I shook my head. "That wouldn't work."
"X didn't always own the Final Dice, sir."
"So…?" The metaphorical gears in my mind ground to a shuddering halt. Would optimism rear its tiny, helmeted head? "There is a window of time between when X sees the comet… Err, cluster of glowing dice… And he knowingly activates them. However, it isn't really defined whether he is somehow connected to them prior to physically touching the Final Dice or what…"
I got off the couch and began to pace back and forth over the carpet.
"Of course, I could just ask my future self…"
"But…"
"Hacking…? Magical, technological, both…?
I stopped pacing. Less than a hour later I had the answer to my question, and plans that would keep me barely conscious for the better part of a year.
==== OWT ====
Summons
SCP-662: The Butler's Hand Bell.
0.3: Trick Dice3: Trick Dice
Toronto, Ontario, Canada - April 24th, 2019 - Approximately nine months later.
==== OWT ====
I could feel the end-points of my two active summoning threads, right outside this small building's exterior walls. They existed like a pair of taut cords, as if those metaphysical connections had a 'knotted' end point on them, and the barrier around here only had spaces for those astral lines. This was an unique experience, as I previously had no way to pause the summoning process - it was either all or nothing. I imagined it to be kind of like skydiving, only now those skydivers were just a story or two up. Rather irregular.
'Perhaps I need a better analogy? Maybe… Fishing?'
The majority of my time the past week has been spent trying to prevent that automatic contraction from occurring. As I had no frame of reference - there was no handy missing limb with convenient ghostly sensations - the novelty of personal 'power testing' had quickly transitioned into 'how long can I stay awake and focused?'
I yawned.
Apparently, not that long. At least one of the benefits of having a ring of sustenance reduced my needed sleep into a paltry two hours.
I shifted in my reclined office chair, adjusting the heavy layered quilt on top of me. As a plus, I didn't get bed sores or need bathroom breaks either.
Mr. Deeds was typing away on the laptop, now relocated to a desk in this little office.
Everything in my previous small apartment had been either placed into my still paid for storage locker, this room, or simply trashed. While neither of us had legitimate identities, credit accounts, or true documents of any sort, the sheer simple power of handfuls of cold, hard cash had worked wonders. People with all those very official documents were all too happy to accept some untaxed, under-the-table finances. To be able to confirm their willingness in advance made the whole process that much easier.
From my spot in the office, I was able to see the light of dawn out through the small exterior window - somewhat obscured by the presence of an unpowered 'OPEN' sign - and through the doorway into the open space laughably called a warehouse. While I would have liked to have stayed in my earlier apartment, the combination of limited room and the fact that it wasn't a free-standing building put a severe crimp in my plans. Those plans revolved around that very important 'OPEN' sign - one whose importance was only highlighted by the amount of blue builder's tape used to hold it against the glass.
In truth, the ability of the red neon sign in question was to render a building conceptually closed to such a degree that nothing other than standard utilities were able to come through it. In what were both boons and hindrances, this blocking effect extended to the starting and completion of my own summonings, the butler-slash-genie 'go and get suitable objects' powers of Mr. Deeds, and internet access. Since that SCP Foundation-sourced sign was installed, we've been utterly isolated and cut off from the world. Funnily enough, if the outside world ended, we'd still be here.
'What was I doing again?' My half-closed eyes meandered around the different bags and boxes stacked against the walls. The commercial carpeting here was so woefully inferior to the dense piles at the apartment. The intangible presences of my two nearby summons drifted back into my attention, and I let out a long sigh. Some fishing around under my comfy quilt brought up my latest notebook, and I flipped through the last few pages to refresh my memory.
A nice clickable pen pulled from its loop, I started to plan out the next series of I-don't-want-to-know-the-number experiments that I'll probably forget about soon anyways.
And… Done.
Pen clicked? Click click click… Done.
Procrastinating done?
…
Well?
Fine. Done.
Eyes closed, I attempted to turn my focus inwards… Sideways? Sidewards. Something like that. The typing sounds of Mr. Deeds became background noise, and the more vague energies of my insert-awesome-name-here summoning system came into focus. From right nearby, there were a number of faint lines extending off into the elsewheres. I ignored those that I identified as coming from my rings, the neon sign, and the butler's hand bell, and drew more attention to the remaining two.
They were 'nearby,' if such a simple linear term could be used in this situation. Kind of like balloons on the surface of nigh-immobile water, the tugging force I generated caused them to deform in a blob-like manner against the 'barrier' of this building. The blobby presence was more a knot of potential than the actual physical item. This had been proven in the past with my more local summons - objects went from point to point in a flash, and most assuredly did not leisurely float, visibly or not, through the intervening distance.
However, as these threads and that barrier have proven, there is some sort of tangible connection between point origin and point destination. I've compared it to a rubber band - items can be 'unsummoned' back to their source with a kind of 'push,' both sedately and rather violently - as well as that whole electron atom negative positive charge path thing that happens when lightning strikes are formed. To prevent masses of connections to points all over this world, I've also learnt that those threads can be attenuated and completely cut.
I gave both of the remaining two connections a light tug, and they blobbed merrily a few times in response.
This might take a while.
==== OWT ====
As the day passed, I went through visualization exercises, mental commands, strange sound making, and the odd bout of frenzied pen clicking.
The idea of trying to get those active threads to freeze in place died an ignoble death. Much like elastic bands, it was practically impossible to get them to remain in an 'extended' position - the draw was to snap tight, to contract. Once an elastic was at rest, it could stay passive. But until that point? No, not happening.
Another analogy arose from watching hours of blobby blobbing: that of driving. The connections wanted to head my way, as in lead feet on the accelerator, but they were stopped in the manner of an equally hard foot on the brakes (or perhaps a brick wall, but I didn't want to go there).
My intention was simple: press the gas in both directions at the same time. Push and pull it to stabilize the blobby goodness so that neither the 'pull towards me attraction' or the 'return package to point of origin' overwhelmed each other.
Why, it would be as easy as… Trying to stay on top of a slippery flotation device with two attached, active engines with no visible gauges, switches, or means of control, which is in turn on top of an invisible body of water.
Goody.
At least I only needed to do it for one of them.
==== OWT ====
April 25th, 2019 - The next day.
The moment of truth arrived. Procrastination was perversely punted to the perimeter, and my pugnacious puns… I cleared my throat, and gave one last look around.
I was in the centre of the small commercial building's warehouse area. It was a roughly rectangular space, with only the office to break up those even proportions. Bare walls, grey painted concrete floors, and a rolling door sized to accommodate a cube van completed the picture. Marking up the floor's grey were a large number of squares, all done with blue builder's tape. I was directly in front of the largest one - it even had a large 'X' in the middle of it, in case I somehow forgot.
A head turn confirmed the presence of Mr. Deeds, a few steps beyond the doorway into the office. I gave him a little wave, which he returned with a minuscule nod.
'English 'stiff upper lip' and all that, eh?'
In spite of the impulse to 'just get it over with,' in the sense of ripping off a band-aid, I kept calm. Eyes closed, I positioned my hands in front of me, close to my chest. One was posed in the universal gesture of 'stop,' palm outwards, while the other was kept in a very loose, open fist. I shifted slightly in my boots, and redirected my attention outwards.
My two favourite summoning wannabe blobs were still squishing lightly against the building's barrier. I ignored the one with the larger presence and 'heft,' and focused on the smaller one. Some pulling caused it to spread its deformed proto-shape further against the barrier, while pushing caused it to separate away from that surface.
"Get ready, Mr. Deeds," I spoke out loudly, "it's almost time."
"Of course, sir," he replied, the sound of his dress shoes barely audible as he moved.
The intangible edges of the smaller form were kept stable, just microscopically brushing the edges of barrier, for at least a full ten seconds before I spoke again.
"Now!"
There was no response to my request. Instead, bare moments after a what sounded like a dump truck's worth of crates falling, blinding white, blue and purple light seared through my eyelids, seeming to come from all around me. The light was brightest from directly in front.
Eyes still closed, I pushed out with the palm of my left hand. The only hint of of hesitation showed up in a light quivering of my arm, but in less than the second that it took to contact a surface that didn't matter.
Smooth, warm plastic greeted my hand, and nothing else.
'Was that it?' I thought, brow scrunched. 'Did I somehow misinterpret my future self's message? Why isn't it -'
'… USER. STAR WISHER NOT FOUND,' a booming voice somehow imprinted itself onto my consciousness. 'DICE-BASED TANGIBLE REALITY NOT FOUND. DICE-BASED INTANGIBLE REALITY NOT FOUND. INITIALIZING RECALL PROC-'
'Yeah, NO,' I replied, and let go of the control needed to stabilize my other summon. A smooth handle popped into existence in my right hand. I immediately locked my fingers around it and stabbed outwards.
'-EDURE… CAN… CANCELLED… LED.'
The tiny tinkling sounds of the decorative loops from that small dagger were lost in the chalk-board-like nail scraping of it shattering. My squinting eyes were able to make out the last glittering motes of the jagged edge blade before it dissolved completely. The squirting stump of my wrist didn't help things.
Darkness was rapidly encroaching from the edges of my vision.
'-ERROR RESET LOSS PROCESS UNDEFINED FUNCTI-'
"Assign me as star wisher," I began, slumping against semitransparent blue plastic. My words were reaffirmed mentally, just in case verbal speech wasn't enough. "And… Administrator. Admin access. Root access. Super user. Root user. Boss mode. God mode… Unlock all functions… Remove restrictions…" I couldn't even see the glare from the assorted dice. Everything was dark, and warm liquid dripped down my lips and chin. 'What else? There was…' "Disable remote access. Local access only." My words were faint whispers, face pushed up against the dice wall. "Stand… by… for… further… s…"
Dark became black, and I faded away.
==== OWT ====
Summons
- (Temporary) Rule Breaker: a Nasuverse Noble Phantasm dagger designed to unmake various magical connections.
- The Final Dice: from D.I.C.E The Cube that Changes Everything; formerly to-be of X.
- SCP-159: "Open" sign that locks a building when it isn't on.
A/N
- Rule Breaker VS the Final Dice: depending on interpretations of the power of the Final Dice, it may not be normally enough to effect it. Keep in mind that (1) it exploded! and (2) time shenanigans.
- Final Dice being god mode forever: it won't be as powerful as the last bit suggests. X got a large power-up when he first obtained it, but there won't be quite as rapid an advancement here.
0.4: Boot Sequence4: Boot Sequence
Toronto, Ontario, Canada - April 27th, 2019 - Two days later.
The assorted Dice that had filled up most of this spartan warehouse had quickly diminished over the last day. While the normal, finger-tip sized versions reverted to plain old white dice upon their use, the larger versions disintegrated into blocky blue sparkles instead.
This didn't happen by my own use of them - at least not directly. It was the Final Dice itself that had burned through the majority - ever single little tweak to its reality warping based 'operating system' cost Dots. Dice Dots. The bigger the change, the bigger the expenditure. One of the costliest changes came from my own directions: when I had told it to "disable remote access" and enable "local access only," it very literally interpreted that as preventing any form of connections unless the users were physically in contact with the Final Dice itself. While that did prevent incidences of E.T. 'calling home' and the equivalent of patches being pushed to it - both scenarios equally scare-inducing in their potential implications - it also meant that its powers could only be used 'in person.'
I managed to get around that by redefining 'local' to a little bit bigger than this planet. For the sake of eliminating possible issues with the SCP Foundation-sourced 'Open' sign, I kept it dialled down to a size a bit less than this building.
While a planetary range might seem impressive, the now disabled largest distances were detailed in some sort of mathematical notation that gave me a headache. I didn't know the deeper stories behind the Dice system's creation, and a part of me was really glad for that. At least those numbers assumed the presence of relays, repeaters, and other co-opted devices - it didn't have some sort of pervasive access to everything within its area of control.
The only unbalanced weight scale that still rung in my mind was the fate of the child who was destined to become the gamesmaster known as 'X.' Even though he'd end up being a psychotic despot of sorts, he wasn't such at the time when I pulled all these Dice from his world. No, I'd need to do something good for him - even if only to get him out of the crappy life his online published origins suggested.
"Another, sir?" My butler asked from the office doorway.
I shook the foam-lined form of the heavy glass mug I was sipping from, and stared into its depths. 'Hmm. Close enough.' I hung the glass over my open mouth, head back, shaking it to get the last dregs out.
"No thank you, Mr. Deeds." I nudged the now empty mug to the centre of a nearby glowing over-sized Dice - this one about equal in dimensions to a big chair, or perhaps a rather squat desk - and deliberately looked in the opposite direction. When I checked back, the blue plastic-like surface was bare. 'Butler-genie powers, activate!'
"Get yourself something nice, too," I said towards the office, "Like… I dunno… A five course meal or such?"
His reply came after a pause of a few seconds. "Very well, sir. And re-enable the functions of the 'Open' sign once I return?"
"Yes indeed."
His confirmation went unnoticed as I turned back to the behemoth of the room. The still-glowing monstrosity labelled as the Final Dice was a cube somewhere in the realms of being eight to ten feet each side. I ran a hand over the area where I had previously stabbed it, and couldn't find any markings. I don't know if any damage had ever shown up, or if it had somehow self-regenerated. Either way, a test for another day - if ever.
"Cube?"
'State enquiry,' it spoke into my mind. Of all the interface options, I found this the cleanest, simplest, and least prone to errors. As far as calling it 'Cube' went, that was due to having no good short form titles related to 'Final,' 'Dice,' gamesmaster, any permutations of those terms, and I'll admit, a rather glaring lack of imagination on my own part.
While I was tempted to do a complete list of functions and operations yet one more time, I resisted the impulse. Instead, I pulled out a single, small, glowing blue Dice from my pockets. It was one of many that had come in the initial summoning batch. These were the keystones of the Final Dice and the entire Dicer system - rewards and enticement in one. I tossed it off the right side of the chair and - What? That Dice. Where? There. When? Now. How? With inertia gone, landing 'one' side down - and it landed perfect and still, three paired black dots facing straight up. A wave of fatigue, quickly passed, was the only cost. Square shapes and pixelized sparkles marked the transition from a back lit blue cube to a red one.
'At least I don't need to cheat in casinos,' I mused, 'rigging the game here is so much more rewarding.' The four gigantic impressions on the Final Dice in front of me did nothing in response. Pointing to the new red Dice, I replied to the earlier question. "What can I do with that?"
'Six Dots have been added to your available pool,' it replied.
I snorted at the implication - so far every obtained Dot has been spent in fixing, adjusting, or otherwise upgrading the system, rather than kept for myself.
Undaunted, it continued, 'Physical and mental performance, intellectual performance and health can all be upgraded. Any defined personal attribute or quality can be increased. Capped limits have been removed. Internal definitions for post-limit qualities are not installed.'
"What else?" I asked. I wasn't interested in the basic features, as so many other sources provided powerful enhancements to those basics. As if it needed the prompting, I added, "This enquiry is coming from theadministrator, Cube."
'The remaining functions have been reset to blank defaults during the configuration process of this interface.'
"I know that," I bit out, flicking my wrist towards the uncaring blue glow. "So they are all blank now. Good. Fine. What can be done with them - as the administrator?"
'Gold-tier Dice: six broad categories of reality manipulation can be defined and awarded for specific quests. No reality manipulation categories found.'
Reality manipulation, in this sense, were assorted super powers. The unfortunate thing about them was that they burned through Dots as fuel for both activation and maintenance. Unless that trait was mitigated somehow, I'd be shelving everything related to the golden, question-mark-covered Dice.
'The store system is an interface which can be accessed via supported communication mediums. It supports the exchange of Dots for alterations to users and areas, as well as portable representations of some of those options. No supported communication mediums found. No alteration packages found.'
That has some promise, assuming that I could get potions and scrolls installed somehow.
'The 'Strengthen' sub-system has been rerouted into the basic upgrading sub-system. No definitions for reality manipulation categories found.'
This was even better, as that 'Strengthen' system was originally a luck-driven method to merge and create a derivative of a Dicer's powers. What this meant was that if I had a compatible power, I'd be able to easily, simply, and permanently enhance it - in whole, or some small component. That led me to the most important question: "Are you capable of improving my summoning-related powers?"
'Unknown,' it replied. 'The reality manipulation category called 'summoning' is not defined within this interface. This interface lacks the ability to discern the details of your 'summoning."
"Would adding details about my 'summoning' to the Dice interface then be a possible solution?"
'Correct.'
"Great. So… How would that work?"
'Insert appropriate module.'
"… And if there isn't an appropriate module?"
'Insert approximate facsimile.'
'Now we're getting somewhere,' I thought. 'However, there would likely be catch to this - no way could it be that easy.'
"Would there be a Dot cost involved in processing that 'approximate facsimile'?"
'Yes.'
"Roughly how much?"
'Potentially infinite,' it replied.
My sound of choked surprise had Mr. Deeds look my way, silver spoon in hand. "Sir?" I waved away his attention, and he went back to working on his soup. I hadn't even noticed him settling down nearby.
"That is… a lot," I said. "Would it be possible to reduce that cost, and if so, how?"
'Yes,' it stated. 'There are three internally defined options for reducing energy expenditures: increase the time allotted to process the facsimile. Reduce the functions of the processed facsimile. Reduce the effort required to process the facsimile.'
"What would be the time-frame required to reduce the Dot cost to less than what is available right now?" There were still some red Dice left here, so the question was worth a shot.
'That duration exceeds the estimated heat death of this universe.'
"Oh. Okay." I let out a long sigh, eyes closed, before I could build up enough motivation to continue. "Would the degree of reducing the functions of a 'potentially infinite' summoning facsimile to cost the same amount of Dots be equally severe?
'Correct. It could require a removal of over ninety-nine percent of the facsimile's capacities.'
"Could those capacities be later restored?" I crossed two pairs of mental fingers with the question.
'No.'
"Well, crap." Those imaginary fingers shattered rather impressively. "That last option, then - what is involved in 'processing a facsimile'? How would the effort involved be reduced?"
'In order to integrate a facsimile with compatible features, it is broken down into data and energy. The more complete and compatible that non-physical record is, the less the Dot cost required to finish the process.'
"Assuming high levels of compatibility, what would be the maximum reduction in cost?"
'In excess of ninety-nine percent.'
"Yes!" I pumped my fists in the air, then updated some details in my notebook. "I think we have a winner."
"Good news, sir?" The question was paired with the clink of a gold-rimmed fine china cup upon a saucer of the same style.
"Indeed, Mr. Deeds, indeed," I replied, facing him more fully with a smile. My face froze as soon as I remembered a critical little detail: the means by which the Final Dice gained the ability to digitally scan things would need to be processed at full cost. 'Crap.'
==== OWT ====
Later that day.
Getting ready for the mass amounts of summoned items needed to upgrade the Final Dice rather unpleasantly reminded me of how I acquired my first - and only! - two enchanted rings. Those two took months, and I expected this massive batch to take years in turn. The biggest differences between these two sets of preparations were that I had help in this one, and the involved work was even more complex. Truthfully, I was probably going overboard on the whole thing - I could just stick myself in a coffin with drainage holes on a raised platform. However, that lacked a certain sense of gravitas - I wanted my mass-repeated-death-by 'cast by hitpoints' summoning magic to be special, dammit!
Anything and everything that could possibly constitute a suitable facsimile was going to be obtained: technological, magical, and biological. The hope was that throwing enough partial pieces in the direction of the Final Dice would eventually give me the functions I was looking for. After all, true reality warping interfaces were a very rare commodity - gotta use what I have, according to the restrictions that are present.
The first steps, already completed, had me wearing a diver's wetsuit which was then tightly encased in a combination of saran plastic wrap, duct tape, and flexible stainless steel wire mesh cut to fit and allow movement. On my hands, a similar set of layered protections were used: medical latex gloves followed by the heaviest gauge rubber dish-washing types I could find, then topped off with long sleeved snake-handling gloves - the ones with built-in wire mesh. Mr. Deeds' summoning hand bell was kept in a nested series of zip-lock bags on the inner surface of my right forearm. My feet mostly used the same wrapping as I had around my body, but were topped off with heavy, minimally flexible rubber boots. For my head, a diver's cap - one with an attached chin strap - worked as a base layer, while more plastic wrap, duct tape, and a medieval style chain link coif provided more integrity. Durable earplugs kept my ear canals sealed - other orifices were handled appropriately - and a pair of high-end swimming goggles were covered with ski goggles.
All attachment points and layers were sealed with yet more duct tape. To make things slightly more comfortable, the entire small commercial building we were working out of had the air conditioning cranked to maximum. The only spaces on my body that were exposed to the open air were a small circle that spanned from the top of my nose to just below my newly shaved chin. I'd worry about excess hair and beard growth and so on, but my prior experience has shown me that the condition I'm about to enter into doesn't really produce them.
"Almost ready, sir?" The bundled up figure of Mr. Deeds asked, his words only partly muted by my ear coverings. He was dressed in what I considered classic English gentleman winter clothing, with black polished boots, a full length woollen coat, brown leather gloves, and a trappers style hat, fur lined. His question came with the tiniest hint of white icy mist on the air.
What can I say - the air conditioning was on very high. There might have been some open freezers, too.
I rattled back and forth, testing the blunt-edged, open-mouthed hooks that were attached to the chains around me. They were anchored to the ceiling - mixed among with a score of hanging air fresheners - and rated for a much higher weight than what I'd be putting on them. My arms were left free. "Seems so, Mr. Deeds." The purpose of those attachments was to hold me upright and somewhat at an angle, facing downwards. A thick bed of kitty litter crunched beneath my rubber booted feet as I moved. While it wasn't the most aesthetically pleasing option, the use of a bathtub was vetoed rather adamantly. The reason? Excess fluid accumulation.
"Very well, sir. Just say when." He retrieved a large, red thermos while speaking, and removed the cap and lid from it.
What large Dice pieces still remained had been pushed towards the office side of the building. That left the massive form of the Final Dice nearly immediately behind me, and a mixed collage of large white dry-erase boards and poster-sized paper sheets on the other two walls, the warehouse loading door, and many spots on the floor. All of them were covered with multi-coloured, blocky writing, designed to be visible from where I was 'assisted standing.' The double layers of eyewear I wore gave a mild blue tinge to everything, but they didn't prevent me from seeing even the so-called 'small' print.
I let out a long, tired sigh. "Alright. Pass it over."
My ham-fisted approach was able to slowly guide the red plastic cylinder to my mouth, and I started to chug the liquid within it down. Mildly chalky, the lethal-grade slurry of ground up pain killers, powered alcohol, icing sugar and fruit juice went down with only mild difficulty. Mr. Deeds stood in arms reach, ready to assist if needed.
I was feeling rather fuzzy headed when the drink was finished. My butler grabbed the thermos as it fell, and I flashed a wobbly thumbs-up at him. Once he helped me put in a mouth guard, he gave me a nod and walked out of sight. Soon after, the whirring of the air conditioning fans cut out, along with the brightness from the lights behind me. The purple-blue glow of Dice took up some of the slack, while the few remaining sources of illumination kept all the writings in focus.
All I was left with was the sounds of my heartbeat, pounding in my ears.
'This is going to suck so very bad,' I thought, as I scanned over the boards. 'Well, no time like the present!'
==== OWT ====
A/N & Summons
There is going to be a FLOOD of new stuffs after this snip. So… For those that read A/Ns… Is there a preference on how I handle it? I've thought of a few different approaches:
1) Show don't say: no lists. They would only come up at the snip end when mentioned in a (future) chapter.
2) Notebook intermission: do a quasi writeup/mock-up of (some of?) the boards Mr. Michael Umbrella here read.
3) Just do a plain regular 'summons spoilers' at the end of the next snip.
4) Do a summarized summons write-up, grouped by categories (like I have for my own notes!)…
5)… and perhaps written 'in character'? Hmm.
Comments and/or likes on those comments will influence my choice.
Last edited: Sep 27, 2018
0.5: New YouA/N 1: (Mild) TRIGGER WARNING for insects and so on in the first part ('OWT' to 'OWT').
A/N 2: Been a while. Games and life. : - |
5: New You
Toronto, Ontario, Canada - Unknown date, winter, 20? - Undetermined length of time later.
Waking up wasn't a pleasant experience. My entire body felt feverish, stiff and locked into place. The small, tremor-like movements I was capable of confirmed that the layers I wore had degraded into near immobility, or, worse case, some of my own bodily byproducts glued them together.
I couldn't see or hear anything - all my senses were reduced to that of simple, solitary touch. A pins and needles type sensation started to prickle around my mouth and nose. I waited for them to subside, but… they didn't. Odd.
What felt like tiny pinches and dots of pain started to paint a rather horrifying proposition. An outward pursing of my lips confirmed it: there was a cotton-candy-like fabric over what should have been open air.
Ah ah! NOPE.
This is so not incredibly happening. I am not turning into a perpetual blood and liquefied organ bank for an ecosystem of insects, thank-you-very-much!
That mantra of absolute denial was steadfastly repeated, over and over again, in the background of my mind.
Some more vigorous back and forth shaking sparked more prickling sensations around my face, and I sneezed reflexively. Bad mistake. The pin-like activity exploded into action through what felt like my nasal passages and throat and… Lungs?
I'm just going to completely and utterly tune out what is happening to my body right now. As much as I dearly and desperately wanted to start my best impression of grand mal epileptic seizure, parts one through infinity, it wouldn't help.
I did it anyways, muffled screaming and all. Only when panicked terror transitioned into nauseated exhaustion was I able to think clearly. Well, as clear as my spider-filled-lungs were… STOP.
Fast, hard and brutal solutions it was. While I had yet to summon things from directly on and inside my body, this situation right now was the absolute pinnacle of motivation for doing so.
I took a deep breath - well, failed to take a deep breath - and focused.
What?
Every single insect, larva, web, cocoon, digestive byproduct, and bodily remains. All my assorted wearables, except my rings. The ground up kitty litter on the floor, clean or otherwise. The superficial uppermost layers of my skin and organs, outside and in, that were damaged, infected, and whatever was coating them. Poster-sized pieces of paper with writing on them. Dust, dirt, rust flakes, loose particles larger than grains of sand.
Where?
From the entire interior of this building; concrete flooring to metal roof. Door frames to window frames. Every single nook, cranny, and open space therein.
When?
About a whole bloody hour ago.
How?
In layers, with the living beings inside, and everything else surrounding them. Compressed as tightly as a clenched fist, with all the inter-cellular spaces removed. Hurled towards the far right corner of this warehouse room with the speed of a super-sonic rifle bullet.
The drive to get it over with as quickly as possible clashed with the absolute focus and determination to be as utterly complete as I could be. The extensive reach of all my summoning tendrils snapped into place as my mental commands directed them, creating what appeared as a foggy, volumetric recreation of the entire building's interior. I didn't dwell on what such an extensive series of connections signified.
The last command was unconsciously mimed, aiming the - 'get-them-away-away-AWAY!' - everythings as far from me that space constraints would allow.
My own body falling onto the ice-cold, perfectly clean floor was mildly jarred by the aftershocks of an impact travelling through the building.
I might have been rather vigorous in my directed speed intentions.
Maybe.
Newly raw lips formed a smile as I curled into a ball and slipped unconscious, ignoring any silly imagery of cocoons and butterflies that crept up.
==== OWT ====
Hours later.
The power for the building was out, with only the light generated by the remaining Dice pushing back the darkness.
Scoured clean and newly dressed in multiple layers of plush, fuzzy sleepwear, slippers and all, I sat in front of the still glowing, four-dotted side of the Final Dice. My earlier comfortable setup had been recreated, with a deluxe, foldable, padded camp chair beneath me, layers of blankets scrunched around, and Mr. Deeds' hand bell pocketed. I wouldn't be able to contact my butler, via his genie-like summoning or otherwise, until the surrounding barrier went down.
The only new thing in the shadows was the mashed-up form of a coffin-sized insect crypt. Messily contained within a white paper mâché-like structure, its existence generated a strange doubling in my memories: I caused that little cluster to be created by being insect food and I wasn't awake to be insect food. Lovely little paradox right there.
Instead of giving myself more of a temporal space-time induced headache - and isn't that an odd thought - I was going over my notes and scrambled memories. Small ticks were made on a blank page, pen written, as I flipped through my notebook. My writings included plans, copies of future-sourced notes, and various speculations. Every so often, I'd look up around myself and frown.
'The final tally is really high,' I thought. 'There are nearly five hundred separate summons incoming. Most of that number are scrolls.' I couldn't easily count the summons' connections, as the off-side focus needed to perceive them painted a confusing picture: I was like the nucleus of a super-charged plasma globe, with flowing streamers connected between me and the building's barrier, all around me. While they didn't flash on and off, like within a real plasma globe, those streamers shifted and moved so much that getting an accurate sense of what was behind them was near impossible.
Unlike how I neatly acquired all the varied Dice, there was no tape to mark out where the walled out summons would land. Instead, they would all be roughly grouped in piles. They would be categorized by their nature, such as inert passive, dead tissues, unstable materials, and so on, as well as those that were needed to go first in order. The few 'live' samples would be handled with the lightest of kid gloves, even though they would be placed in comfortable - but very durable! - temporary confinement. I had included baskets and containers whenever appropriate, but drew the line well before heavier forms of storage.
The only slight against the placements of those piles was that I'd have to move my comfy chair setup. 'Annoying.' My right foot delivered a half-hearted tap to the Final Dice, courtesy of a fuzzy slipper, before I stretched and got up.
'Let's get to work.'
==== OWT ====
Due to the intense cold I had dressed in clothes more suitable for ice-fishing than lounging around - heavy snow-pants, puffy jacket, gloves and boots, all in generic black.
The simple floor clearing of the warehouse space was done in under half an hour, after which I headed to the dimly lit office. Flicking the light switch off and on did nothing.
Some of the blue glowing Dice helped light things up, but the sunlight coming through the small, single pane window in the room did the most. On it, there was the anomalous neon 'Open' sign, turned off, still secured by painter's tape, now old and faded around the edges. An electric cord led from it to a power outlet, but the lack of power proved that it'd be useless at the moment.
A glance outside confirmed the presence of daylight and snow, but not much else. I'd need to access an external source if I wanted to verify the date beyond the season. It would be a safe assumption to believe that this wasn't the winter of late twenty-nineteen, early twenty-twenty. No, at least two years would have passed. Likely more.
Everything here was neatly boxed and covered. Some skimming of the labels on the cardboard helped me find two, labelled 'Deeds Primer' and 'Backup Power.'
The latter box held a number of a different kinds of small generators. There were hand held wind-ups, battery powered, and a even a tiny gas one. The spare gasoline was stored elsewhere. I picked out a few that looked reliable and placed them on the desk.
The Deeds-based box only held a number of notebooks and yet-smaller boxes. The top-most notebook was titled 'Instructions for a New Mr. Deeds,' and a flip through of the elegantly hand-written pages refreshed me on the contents. Every time Mr. Deeds was newly summoned, he was reset to his default, blank state, without the memories of previous active periods. The only way to give him a sense of continuity was to have his experiences and learnt behaviours written down. This primer led him through that process, detailing things like my current alias, different accounts' info, and assorted contacts. It also pointed to other labelled notebooks, each with further, expanded sets of information.
Finished for now, I left the box open with the 'Instructions' notebook clearly visible within it.
I mentally braced myself before deciding to find out which generator worked. I wasn't hungry - and didn't have any food available, regardless - wasn't tired, was in good health, and didn't have anything else to do. There was still the intangible skittering panicky reactions around insects, but that wasn't it. Instead, some contemplation brought up the reason for my hesitation: a whiff of fear. Nothing drastic, it was more along the lines of a fear of change, of stepping out of my 'comfort zone.' Granted, my so-called 'comfort zone' was mighty strange these days, but it was still a regular routine. A drastic change to my body, mind, functions, strengths, weaknesses or capacities would all have the ability to redefine who I was.
Those thoughts were countered with another set: change happened even without radical powers. People lost and gained weight, muscle mass, sanity, and age; changed marital status, employment and financial conditions. To resolutely not change would be to lock into a routine with blinders on until the greater universe around you forced some sort of shift to manifest, wanted or not.
This was a great opportunity to define my own changes and advancement. To become a 'new me,' so to say. A wry smile came with that thought. 'I don't have to use all my planned upgrades at once, anyways.'
Some fiddling with an extension cord, hand-cranked generator, switches, and the Open sign dropped the building's barrier.
Ignoring the sensation I'd best describe as 'hundreds of tiny flexed muscles relaxing,' I pulled Mr. Deeds' hand bell from my pocket and rang it. The clapper-less metal instrument made no noise; instead, the distant echo of a rung bell resonated through the small room.
Bell repocketed, I left the empty office as that sound cleared, and stood just a few paces past the doorway. The once-empty warehouse had been filled with a mixture of furniture, containers, open top bins, and the odd larger item. The blue glowing cube of the Final Dice still dominated the centre of room, though its smaller accessory pieces lined the office-side wall - the results of my earlier cleaning.
"How may I be of service, Mr. -" The standard 'new summons greeting' of Mr. Deeds came from directly behind me. No sounds of footsteps preceded his arrival.
I cut him off, saying with a glance over my shoulder at the shorter, formally dressed man, "Hello again, Mr. Deeds. Please read the notes addressed to you in there," I gestured back into the office, "and follow the instructions." The white fog of my breath prompted another request. "See if you can get power restored as well."
"Of course, sir," he replied.
There was a mild twinge of my conscience in directing him so impersonally, but it was more than outweighed by my known experiences of the genie-like butler. Every time he was newly summoned he was reset to his default state physically and mentally. As he was also the ultimate form of a 'yes man,' I didn't want to create a relationship where an echo chamber of my own preferences grew in a near-solitary feedback loop.
The first stop in this myriad collection was the barrels of blue dice.
'Barrels. Of. Blue. Dice.' The paired emotions of awe and disappointment came from seeing them. The amazement was due to having a collection that readily surpassed the initial batch that came with the Final Dice - giant pieces and all - while the let down came with a 'is that all my life amounted to?'-like feeling. 'Perhaps it didn't come from the full length of my life. Maybe just a portion of it?'
While I would have liked to cheatily roll all of them at once, I feared the effort would knock me out for too long. Instead, I repeatedly grabbed and then short-range summoned handfuls of the blue Dice as I threw them, ensuring that the 'rolled' results were always sixes.
Bone deep exhaustion came along with the bloody nose the effort cost me, but regeneration and motivation drove me through it. I managed to get about a third of them changed before I made my way to one of the smallest collections of summoned items. They were contained in a simple wire mesh basket, and consisted of a few tightly bound scrolls and high-tech items, both complete and partial.
I fished through the container, and pulled out a small black rectangular item. Going from what I remember, this was an attachable module for one of the rare models of projectile-based rifles in the Star Trek universe. It gave the ranged weapon the ability to shoot 'through' a wall by near instantly teleporting the bullet a short distance directly ahead of the path of fire, while still conserving the fired velocity. It was one of the most simple, small-scaled and self-contained uses of teleportation-type tech that I found out about.
"Cube," I said, once I placed the marker-sized attachment in the bottom right divot of the four dot side, "I'd like you to process that item in order to improve your -" 'What was it again? Ah, right.' "- your ability to convert things into data and energy."
'Request received,' it answered in my mind.
Subsequent mental queries and options broke down all the capabilities of the basic teleporter and what could be used by the Final Dice itself. I chose to use all of them, with the exception of preservation of momentum. It didn't make sense to include it.
The final deduction to my red Dices' Dots it brought up had me hiss through my teeth in miserly pain.
"Do it."
The black rectangular form of the rifle attachment disappeared in a display of blocky blue and purple lights. 'Facsimile processed,' it reported.
I went through the same steps for all the other items in the bin. Every new piece dissolved brought a reduction in the amount of original features that the following items could offer, as well as an increase in the capabilities of the digitization process. That all translated into each subsequent step's Dot cost reducing.
The next batch was on the Dice face counterclockwise to the four-dotted side. The wire frame basket there was larger than the first, being about equal in proportions to a blocky desk.
The gaps in the wire frame basket's side revealed that a small layer of obviously high tech devices lay on a bed of rolled up scrolls. They were stacked somewhat roughly, my intentions of a perfectly aligned mesh slightly spoilt by the 'all-at-once' summons' appearance when the barrier came down.
As the prior batch had a theme, so too did this one: scanning and senses. My hopes were that before the bottom items were reached, the newly acquired capabilities of the Final Dice would allow me to do away with expensive digital conversions. A comparable analogy would be to go from a manually carved printing press to an electron scanner - at a certain point, the copy is more than enough to pass muster as an original.
I should have more than enough to 'make it so.'
==== OWT ====
A/N: Not too happy with this one. I'd rather get it out than wait till the next snip is polished, too. Upcoming: other ppl!
~AB
0.6: New Me6: New Me
Toronto, Ontario, Canada - January 4th, 2026 - About twenty minutes later.
"It has been over seven years, sir." The words of Mr. Deeds spilled out from the office behind me.
I briefly froze, arm extended, as what I heard was mentally processed. 'Guess he got the computer working, eh?' My arrival in this close analogue to my own universe had started a sense of disconnect, and this large passing of time added to it. Strangely, I didn't find it to be that big a shock. Something to dwell on later, I imagine.
"Thanks, Mr. Deeds," I replied, squinting at the dimly lit space around me. The blue glow of the Final Dice was the greatest source of light here in the back, but even so, it wasn't really sufficient to highlight the floor. "Please continue trying to get some power back to this building, alright? Our generators can't have much left in them." Even if he went to using the small gas-based generator, I doubt that'd it be capable of heating and lighting this entire place for more than a few minutes. 'Though he could just butler-genie some more up if it comes to that, right.'
"Of course, sir."
'Where was it now…? Aha!' I dragged myself forward on the cold floor until I could reach the metallic ovoid that had landed around the corner of the Final Dice. It was about the shape of bowling ball, with two handles on the sides, and was covered with a metallic sheen. "Away you go, little gizmo," I breathed out, barely more than I whisper, as I picked it up. I then pressed the small wonder of technology up against the blue glowing surface, and a query appeared in my mind.
'Process applied object as a facsimile for upgrading Dice features?'
"Yes," I replied.
'It will cost you -'
"Yes yes, I know," I said, cutting off the Cube's mental recitation of how many Dots I had left. "Continue. Immediate timescale, remove duplicate functions, remove ability to create or duplicate tangible physical objects." I was only able to preempt the options due to knowing about the 'gizmo:' it was the absolute pinnacle of material duplication, capable of scanning and recreating everything from still-living beings with memories intact to microscopically precise devices whose miniature scaled precision was based around the orbits, positions and charges of sub-molecular, atomic forces.
'I really should have got two of them,' I mused to myself.
Another cost-based mental prompt and confirmation followed.
'Scanning accuracy has now been increased to approximately ninety nine point nine eight seven percent,' the Cube mentally stated.
I blinked at the remaining rolled up scrolls in the nearby wire frame basket, and haltingly mimed through the motions of taking them and feeding them into the Final Dice. I froze when I realized that it wouldn't be necessary any longer, sitting in excessively warm winter clothing on the concrete floor.
My breath misted on the air, in and out, as mental gears shifted.
"Cube," I said, "what are the details, specifications and limitations of your current scanning ability?"
The Final Dice sent me a long list in reply. In short? Most everything, living and inert, down to quantum levels of precision. The notable exceptions that sprung to mind were living souls, in whole, and the subtle records in things that defined their 'histories.' Neither of those were features I could envision critically needing, especially as I didn't intend the Dice to be a means of making perfect duplicates of living beings or complex, major artifacts. Souls and personalities would be a tricky business, and I didn't want to meddle with them if I didn't have to.
The formidable scanning qualities were somewhat tempered by the limitations that came to light. For instance, while living bodies and complete minds could be flash-copied, they didn't have a handy 'play' button, and there wasn't an ability to pull up specific memories. Effective scanning range was only near the Final Dice and formally approved Dicers' communication devices, and definition precision degraded heavily when attempting to work through heavy metals and dense substances. Those might have been more tolerable if the Final Dice's storage was plentiful. Instead, I had to make do with spending Dots to turn the equivalent of operating system rounding errors, registration fields, and blank spaces into an exceedingly small and expensively bought pseudo hard drive partition.
Thankfully, that 'small' space would be more than enough to keep basic records of all that I'd be scanning in this warehouse - future check confirmed! - but I'd have to invest in some sort of exotic extra-dimensional storage add-on or additional for the Final Dice if I wanted more in it. Or, heavens forbid, simply not add to it.
The worst limitation of using the Final Dice was the actual, measurable costs incurred with doing so. While most basic functionalities were 'free,' such as simple, omnidirectional, audio-visual awareness, and assorted Dicer interactions, anything and everything that so much as breathed outside of the normal bounds of its operations cost Dots. Given that, as of now, I seemingly had a fixed, defined amount of Dots left, I was extremely reluctant so spend them on anything but the most sure of sure investments.
My initial day dreams of using the Cube interface as my personal computer was shot down by those very costs. At least the multiverse had oodles of ultra-powerful supercomputers, but choosing, acquiring and getting them set up may take some time. Meanwhile, I'd manage with whatever good old Mr. Deeds can pull from more conventional commercial supplies.
Getting the rest of the warehouse's contents processed was as simple as checking items off a list. I paid the token Dot fee to minimally record the attributes of every scroll, magic item, living being and technological gadget, then unsummoned nearly all of them.
A sizable portion were immediately assigned to upgrade the Final Dice's capabilities. The other new records didn't so much mean that I had immediate access to every single scanned feature, but were more about raising the 'soft caps' that governed how far various attributes could be raised. For example, the original versions of the Dicers were able to get healing on demand that cost Dots, as well as raise their bodily constitution to shrug off forms of damage. With these 'snapshots' of higher tier abilities, that Constitution-like attribute could then be eventually raised to equal the ongoing healing effectiveness of the Dungeons and Dragons regeneration spell.
However, since raising stats to gain the benefits of beyond human qualities consisted of dreadfully expensive cumulative steps, I'm aiming to skip ahead by using other sources of self-empowering and then telling the wonderful Dice system to 'lock it in,' 'recalibrate,' or whatever else was needed to redefine my baseline. I'd rather keep the levels there, at their new state, then continually spend Dots to be the best of everything. That was part of the reason why some of these warehouse summons still remained.
As easy as that all was to describe, there was a snag in that whole process: finding easy, portable, self-contained power-ups that worked without risky side-effects, strange dependencies, or some localized rituals, were… Rather rare. More so when I considered the lack of resources I had dedicated to mundane and magical security, preventing various hazards from accessing the wider world, and limits in summoning things that were really game-breakingly powerful due to not wanting to spend decades unconscious or worse.
The first was directly in front of me: a fifty-five gallon - two hundred litre - barrel, painted with a glossy blue finish, and according to the documentation, food grade rated. It had a small hand pump through the larger top-side opening, and a twist-turnable air-flow cap on the smaller. Four other sealed barrels were bunched up beside it, each with the same pump system.
These strange fluids were a moderately risky take on manageable 'side effects.' The absolutely only way I even considered drinking these excuses for xeno motor oil was due to the combined influence of the Final Dice's extensive scanning abilities and my own pony express future mail messages. Remembering what the published and expected results were didn't hurt, either.
A gloved hand pushed the nearest barrel, sloshing the inner liquids, and my stomach seized up in anticipatory terror.
I went back to the small office to get some supplies. I didn't bother Mr. Deeds, who was still working away at the laptop. I pulled together about a dozen large metal cups, a thick, cheap notebook and some spare black permanent markers, then headed back to the barrels. I filled each cup about three quarters full with the viscous ooze, slowly air-pumping the molasses-thick liquid, and numbered each of them with a marker.
The filled cups fizzled, popped, and glooped at me. 'Alright,' I thought to myself, as I settled cross-legged opposite them. 'Sorry future me, this is going to suck big time.'
"Number one," I spoke out loud, pointing to the first numbered metal cup. At the same time, I went through the summoning process to retrieve a future missive. It was only enough to nearly black me out, so I backed a few paces away from the filled cups. Didn't want to spill them and waste the effort, after all.
The entire contents of the letter was "WhosadhoiSh?!" It was scrawled out in black marker ink, barely legible.
I blinked. Alright then, that one would be a pass. I pulled a piece of paper from the notebook and did a rough copy of the text with a marker, ignoring how it flickered out of existence when I finished, and the 'retrieved' letter changed. I tossed it behind me.
I repeated the steps for the second cup. I was rewarded with a message about "pretty visions, lasted days."
The next one was my first "drink!" result. The fizzling tar scratched my throat on the way down, and I resisted the urge to gag and bring it all back up.
"Cube," I said, "what effects did that drink have on me?"
'It will cost one Dot to -'
I indicated my approval, and it continued. 'You appear capable of converting sound wave-forms into a regenerative process,' it mentally stated. 'However, the supporting system appears to be inherently unstable and would likely degrade beyond effectiveness in under five hours. Additionally, the onset of this particular regeneration seems to cause temporary exhaustion."
'Or to put it another way,' I thought to myself, 'this is the ability to convert sonic damage into healing. Sweet!'
I double checked that my Dot expenditure included the Final Dice getting a formal record of the ability, then went back to the metal cups.
This first set of taste-testing horror experiments continued for two hours. Negative messages ran through the list of lost senses, accelerated aging, crippling damage, retardation, insanity, sickness, visions, and stench. The positive ones were rarer, but still spanned through the list of increased 'machine empathy,' fast healing sourced from different elemental types, having my skin become some sort of stiff, leathery scale-mail armour, increased healing speed, some odd boosts to my strength and speed, telepathy, and the foresight of my upcoming death - which was a really trippy experience, if accurate. I only drank from confirmed positive boosts, and only one time each, so I expected even one of the five barrels to be plenty.
The first permanent boost I obtained was the ability to 'glow.' Specifically, my body could shine like a lantern or emit either a blinding ray or cone of light. While the latter two options were limited in use, I kept the former active just for the sake of having more illumination in the small warehouse.
Breaks were used to empty my stomach's contents, via bouts of summoning, directly into another empty barrel.
Every set of twelve cups had less and less positive results. The next three granted the temporary ability to see possible futures a few seconds ahead, and cold-based healing.
The capstone of the next thirty included traditional, age-based immortality as one effect, but also had minor age reduction, strange Numerian fluid generation, an embedded electrical wire mesh in my skin, and acid-, electricity-, and fire-based healing.
The next thirty didn't do anything special. The next fifty sets included the ability to phase through matter, though it was self-damaging to do so.
'This is taking far too long,' I thought, absently picking chunks of dried blood off the scaly, leathery skin of my chin. "Mr. Deeds!"
"Yes, sir?" His voice came from the distant office doorway after a short pause.
"Please bring me another…" I did a quick bout of mental math. "… Eighty-eight metal cups, like the ones already out here."
"Of course, sir."
While I waited for his return, I tidied up the massive pile of scrunched up paper behind me. A single small garbage bag sufficed to hold the mess, and my white glowing self made getting all the pieces rather easy.
"Here you are, sir." He passed me nested stacks of the large, brushed metal cups, which I placed on the floor around me.
I thanked him, then started to arrange them the same way I did the first dozen: numbered, now from thirteen to one hundred, and all filled with the gloopy ooze.
"How is the power restoration going, Mr. Deeds?"
"Very well, sir," he replied, standing at relaxed attention. His black suited form only rose a small portion over my hunched figure - he was at the short height that lay somewhere between what were commonly called 'midgets' and simply a 'really short person.' "The financial issues have been taken care of, and an electrician should be here tomorrow morning to do some work on the outside of the building."
I was panicked for a brief moment, but that feeling settled down once the work area of the electrician mentally sunk in.
"How long did that all take?"
"About two days, sir," he replied. "About the length of time you've been back here."
'Huh.' The paper-packed garbage bag now took on a more weighty feeling. I finished the cup I was writing on, filled it from the fluids barrel, placed it next to the other filled ones, and grabbed an empty, repeating the process. "That will be all, thank you."
"Of course, sir." He inclined his grey-haired head in acknowledgement, smoothly turned back towards the office, and walked away.
==== OWT ====
Toronto, Ontario, Canada - January 9th, 2026
Working in sets of one hundred, I traded off the time-consuming cup-by-cup enquiries to a more wholesale, en mass approach.
Though successful, pushing myself to get so many paradoxical future messages meant that I was also spending a goodly amount of time unconscious, as well as cleaning up whatever bloody messes appeared.
It took me another three days to get every single mutant trait I wanted, which was only possible by repeated 'undoing' of my aberrant status via Dot expenditures. I ruined multiple sets of winter clothing by physical deformations and the addition of wings, but lost the need of those coverings as power and welcome heat returned.
To cope, I deliberately avoided examining my own bodily features during this time, only ensuring that everything was in the right place. I also altered my plans a little - my original intentions were to get every source of 'starter power' before engaging in forms of full-fledged improvement, but I wanted confidence boosters more than a streamlined mix-max process.
To that end, bodily changes and cosmetic enhancements were first.
Another exchange with Mr. Deeds led to the acquiring of a full-length body mirror, which I propped against the purple-blow glowing form of the Final Dice that still dominated the centre of the warehouse.
My reflection revealed what could pass for a B-grade movie monster: somewhat hunched over due to my twisted legs, the only clothing I wore were a pair of large, black shorts. All of my skin had been covered with a layer of thick, leathery scales, each one slightly larger than a thumbnail and contoured to my body. The glint of steely metal was visible on the edges of each scale, as well as near their roots, as some flexing revealed. A pair of bat-like wings had sprouted from my back, their stiff forms looking like a rather over-sized set of paired, themed umbrellas. I had six arms, four of which were malformed enough to the point of uselessness. My face was supposedly younger looking, but the bulgy eyes and scales overshadowed that change.
"All right!" I said, clapping my two functional, main hands together, while the four below feebly twitched, "let's get started! Cube!"
'Awaiting request,' it mentally replied. I might have imagined its form lightly pulsing from behind the mirror in tandem with its telepathy.
"Restore my legs to the same muscle tone and functionality prior to these changes."
'It will cost -'
"And don't mention Dot costs unless they are over…" I paused, considering. "… over fifty Dots. Alright?"
'Acknowledged,' it replied. Seconds later, a hazy purple-blue glow enveloped my legs, with just the lightest hint of squarish pixel-like edges visible before it faded. I stood up fully once more, letting out an exaggerated yawn at the tension-relieving pleasure.
Similar steps turned my additional four arms into fully functional limbs, and properly reset my eyes to make them appear more natural.
What followed was more like ordering from a take-out menu than even the lightest form of work or effort.
Arms?
I had the four extras turned incorporeal and optionally present, modelled off of a dapsara's ghostly limbs.
Wings?
Also optional, courtesy of an infernal demonic mutation that allows their growth and retraction.
Skin?
I treated it as biological hybrid armour - a fusion of flesh and metal - and applied the concepts of retractable armour to it, also courtesy of a demonic mutation.
Cosmetics?
Always staying clean, a perfectly symmetrical face, and the elimination of any of my scents. I topped it off with perfect posture and the lean, wiry build suited to a runner who wasn't obsessed with muscle definition.
"Yeah!" I said with a smile to my reflection, finger guns pointing. "Who's awesome? I'm awesome! Though…" I scrunched my toes over the painted concrete floor, which had upgraded from 'ice cold' to 'merely cool' during the more recently well-heated winter days. "I need some clothes. Maybe a tailored suit?"
I knew the perfect butler for the job.
"Mr. Deeds!"
Silence.
"Mr. Deeds?"
Nothing.
'This is rather strange,' I thought. I hadn't unsummoned him, and I hardly expected the butler-genie to be at any sort of risk inside a locked office. 'Now, where was that summoning hand-bell of his…?'
The echo of a forced cough rang out behind me, and I let out a high-pitched squeak as I spun.
"A moment of your time, young man."
==== OWT ====
A/N: Apocrypha (the threadmark) 'Summon Batch Notes 1' has references to what was used here.
~AB
0.7: Rule LayerA/N: Nobody guessed right.
7: Rule Layer
Toronto, Ontario, Canada - January 9th, 2026 - Seconds later.
"I'd have thought it'd be bigger."
"B'wah?" I'm shocked stupid at this unannounced arrival. He was a pale-skinned man, somewhat taller than myself with a large frame, who wore all black and held a simple walking stick. The only colours that accented his presence were the white that edged his cuffs and quasi-Asian collared shirt, his white gloves, some fine golden chains that held his black cloak in place, a grey beard that framed his face, and a pair of unusually red eyes. He rather reminded me of… "Ah. Pardon?"
He stopped his movement around the glowing cube of the Final Dice to face me. "Yes?"
"Would you be…" I waved my hand in the air to encourage my thinking. "Multiple dimensions, dead apostle ancestor, master of the… Number something magic… From the same Earth that hosts the holy grail war? Him?"
He stood taller at each point, stepping closer to me all the while.
"Indeed, young man." He goes into a very shallow bow, more of a head tilt than anything else, while maintaining eye contact. "Though I am more commonly known as Kischur Zelretch Schweinorg, the Kaleidoscope. Normally, I'd make some noise about how it is a pleasure to meet you, but… Alas. Honesty and the circumstances dictate otherwise."
'Ah AH ah!' This is umpteen billion flavours of not good. I swallowed nervously. "Could you perhaps expand on that. Mr. Zelretch. Sir. Please?"
"Absolutely," he replied, then swiped an arm to indicate the recently much sparser contents of the warehouse. "First of all, let me say that I'm not here due to your acquisition of all these varied objects."
I let out a breath I didn't even know I was holding.
"Even the giant cube here isn't an concern, though your modified uses of it are rather note-worthy." Zelretch flashed me a thin smile before his business-like countenance reappeared. "What is more of an issue is the mess you've made of things." He looked up at the ceiling and outer walls. "Do you understand what I'm saying, young man?"
"Ah?" I stalled for time. He was obviously not referring to a physical mess, given his earlier dismissal of warehouse's contents. That would mean… The summoning conduits?! "I'll remove them right away -"
"STOP." The word cut through the air like a vise grip, squeezing me in place.
"Stopped!" I wheezed out.
He nodded, releasing the invisible pressures, then sat on a nearby crate edge, walking stick across his legs, and motioned me to do the same. I did so.
Only when I had transitioned from 'settled' to 'anxious fidgeting' did he continue.
"Do you know what those are, young man?"
I paused before automatically saying that I did. "I would not say that I know what they are, Mr. Zelretch, but I am aware of some of their qualities."
"Elaborate on them."
"Well," I swallowed, "when I summon things from… Other times and places… They come along conduits like those. When they finally arrive, the connection has changed in nature, somewhat. I could use it to unsummon things - return them to their place of origin, sever that connection, or use it to make future summonings from those locations easier. I could also hold them in place, sort of right before they manifest here."
"And?"
"Ah… And what? That's all I know."
He stared at me intently for a few seconds, eyes narrowed, before his face relaxed.
"So you're not an omnicidal manic, then?"
I blinked.
"I rather hope not," I replied, face askew at the question. "Why would you suggest -"
He cut me off with a finger pointed up.
"Ah."
He nodded.
"Bad side effects?"
He nodded again.
"Really bad?"
He smiled widely, showing just a hint of white teeth.
"Come on, then," the red-eyed archmagus said. "You've likely read novels. Seen assorted entertainments. There is a scale to these kinds of things. And, to put it bluntly, this is near the top of that scale. Understand?"
"I'd rather not," I replied, in barely more than a whisper. Already images of the Worm-verse's Entities destroying an endless succession of infinite Earths stirred through my mind.
He shrugged, his thick black cloak rippling with the movement. "Tough."
"So… Ah… What now?"
"A very short education about a very big topic, young man."
"Ah… Should I take notes?"
"No. If you can't remember this all, just kill yourself now and save me the trouble." His accompanying laugh was rather brief.
"Understood. Zelretch. Sir."
"First of all, you are -"
A white wave of static blanked over my mind. The next thing I was aware of was the grey bearded face of Zelretch looking my way, expectantly.
"That will be a lot to process, sir. I don't intend to do anything drastic with that information or share it, though."
Evidently I said the right thing, as he just nodded sharply and continued speaking.
"Those 'summoning conduits' of yours are not meant to be kept up, or used to the scale that you have been doing." He waved his white gloved hands around as if encircling an invisible ball, and a glowing white sphere of light was formed. With a finger flick, it floated to the half-way point between us.
"You've already mentioned how you use them." A brief holographic illustration of glowing lines appeared, ranging out from the light sphere. They connected to other, smaller spheres, and caused little beads of light to travel back to their larger source. Some of them were snipped off, while others had the beads bounce back. The majority stayed and merged into thicker bands. "What you haven't adequately displayed knowledge of is the side effects that these stronger connections result in."
I resolved to shut up and wait.
"While it is true, yes, that it is easier to retrieve things from other universes by the means of those connections, the substantial nature of it begins to morph beyond a simple summoning conduit." New beads of light, now different colours, began to appear from those smaller orbs and head towards the larger one.
"Unwanted visitors, sir?"
"Of the worst kind," he replied. Those coloured beads changed into insectoid forms, and a small horde poured down to the sphere and devoured it. They then followed the other glowing lines to their smaller orbs, and did the same thing. It all dissolved soon after.
"Eh." I pointed a lightly shaking finger at where that recent spectacle had been. "Really?"
"Really," he replied.
I sat with that for a while, feeling rather awkward being just in shorts. No sense of impatience came from Zelretch, though his presence was weighty enough to draw my attention continually back to him. Were it not for the circumstances, I'd probably be fan-boying it all up right now.
"How is the universe, no… The multi… No, Omniverse still standing when all that is even capable of happening?"
"What do you think I do, young man?" He answered my question with another of his own.
"Fix these kinds of problems?"
"Correct."
"And how would you go about fixing this kind of problem, sir?"
"Not by your death, more is the pity," he replied, chuckling. "Often times, a clear and absolute personal annihilation does wonders. However, your situation is more messy."
I nodded. Not being absolutely annihilated was a good thing - more so when there were valid reasons for such! The 'Staying Alive' song by the BeeGees seemed perfectly apt right about now.
"You'll need to leave, of course."
"Leave?"
"Yes. This universe, obviously. Farther than any local parallel."
Thoughts of fast-forwarded years in the working to establish a legitimate Canadian citizenship here went down the drain. A matter of perspective and costs, benefits.
"Of course. Sir. What else?"
His red eyes seemed to glow like red hot coals, whose brief flares of brightness burnt pink afterimages into my vision. "Follow these rules."
"Yes sir!"
"One: only one remote summoning connection at a time. By remote," he elaborated with a newly conjured set of glowing spheres, pointing at the smaller ones, "I mean those outside your local universe. Other settings, if you want to be… What is the word… 'Meta'… About the whole thing. There are no problems with multiple in-universe summons."
An idea came to mind. "Ah… What if I'm not in a universe, sir?"
A set of red eyes blinked. "That could go either way. Consult with me before you attempt any experiments."
I nodded.
"Two: those remote summoned connections will either be severed near immediately if kept, or unmade when used to unsummon. They will NOT be kept open, active, laid around, or any other forms of NOT CLOSED DOWN. Understood?"
My head bobbed rapidly up and down.
"Three: don't come back here, or any other local Earth alternative, by whatever means. I will be fixing this problem, not you. Distant Earth alternatives are fine. Use extensive judgement in discerning those differences."
Another nod.
"Four: your nature renders you incapable of being a complete jack of all trades, even with the reality warping assistance of the Dice. Don't attempt such. If you want extensive support, empower others to do such for you." The rules continued, as did my agreement towards each of them. The fifth was concerning contacting him, which would be using a sequentially marked token system and following the same restrictions. The sixth was around my own multi-universal travels - which apparently I had the potential to do, somehow, with just another kind of application of my summoning effects - and to ensure that I continued to 'jump ship' between every two to ten years. The seventh was just a general catch-all, about how I would be fulfilling future requests of his and that extra rules could be added or edited as needed.
I only really had one worry about all these stipulations. "Zelretch. Sir. I'm one hundred percent on those rules. Really. Totally. Yeah." I pressed the palms of my hands tight together, rhythmically. "I'm just worried about breaking them by accident."
He kept silent for a long time. "So?"
"Ah… I don't suppose you have any ways of helping me not make those accidents that I totally never ever want to happen not happen? Happen?" I hummed. "Wait, is that a double negative or…" I muttered to myself.
"Come here, young man." He waved me over, and I hopped off the uncomfortable metal edge of the large basket I was seated on. I was in arm's reach when he gestured me to stop, and to tilt my head back. With a fizzling sensation, he traced a white gloved finger around my neck, prompting me to move as needed. "Get a good look at it, or not, when you have time. Consider it a high-strength peace bond, of sorts. It is a much friendlier version of what I had originally envisioned before you asked for such."
"Thank you. Sir." I took a step back before bowing his way, then reclaimed my awkward seating.
"Do I need to mention repercussions of rules violations, young man?"
"No sir," I replied. "Absolute annihilation and all that. I understand completely."
He let out a low toned chuckle, then stroked his jawline-hugging grey beard with a white gloved hand. "No, that would be for the simple cases. For you, I'd be irritated - perhaps you could be bound up here as food for extra-dimensional horrors for all of eternity." He shrugged, a half-smile on his face. "After all, it wouldn't be the first time…"
Yeah, I wouldn't be stretching the letter or spirit of these rules any time ever. However, the presence of an experienced multiversal traveller created a rather unique opportunity.
"Ah, pardon…" I said, raising a hand in a gesture of supplication.
"Yes?"
"Would you be alright with answering some questions?"
"Perhaps," he replied. "As long as being informed better suits you than ignorance, of course."
"What happened to Mr. Deeds?"
"Summons meets banishment. Summons loses. Next."
"When were you first here?" I asked, indicating the interior of this small warehouse space with movements of my head.
"Some few days ago, then off and on," he replied. "When the SCP-sourced barrier came down."
While I wasn't surprised that he knew about the barrier, his familiarity with the SCP Foundation was. That I wasn't able to get a read on his presence until his cough announced it was a testament to his magical abilities, though I'd have to see whether the Final Dice picked up any traces or not.
"The 'Open' sign?"
He nodded in reply. "Seven years is more than an eye-blink, young man. It is a duration which encompasses the discovery and international dissemination of the details of an alleged SCP artifact, a number of runaway construction vehicles and fuel line explosions, many local neighbourhood real estate purchases by numbered corporations, and some rather irregular high-level multi-governmental agreements."
Huh. I'm imagining that Mr. Deeds' legal and accounting hiring efforts went through a ton of cross examinations. Considering that neither him nor myself formally exist, my now dead dreams of local citizenship here are likely even more non-viable - regardless of how many background years were invested into making them happen.
Zelretch continued without my prompting. "While the neon sign artifact you used didn't generate any panicking by itself, the implications of the SCP Foundation merely even existing in this universe were substantially more troubling."
My face tensed up. "How much so?"
"Blood, death, and anarchy," he replied. "The true details can be gleaned by comparing the news with that of a local parallel."
I shook my head mutely, in the hopes of discouraging him from revealing any more details. 'Future messages can only answer questions I ask,' I thought. 'And it is impossible to cover every angle, all the time.'
With that, the meat of our discussions was basically over. He gave me a few hours to finish up my processing of Dice-assisted power gains, compile my various inventory into the few extra-dimensional storage units I had, and choose the first universe I'd want to be sent to. His reaction to such didn't really encourage me.
"Are you absolutely batshit insane?"
"No. Sir. I mean… I hope not?"
Once I gave him more exact details of my plans, his apprehension lessened somewhat. He was still shaking his head when I left though the rainbow-coloured, swirling portal he created.
==== OWT ====
A/N: Happiness and sunshine for everyone! Oh, wait… Nope.
This is the end of the Prologue!
Last edited: Nov 20, 2018
1.1: Shell BreakingA/N: This is a small one. Anybody guess SCP?
1.1: Shell Breaking
Aircraft assembly bunker (SCP-108), SCP Foundation universe [1st year] - April 2nd, 1985 - Seconds later.
The disorientation from stepping through Zelretch's portal only had me dazed and wobbling for a few moments.
An involuntary sniff confirmed the rotting presence of some foul substances - ones which I had no intention of finding out further details about. While I knew the history of this World War Two era bunker, I didn't need to see the corpses within to vividly confirm it.
Some large pieces of machinery lay on an inert conveyor belt almost directly in front of me. While mostly unrecognizable, the odd familiar shape of air-plane components popped up enough times to confirm its nature as an assembly line. A turn on my rubber soled boots had me examining the walls, their blank concrete grey only broken up by the regular presence of dinner plate sized Nazi Eagle badges painted onto them. Only the smallest hints of discolouration marred those iconic signs, proof that this involuntarily sealed Nazi mass war grave kept its secrets within protected from the elements.
I tucked my black t-shirt over my nose, then palmed Mr. Deeds' hand bell from my sweat pant pockets, rang, and repocketed it. I kept pacing back and forth over the concrete floor until the genie-esque butler appeared.
"How may I be of service, Mr. -" His rote greeting arrived with his presence, darkly shined black dress shoes clicking out of nowhere.
With both of us standing, his lack of height was very evident - the top of his neatly groomed silver hair barely reached the level of my chin. I cut him off before he could finish addressing me. It was possible that there were real risks in having my name spoken anywhere in this universe, and I'd rather err on the side of excessive paranoid insanity than not.
"Greetings, Mr. Deeds," I began, then waved a hand around. "Please find a self-contained, walled room, somewhere in this bunker, and ensure it is cleaned, sterilized, and supplied with fresh air." Another involuntarily, nose-drawn partial breath through my t-shirt had me gagging. "Direct me to it, then tape up some barrier plastic to cordon it off. Then dispose of the sources of that stench, while salvaging whatever materials possible."
"Of course, sir," he said, before giving me a short bow and turning to leave. He didn't make any mention of the smell, nor did he appear to be affected by it.
I kept pacing back and forth while Mr. Deeds continued to appear and disappear. The movements kept me busy, as well as allowed his particular brand of 'out of sight' magical butler abilities to better operate. I had a lot to think about.
==== OWT ====
In less than two hour's time, I had been redirected to a now emptied office. It was a thin, rectangular room, with a thick, single-paned glass looking out onto the central corridor of the bunker where the assembly lines were. The window had been newly, doubly sealed by taped off heavy gauge clear plastic on both the interior and exterior, while the now empty frame of the doorway had been converted into a cheap, barely effective airlock by the application of a similar set of two zippered layers of plastic.
The prior swastika emblems on the walls had been coated with already drying paint that matched the bland concrete, then further covered with colourful drapes. Overlapping carpet runners turned the drab, cold concrete flooring into something marginally cozy. Throw pillows and plants completed the picture, while sun lamps and the comforting hum of a single large laptop added to the background. The needed small amounts of power were provided by a series of large batteries rigged up to a generator outside the room, which only a thick power cord indicated the presence of. Hanging pine air fresheners helped to take the fading tang of rotten flesh away.
It wasn't the most elegant solution, but it would make due until I obtained something better.
I then sat down in front of the laptop, nestled snugly within a pile of pillows and blankets. Some clicking led me to the list of saved SCP Foundation entries, but I hesitated before starting my refresher review. I already had notebooks of what I wanted from here, and there weren't any immediate pressures…
Instead, I laid back, closed my eyes, and aimed myself towards those delicious sleep enhancements I obtained. Curled into a cocoon of soft bed-ware, it was also an attempt to decompress - to wind down from the most whip-lashing series of events of my life. I didn't need to move, eat, drink, or anything at all. I don't think that I had to even breathe anymore.
Hours blurred by into days, then further into weeks. The only interruptions to my fugue state were the updates from Mr. Deeds, eternally obedient and deferential in discussing everything from the rotting corpses he had disposed of to the benefits of different types of paint. I mumbled vague replies and encouragements in every instance.
During that time, I alternated between shock-sourced shaking, maniac chuckling and involuntary tears. I had large stretches of tranquillity - years of introspective living and therapy did, in fact, amount to something - but I had never dealt with anything of such impact. Prior to the revelation of my summoning abilities, my life already had upsets. Now, though, deaths in the family, disastrous relationships, and major depressive episodes seemed so small in scope. So very personal, individual, and insignificant. Normally, feelings and emotions can be run out and be exhausted by virtue of human frailties. Hunger, fatigue, external threats, and even sheer simple pain provide speed bumps and stop signs. Without those, there was nothing to impede my continual low boil of navel-gazing suffering.
So that was where I stayed.
==== OWT ====
"I've cleaned and redecorated the bunker, sir."
"All?"
"Nearly eight square kilometres, yes."
"Kay. More?"
"All the research and notes have been updated based on the earlier documents. In triplicate, hard and soft copies."
"Mmm. And?"
"The prospective portal entry points used by the SCP Foundation's probes have been walled off with a barrier themed around toxic and radioactive threats. It was doubly sealed and dusted with trace amounts of radiological substances pulled from common commercial devices."
"… Harm?"
"None, sir. The side facing the interior you reside in were walled off with multiple layers of shielding. The exterior side would only gather readings proximate to the wall."
"Mmm. More?"
"Stocks and supplies can last for years. The hydroponic garden I installed has been designed to be self-sufficient, and additionally provide stocks of fresh edibles and air filtration. A small fortune of coins, jewelry, and bullion have been laid in rows spanning…"
"… Other?"
"There are the lists of the SCP items you had wanted to procure, sir. Several hundred at last estimation."
"… Later."
"Most of the other plans involve recruiting from other universes, sir. However, that would require more active participation than what you have been doing lately."
"Meh. Sure."
"I'll bring the lists then, sir."
"Kay. Thanks."
"My pleasure, sir."
==== OWT ====
Aircraft assembly bunker (SCP-108), SCP Foundation universe [1st year] - May 27th, 1985 - Weeks later.
The single thick notebook my invisible arms thumbed through wasn't an original. The thick pages and high gauge cardboard covers were filled with the edited, point-form notes concerning people, great and small - well, really just the greats - who'd make good additions to my merry non-band of one. Mr. Deeds both counted and didn't.
A eye blink, and I frowned. 'Why did I include Deadpool?!' The comedic sociopath wasn't a good person and killed others easily. While a regenerator and a fighter, he'd be a bad influence. 'Hard pass.'
More pages flipped through, slowly. I'd have to deal with a certain hard limit: that of time. It wouldn't make much sense to take nine years to summon someone and lock out my ability to pull things from other 'verses. Or, more honestly, as a stroke of my neck traced where Zelretch had laid the peace bond upon it, practically lock out my ability.
"Superman: the man of steel," I read. "Different versions, all flying brick variants. Mostly 'All American Good Guy.'"
I mumbled a "pass," and kept on going. There were also different beings that were way off the power scale, with subsequent effort to obtain them. One Punch Man himself topped that list, though there were others. In deference to myself being a not completely asexual male, my selections also included a bevy of females with varying levels of utility and suitability.
"Rory Mercury: herald of a death god. Dead soul conduit?" A regenerating warrior and Gothic lolita, who was 'really (more!) than seven hundred years old.'
"Mystique: shape-changer, spy; various combat skills." I'd be able to pick up shape-changing elsewhere, and I doubt she'd appreciate a long-term extraction.
"Louise de La Vallière: the power of void." Also the power of being a stuck-up noble early teen, whose fate was closely connected to that of her own world.
"Power Girl: flying brick with two bricks."… I think that was funnier when I first wrote it. Same problems as getting Superman, really.
"Starfire: fires stars. Other abilities include being a fashion model and having more partners than She-hulk." Too bad, too, as her personality was that of a really positive, bubbly… Teenager. Right.
While being a 'super' of whatever brand was a plus, I'd ideally want someone whose identity and skill sets branched out beyond their powers and combat. Considering that I had the ability to be a supplier of upgrades via the Final Dice, I wouldn't mind even seeing the potential for such.
There was the entire list of Sekirei, but the whole Ashikabi genetics and bonding process made them problematic.
Every page showed me why they weren't suitable, either because I'd be taking them from somewhere they were needed, or not being a good fit for me. I could imagine this selection process was almost like Russian mail order brides, only with more expensive postage. Or maybe a dating website?
Flip.
Not a good person.
Flip.
Bloodthirsty.
Flip.
Too dependent.
Flip.
Too powerful.
Flip.
Too independent.
Flip.
Too much of an air-head.
Flip.
Too smart.
Flip flip flip flip… Too bad I couldn't just get someone… in… pieces…? Huh. There's a thought.
==== OWT ====
A/N: first team-mate upcoming! Hints below. Lemme know if anybody gets it/which hint/guesses the source!
Hint 1
Female.
Hint 2
Alternate universe.
Hint 3
Dead/died.
Hint 4
Professional career.
Hint 5
Good person.
Hint 6
Strong.
Hint 7
Name is mentioned in this snip!
1.2: Sticky Pieces1.2: Sticky Pieces
Aircraft assembly bunker (SCP-108), SCP Foundation universe [1st year] - March 18th, 1986 - Almost a year later.
Getting somebody in 'pieces' is moderately more difficult than assembling a jigsaw puzzle. While I did have shortcuts in the forms of various healing magic effects, the core issue remained - the post-bodily-death destination of the soul, and how firmly those specific locales 'held onto' said souls.
I elected to bypass that problem by making soul retrieval a separate task in itself. While I didn't yet have practise or interest in being able to summon a being's conceptual form as is, various short-cuts existed.
The simplest method was an obscure, esoteric metal called thinaun, which originated from the multiverse associated with Dungeons and Dragons. It had the effect of absorbing the soul of any being that was in contact with it at the time of their death. The metal was mostly used in melee weapons, but had the twofold limitations of single soul storage and that it would also take in the wielder's soul if they died while holding it.
However, thinaun was so incredibly easy to use due to those 'limitations' - beings and creatures that had resistances or conditions attached to their soul trapping were captured regardless. It eliminated the need to create some sort of fancy magitech or enchantment altogether.
As is, the sequences involved in the first working test took nearly a year. Most of it was spent unconscious, by choice, though I also used the time to obtain a number of the more stable SCP artifacts.
The first summon piece was a halved section of cervical vertebrae, which a small nugget of thinaun went into. That bony matter, plus deposit, was then unsummoned back to its point of origin. The soul-filled metal by itself was next, followed by a headless, half-rotten corpse and a squishy mass of skull pieces and brain matter. Each step took so long because I didn't leave any traces - each one was done completely fresh.
With all the components in place, the resurrection was easy. I cheated somewhat by using Dots - not my own, the future Dice of the obligated-by-paradox woman's - to do the deed. Dealing with my new guest and the circumstances surrounding her violent death would likely prove much more complicated.
==== OWT ====
I coped with the newly alive grey-skinned rage monster one of the best ways I knew how: by totally ignoring her. Though that may not be fully accurate, as I did use regular bouts of summoning to limit the collateral damage. More by laziness than anything else, as I hadn't yet experimented with my more active protective abilities.
"RAARGH!" The audible shockwave caused my cocoon of blankets to ripple, and a light surge of unneeded regeneration to come over my body. My bemusement at the effectiveness of elemental damage-based healing, sonic type, was soon lost to the quiet tinkling of metal rain that heralded the darkness of destroyed light-bulbs.
I sighed. 'The computers were probably damaged in that as well,' I thought. 'Shulkie needs some more relaxation time.'
I used the sounds of thrashing and heavy breathing to aim my attention her way.
What?
The biological 'gears' used in skeletal muscular cellular contraction and vocal cord vibration.
Where?
From the limbs and throat of She-hulk here.
When?
The time range from five minutes ago to five more minutes into the future.
How?
Dropped onto the concrete ground, about a hundred feet that-a-way, past the draped barriers and wall.
A trailing line of difference flashed over my body, and the lights were back on. They were never broken.
'I might have to do this a few times,' I thought, bundling deeper into my blankets. Tried to, at least, with the pained undercurrents of She-hulk's heavy breathing a very effective deterrent to relaxation. After all, I've been doing the equivalent of near full-body cellular extractions for at least an hour now, and relied on her regeneration to take care of any damage.
'Eh, screw it,' I thought, mentally shrugging, then began to awkwardly roll my blanketed self around, assisted only by the guiding hands of my invisible arms. Four course corrections over the plush carpeted flooring later, I was within easy reach of She-hulk's grey form. Some inch-worm crawling shrunk that distance, so that my head lay close enough to hers that I could feel the heavy rumbles of her breath.
Beside her, I was at a loss as what to do. The 'easy out' would be by getting future-sourced solutions, but there was the vague chance I'd need to un-cocoon for that. Other options included music, calming conversation, and different forms of empathy.
A half-squinted eye, aimed through a small rolled opening, assessed the thick metal strips slash clothing that she 'wore.' While practically useless against She-hulk's sustained strength, the bands of stainless steel alloy acted more like a security seal than any true form of containment.
The bulbous, twitching gaze of green coloured, blood-shot eyes interrupted my musing.
'Right,' I began to think to myself. 'How to un-rage the grey rage monster?'
An imaginary light-bulb lit over my head, and I began to meow.
==== OWT ====
While I'd like to think that my cat imitations saved the day, it was more likely that my persistently non-hostile presence succeeded instead. It wasn't a perfect process, either, as I had to repeatedly undo the odd violent event, such as her light head buttings caving in my face.
I was mid-meow when a decidedly non-grey form interrupted me.
"Why are you wrapped up in blankets?"
'That is what she asks?' I think to myself, lips pursed. "Coping strategy."
"Does it work?" She turned herself around within the now-loose metal bands that had secured her priorly raging form, and laid on her chest with her arms crossed under her chin. A small wince may have suggested that doing so wasn't that comfortable.
I averted my fabric eye-hole until I heard her posture adjustments cease, as all I remember of She-hulk and her mundane alter ego implied that exhibitionism wasn't a kink she enjoyed.
"Not really," I replied, tonelessly. "They -"
"Can I have some?" Her question cut me off mid-mope, but I didn't hold that against her.
"Ah. Sorry, sure," I said, trying to remember if Mr. Deeds had dropped a pile or two off around here. "Gimme a sec."
"Mmm," she replied.
Some summons later, she was all but buried in a pile of grey blankets. No comments were made about how they appeared - I guess that her super-heroing experience demystified my methods.
I tucked into my own cocoon once again, waiting for her to get comfortable.
"Why are there swastikas on these blankets?"
'Ah, it looks like those were the bunker's original supplies,' I thought. "This is a former Nazi bunker," I said, briefly poking a hand out. I pointed in turn at the carpeted floor, painted walls, and hanging cloth partitions. "I've done a bit of redecoration, but the original supplies remain. Sorry?"
"Don't worry about it." She sniffed a few times. "Smells clean, at least."
"Yeah."
"Could you burn them afterwards?"
"Why - no, never mind. Sure. Burning, got it."
"Thanks," she replied, and let out a long sigh.
We both kept silent for some minutes. She broke it.
"Thank you for -" she began, but her voice began to crack up.
"Your resurrection?"
"Yeah. That."
"It was a lengthly process, actually," I began, reaching up to scratch under my chin. "I had to get you in pieces th-"
Her voice override mine with a hiss. "Don't. Do NOT. Talk to me about pieces. Human pieces. Flesh. Bodies! CHILDREN!" Drawn out growls met dry heaves.
'Crap! Rage mode cometh!'
==== OWT ====
We were resolutely not looking each other in the eyes in the aftermath. That wasn't terribly hard, as I still remained in a blanket cocoon.
"Jennifer Walters, freelance private attorney," she finally said, sticking a hand down towards me. She had obtained a Mr. Deeds' supplied tailored suit and skirt, the severe conservative cut perhaps acting as a shield against the recent upheavals.
I formally shook it with two invisible ones of my own, dismissed them, then replied through the fabric, "Mikal, summoner. Formerly 'Michael,' but… I'm still working on the self-identity thing."
She nodded, and gathered some cushions to sit near me. "The word roots of 'Michael'? 'Who is like God'?"
"Exactly," I replied, adjusting myself to better see her cross-legged, seated form. "Trying to keep humble in the face of… Too much power, probably."
"Too much how?"
"Summoning: from any place, any time or stretch of time, with nearly any delivery methods. Paradox friendly, if not fully paradox proof." My blanket focused gaze aimed at her face. "Either complete, or… Partial."
Apart from the brief flicker of a grimace on Jennifer's face, she didn't betray that much of a reaction. Looks like she was handling herself better. Great to know.
I opted to change the direction of the conversation rather then continue this self-examination. There would be time for that later, hopefully. Along those lines, I worked a gold coin from my shorts pocket, up the length of my body, and held it in her sight. "Are you open to new clients?"
The slightly joking tone I had spoke with met one of her own, "Yes, I am. My calendar is rather clear at the moment." She took the coin, the edges of her neatly trimmed plain nails brushing against my hand in the process, and tucked it into an inner pocket of her black blazer.
With that, things went sombre again. It would have been too much to expect to keep things light, especially with the events that surrounded our recent pasts.
She straightened her posture on her cushion pile, removing the slightest slouch that was only apparent in contrast to her new position.
"You'd want client confidentiality, then, I take it?"
"Yes, indeed, Ms. Walter," I replied, nodding, only realizing as I did so that I didn't think she could see the movement. "I didn't have a loonie, so…"
"You're Canadian?"
"Eh," I said, moving my head back and forth, "I'll confirm that I was such a citizen, of such a country, of an Earth. Of which there are very many."
She moved to reach inside her blazer, then stopped. "Could you get me some writing material, please?"
"Right, sorry," I said. A short burst of focus had an open notebook fall onto her lap, pages fluttering, and a pen landing between the front cover and first blank page.
She might have murmured "show off" at the spectacle, but I couldn't quite hear her. I waited while she wrote down some notes, and continued once she straightened back up.
"There is some uncertainty as to how I entered the last Earth parallel I was in," I began, "and there are some collateral damage issues with going back there."
"Damage?" She prompted me, pen tapping against the notebook a few times before she stopped it.
The whole explanation Zelretch gave me flickered through my mind. "To put it simply, unless I am careful in my far-ranging reach attempts, they can show up as well-lighted highways for various extra-dimensional horrors."
Her eyebrows rose, and pen stilled. "How did you find that out?"
"A kindly old man beat the seriousness of the situation into my head."
"Good," she said, going back to writing once more. "And how careful have you been since then?"
"I practise 'safe summoning.'"
My pun led to the first laugh I heard from her, even if it was only a brief chuckle. After that, I exhaustively went over the story of my recent life, starting from a confused arrival in a subway station, spanning through getting Mr. Deeds, the Final Dice, meeting Zelretch, and everything I did in this bunker. Jennifer clarified details with questioning, which were either answered easily or with the assisted of mumbled queries I sent to the Final Dice.
Breaks were done at her prompting, which she used to have small meals at, while I just dozed through them.
"I've come to some conclusions," Jennifer said, once she closed her notebook. As it was too large to easily fit within her blazer, she left it on her lap, and folded her hands upon it. "While it will be helpful for you to have another perspective on your life - and I'd be happy to provide such - nothing of what you've said or suggested really implies the need for a lawyer. While I'm grateful for my recovery, I have to ask what exactly do you want from me?"
"Hmm," I answered, thinking. "Off the record?"
She tapped the closed notebook in reply.
"It was a big effort to get yourself, Ms. Walters -"
"Jenny, please."
"Right, Jenny," I continued, skipping past some preambles. "In some respects, I could be considered a newbie metahuman who just recently came into their powers. In another, such as evident by our surroundings, I have already established them." I gnawed on my lip. "A bit of everything? Lawyer, team mate, adviser, life coach, trainer, consultant, problem shooter, devil's advocate, moral compass…" I shrugged with extra emphasis, ensuring that the movement was visible through the blankets. "I've already gotten an idea of how easy it is to break things. I don't want to get to a point where I stop caring about that happening."
"I don't know if I'd even be capable of doing all that for you, Mikal," she quietly spoke. "Especially now."
"I'm not asking for perfection. That's impossible," I replied. "Only willingness."
There was a pause in our exchange.
"I can try that," she said. "Though perhaps some assistance would help?"
"Absolutely," I said. "I'll pass you my notes on some likely candidates."
"Okay," she said, a light smile gracing her face. Jennifer made to get up, tucking her notebook under her arm, and gave my blanketed self a push as she stood. "You'll be getting out of those too, right?"
I let out a reluctant groan of agreement.
"Great! We'll work out salary and benefits later, okay?"
'Got it, Shulkie,' I mentally replied.
She went through the plastic zippered air-lock doorway with, if not a spring in her step, a confident straightness to her formally attired back. I don't know if she'd get back to me by tomorrow, but having her own small furnished suite of rooms here to decompress in would surely help. After all, it took me a few weeks in this bunker to get through my own shock, as a sheltered civilian; would her own experience and nature imply a longer or shorter time?
I'll ask future me.
==== OWT ====
A/N: Help/advice request regarding She-hulk (/Jennifer Walters)! Specifically, how am I in regards to:
- Dialogue? Missing/need some speech quirks or mannerisms? Too serious?
- Her personality? (/keeping recent trauma in mind) Recovered too easily? (Will be a recurring theme/issue/trigger for her.)
- What would Jennifer (and/or She-hulk) want from the MC (besides what is outlined above)?
- Timeline/past events for her? (Specifically, when the cut-off point for the Marvel Zombies storyline occurs)
For reference sake, this version of She-hulk is:
1) *Not* a fourth-wall breaking version;
2) The one from Marvel Zombies ( Jennifer Walters (Earth-2149) );
3) Who was killed (as an alien space zombie) after eating some of the FF's kids;
4)… but I'm iffy as to when in her timeline the Zombies story arc occurs, though I can assume that it is after her time with the FF and when she is with the Avengers.
Also… Team mates! Ideas welcome, but keep in mind that 3 roles have already been planned for (male muscle, gruff nice tough guy + reality warper + technomancer/hacker), and I'm aiming to not have overlap. No pressure, just an opportunity to chip in.
Last edited: Nov 23, 2018
1.3: Friendly BenefitsA/N: The chapter title is just a pun. Some info-dumps, but I aim to have it flow.
1.3: Friendly Benefits
Aircraft assembly bunker (SCP-108), SCP Foundation universe [1st year] - March 25th, 1986 - About a week later.
Different people dealt with their problems differently. As I had previously cocooned up, She-hulk instead took a more 'active' role in her own recovery: that of widespread physical destruction. Instead of trying to contain or limit her again, I instead worked to channel her grey form's rage.
A flick of the drapes on my room's window exposed the central corridor of this bunker, where the mangled messes of the former industrial scale assembly line conveyor belts lay in ruins.
This entire structure was rectangular in shape, some four by two kilometres, with masses of offices, dorms, storerooms and more, on the sides and an open stretch down the middle. There originally were large hanger doors which would be connected to a portal system used by whatever Nazis that made this place at both ends, but they were one of the first things Mr. Deeds and myself had ensured were completely walled off.
I flinched back reflexively as a propeller blade spun by in a blur, crashing into a nearby room.
'Meh.' I went through that cratered broken wall and any other signs of damage I could see - ceiling lights, floor damage, and more - undoing them each singly, with summons that prevented them from occurring. The now familiar doubling memory blipped into my consciousness, somewhat lessened that I had only perceived seconds of altered content. The proof of my regeneration's effectiveness was demonstrated by my yawn, the only expense I incurred for my efforts. Even that unwanted fatigue rapidly faded into more familiar full energy levels.
I still seemed unable to do a form of area denial that I could only conceptualize: a variation on the cellular extraction I initially did to She-hulk, but without a defined single origin summon. The best way to put it would be through that wall I just repaired: I'd set the what to any physical objects that approached it at speed, the where being this entire stretch of walls, the when in chunks of hours, and the how to simply drop them at their summoning point, absent all inertia and velocity.
It's like I could stick my 'arm' out in the right direction, but couldn't quite grasp how it would properly -
The world slowed down as a burst of glass fragments sprayed my way, their air-borne forms riding the shockwave buffer on top of a large industrial engine. I steadily back-pedalled as I summoned the metallic projectile from moments in the past to outside my window in safe passivity in the present, scrunching my eyes in a long blink when the combination of normal speed resuming and my memory doubling hit at the same time.
Not wanting to take any chances, I left my room and headed down a side-corridor to be further away from the bunker's centre.
'To think that all it took was some meat toppings on her pizza this time…'
Another crash sounded behind me, and I walked a little bit faster.
==== OWT ====
Hours later.
We were in Jennifer Walter's newly claimed office. It was a small, square space, which had the floor and walls newly covered with wood panelling, and ceiling finished with a cream coloured paint. Her desk was another wooden affair, a large, blocky mass whose nature disguised that it was an assembled special order - the original Nazi piece was long gone into splinters and fragments. We sat in mammoth brown leather executive chairs opposite each other, the only non-existent 'expense' spared for them being that they didn't have massage functions.
Those chairs were in another room.
There were originally plans for her to redecorate more, via Mr. Deeds-sourced methods, but grey rage fests kept on interrupting her plans.
Some notebooks and papers were spread across the dark varnished surface of her desk, the topics being of my overly examined recent life and possible people to summon slash recruit. Right now, I was taking the role of a witness under investigation: my crime? Being less than brilliant in everything I did. Guilty.
Small talk had already been made - we both had a fondness for chocolate, not terribly shocking - as well as some leading questions. To go along with the relaxed mood that we were trying to create, Jennifer's completely new black suit top blazer had a single button undone, showing more of her white, ruffled neck dress shirt. I was dressed far more casually, with black sweat pants, t-shirt, and fuzzy lined moccasins. My shirt probably wasn't the best comfort match with the leather seat, though. At least I don't sweat any more.
"I don't know how I came to be in that alternate Earth subway station," I said. "There was some summons-like disorientation, sure, but even now I have no idea how to do that sort of travelling."
"You didn't follow up on Zelretch's hints?"
"No," I replied. "I'd have years to practise in this bunker, and moping and figuring things out with you were all I did recently."
"Any idea why so many insects accumulated during your latter seven year stretch but not during your earlier months?"
"No. In hindsight, I thought that was because it was a public, unsealed building."
"Did you try and summon any of the insects that would have approached you?"
"No… That's a good idea." I made a mental note to do so in the future.
"Did you find it strange how easy it was to upgrade the Final Dice?"
"No? I mean… Not really?" I scrunched my face up. "I don't consider everything I did to change the Dice easy. It was only possible through my summoning, and I'd imagine most beings with the same sort of multidimensional reach would already have more simple and direct means of doing the same thing."
"Do you think Zelretch has your best interests at heart?"
"No way," I said, chuckling, then quickly turned my smile into a flat line as the truth of that sunk in. "He's got to look at the bigger picture. Right now, the most I can do in regards to him is not attract his irritation." I shrugged. "It wouldn't make much sense for him to do so, honestly."
She nodded, short brown hair bobbing with the motion. "What about the abilities he demonstrated? Finding you, staying hidden, and your immobilization? The portal?"
"None of those are terribly surprising," I replied. "Just for locking me in place, I can think of a number of methods: bands of invisible force, air pressure, gravity, body puppetting… No." I shook my head. "I'm more curious about how he managed to prevent any sort of records of himself being created by the Final Dice. I can only think of two methods: permission or mind-screwing."
"Not because he is that powerful or stealthy?"
"Maybe," I replied, "but I'm leaning more towards those two because this all happened after I had upgraded the Dice to be able to scan most anything via any means I could imagine the multiverse having." I leaned back into the plush leather, and closed my eyes. "Permission could have come from myself, past, future, alternate, or via some administrative feature of the Dice. Mind-screwing also implies a level of access to myself that is rather disquieting, as again, this happened after my psyche was supposed to be locked down."
"From one of the mutant-like traits gained from the Numerian strange fluids, right?"
"Yeah," I said, nodding, eyes opened. "There might be some strangeness associated with having both a sealed mind and a form of telepathy, but…" I snorted. "Ensuring that they worked together properly while prepping to rush out a portal would hardly make for the most stable integration."
"Agreed."
A thought stirred my mind. 'What if he messed with things right after the barrier went down - before I did anything at all?' I sunk into the chair, slouching somewhat, while Jennifer's brown eyes flicked between me and the papers on the desk in front of her. There were too many unknowns, and even my future selves' efforts would likely find it difficult, if not impossible, to figure everything out. Even something like how Zelretch's portal connected to the SCP Foundation universe in the past was something of a mystery, as I could imagine multiple reasons, rationales or excuses as to how that'd work - at least once, if not multiple times.
"Any other big questions, Jenny?"
"No," she replied, moving some papers around. "I'll caution you that even if you're not sending highways across the universes, your efforts might be noticed by the locals. The same way Zelretch saw them in person."
I made a sound of agreement. Some of the SCP Foundation staff members, let alone their artifacts, were big risks. The only way I was currently able to relax enough to sleep was by living in a normally inaccessible place, summoning things from before they were even discovered the first time, having a 'safe' copy of all the SCP entries, and irregular check ups on what the future held in store.
I leaned forward to put a hand on her desk as she made to open another notebook.
"Break time?" She asked.
"Nah," I replied. "I just thought we could go over the… candidates?… by the Final Dice. You haven't seen it, and I'd like to check up on my own upgrades." I pulled back into my seat as I looked into her eyes. "It should also work as a solution for your grey alter ego."
We broke gazes about the same time, her finishing the organization of her desk-top, while I got up and headed towards the door.
"I'll probably get something to eat before then, okay?" She said, as I was by the doorway.
"Righto!" I waved with my words, and left through the empty doorway.
==== OWT ====
An hour later.
We had relocated to the interior of another SCP artifact, one of the few I had acquired while going through the process of getting She-hulk. SCP-167, or as I called it, the White Cube Labyrinth, didn't look like much.
The shiny, white-plastic-appearing walls defined a perfectly cubical space, with the floor, walls and ceiling each being squares about thirty-odd feet a side. Three of the walls had over-sized doorway openings in them, with one leading back to the bunker and the other two deeper into the white labyrinth. A dull metal chain, the thickness of each link at least equalling that of a finger, led in from the outside and continued through one of the inner doorways. The other inwards-aiming doorway had been sealed off with clear plastic tarp and duct tape.
For lighting, there were a total of four flood-lamps, each whose white LED shine glared out from their own little corner. Not to be outdone, the blue-purple glow of the Final Dice dominated the space from the centre of the room.
Mr. Deeds sat in poised attention upon a simple fold-out stool by the outer door, while Jennifer and myself were in arm's reach of the four-dotted side of the Dice. A duffel bag lay at her feet, whose half-open zipper revealed hints of paperwork. Even in her base human state, she was still a few inches taller than me, and so I was grateful that she opted to downgrade her business attire into sweats and slippers. It almost matched my own, which had stayed the same from earlier.
She was exploring the features on a newly gifted smartphone, while I went through some mental rehearsals. I hoped my face didn't look too strange.
"So…"
"Yeah?"
"This here is the Final Dice," I said, patting the glowing surface.
"I figured that," she replied, slowly reaching out to touch the surface. When nothing happened, she left her hand there. "What makes it the 'Final' Dice?"
"Somewhat of a long story. It's saved, if it matters, and you can check it out later…?" I didn't want to go over the entire history of 'DICE, the Cube that Changes Everything' right now. Besides which, I'd probably get some of the details wrong.
"Sure, thanks."
"Alright, moving on," I said, then leaned against it. "The main ability of this cube is that it can take preexisting qualities in someone and improve them, in a measurable way. Doing so costs Dots, which are earned by rolling Dice." I pulled a blue glowing Dice from my sweat pants pockets and dropped it, with a small burst of summoning ensuring that it landed six-dot-side upwards. A small flash of purple-blue light changed the Dice as it stilled.
Jennifer took the then-red Dice when I offered it, holding it up to her eyes.
"Would there be any negatives or costs imposed by doing that improvement?"
"No, ah…" I hesitated. "More like side effects?"
She didn't say anything, instead continued to examine the lightly glowing object.
"Okay," I began, letting out a deep breath, "so understand that the administrator of the Final Dice - myself - usually relays various Dicer features through whatever form their remote communication devices take." I pointed at the smartphone Jennifer held in her off hand as an example. "Those aren't just simple data transfers, as the devices somehow gain an echo of the presence of the large cube and can both, in a limited manner, sense and manifest its powers through them. For Dicers themselves, there used to be this whole thing about player versus player combat, dissolving into Dice and so on. Dreadful business."
"That really sucks," she said, totally deadpan.
The red Dice was tossed back to me, and I repocketed it.
"Yeah, heh." I looked off the side, scratching my forehead. "So… Instead of that particular brand of wonderfulness, I tweaked a few settings, spent a boatload of my own Dots, and now… That doesn't happen. It's more like each expenditure fuses itself to the Dicer, permanently changing them, instead of being some sort of whatever whatever," I flapped my hands around, "that is more superficial and constantly connected. It makes undoing things more expensive, but… It's needed, unless I want to become some sort of gamesmaster overlord. Besides which, I also had to do that in case Dicers or the Final Dice leave the reality the other is located on - I don't know what could happen otherwise, but I doubt it'd be good."
She nodded, and walked a few paces away from the Final Dice, then turned back to face me. "Do I have to become a Dicer?"
"Um. Yes, sorry. I used your own future Dice for your own resurrection, so…"
"Paradox if I don't. I get it."
"Sorry. But you don't have to spend them to change yourself… "
She moved forward, and gave my shoulder a light punch-push. "I'm alive. Don't sweat it. Thanks."
I had to look up to give her a weak smile. "You're welcome. Where was I… Right. So things like resurrections, healing and so on come from another feature that Dicers get access to: the Store. Anything there can be bought and used, with all the items usually being variations on small-scale reality warping: damage, recovery, time, teleportation, and so on. I used it as a shortcut to get some magical scrolls cast on myself - effects that would cost too much Dots otherwise."
"So it's exploitable?"
"Yes and no," I dragged out the 'no' as I thought. "The improvement process is based on existing qualities, so it doesn't matter where you get them from. Most of my 'starters' came from scrolls, potions, and that hazardous strange fluid that I picked up barrels of."
"Which ones do you still have available?" She asked.
"The barrels and the potions," I replied. "Barrels due to quantity, and potions due to… Ah… Re-usability."
"How do you reuse a potion?"
"Spit, don't swallow?"
She gave me the look that high class women have perfected over the ages: the one whose meaning translates to a long, drawn out and exaggerated 'really?'
"Hah…" My laugh was especially artificial. "Yeah, that is the kinda of humour that got me suspended from work before. I mean it, though - there is a cheap Store effect that'll allow you to get the effects of potions without having to drink them."
"Would they be worth it?"
I shrugged. "For the price of some trace amounts of my saliva, you could gain immunity to disease, poison and normal weapons." I went over what I remembered of She-hulk's power-set. "That would be while you're normal too, I mean."
"And they work?"
"At least as starters, sure."
"I'll have to think about it. The whole Dicer thing, too." She picked up her duffel bag, and started to go through it. The smartphone was put inside. "We might be here a while, could you get some seats?"
The chairs and desk from her office were summoned, as well as one of the many laptops that were used in the bunker. She made as if to complain about grabbing her furniture without asking, but instead opted to relax into the high-backed leather executive chair that she was familiar with. I did the same on the other side, and Jennifer set up the desktop to her preferences, stationary and computer facing her.
"You okay with commentary on my own ability development while we go through the sorta-applicants?" I asked.
"No problem," she replied, focused on some paperwork in front of her. "Could you lead with your defences?"
I made a sound of agreement. "I consider defences in a layered approach: outermost to innermost. Evasion tops the list. I can move up to about ninety feet manually, or reflexively when I sense a threat, and can do some complex thoughts and actions during those few seconds."
She held up a spare pen, aiming it my way. I gave her a 'come hither' gesture, and it was launched at my head.
In less time than it'd take to blink, I had made two unsuccessful, fumbling attempts to snatch the small, nearly stationary, black metal cylinder. I gave it up for a lost cause, and instead left the chair and power-walked towards Mr. Deeds. On the way, I did the smart thing - summon the pen mid-flight - but my acceleration ended before I made it to the butler.
I brought up the topic of the shortfall as I walked back to my seat. "The limits are rather arbitrary due to the nature of what I had scans on, and because I don't want to live as a speedster."
"I didn't see any of them among your choices, Mikal," she said, as I resettled myself. "Was that on purpose?"
"None of them stood out," I replied. "For those that did, they'd depend on strange local universe physics."
"Okay. Keep in mind that you'd still need defences against them, then."
"Right," I replied. "Well, the next layer down is a personal suit of invisible force armour." I concentrated, and what looked like overlapping pieces of thin glass appeared all over myself, outside my clothes. I tried rubbing my fingers together, but the sensations were heavily reduced as the rigid energies had no give to them. It was like wearing perfectly fitted gloves of plate metal. "They grant practical immunity to normal physical harm, and collapse only underneath an overwhelming magical attack. Best of all, they can be willed away and reformed in seconds!" I had the armour fade in and out of my sight a few times, before realizing that Jennifer couldn't see it. Awkward.
She paused in her writing. "But it doesn't stop you from being pushed around, or shaken like the behind of a Friday night exec with a few too many drinks?"
"Ah, no," I replied. "And it only stays up if I'm conscious."
"Hmm." Jennifer flipped a notebook page, and wrote something in the margins.
"For armour," I began, "I have a full-body set that I can retract into myself when I don't use it." I pinched my black t-shirt and let it go - it seemed loose enough. A small spike of fatigue heralded the emergence of my shell - it rapidly oozed through the surface of my skin, as if I were sweating thick black ink from every pore. I reached up, and what looked like a black gloved hand trailed over the smooth, featureless surface of my face. Unlike the force armour, this one offered some tactile feedback for my hands: they were comparable to thin leather gloves. "How do I look?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Like a motorcyclist put on a t-shirt. What does it do for you?" More pages were flipped, this time to leading to a blank one.
"Well," I said, still running my hands over my ovoid head, "this one requires a tiny bit of effort to put off and on, unlike the ease of the force armour. Additionally," I tapped on my helmeted dome, "it's not so much that I can perfectly perceive through this, as it has become what I sense with."
"The helmet is your eye?"
"And ears, nose," I added, nodding. "It also eliminates the need for breathing, something which I carried over to my base form. With practise, I could probably treat the entire surface of the armour as a sensory organ, but right now that would still disorient me." I directed the helmeted portion to melt away, and placed my armoured gloved hands onto the desk. "I can also change details…" The gloves gained studs, then spikes, bands, and went smooth again. "… Can divert my own energy into directly countering sources of damage, and treat it like an easily impressible piece of equipment for different metal traits and weapon and armour enchantments. The only one I picked up was a weapon-type, called 'merciful,' which converts regular physical damage into something more suitable for knocking people out."
"Sounds like you put a lot of thought into it."
I smiled. "Mix and match formed a neat little puzzle, there."
"You mentioned 'energy'?"
"Caloric, wakefulness, health, and so on. Some parts needed much more exotic supplies, but…" I glanced over to the glowing form of the Final Dice. "Dots solved that problem, and stuck 'em all together for me." I shifted back and forth in the seat. While the armour was comfortable - as the second skin it was, it should be - the chair won out, and I had my armour melt away. "For mental protection, I went all out. Starting from complete immunity to mind-affecting effects, I piled on further immunities to all forms of scrying - past, present, and future, and the total inability for my aura to be read. Anything on or used by me also benefits from this protection, and any ritual magics using sympathetic tissues or samples fail. Additionally, the mental protections are so strong that they are just a little bit less effective than a set of full plate armour."
Silence.
"You alright there, Jennifer?"
"Oh, I'm fine, Mikal," she said, shaking her head slightly. "I won't say that I've never heard of mental protections of such calibre, but they tend to come from masters in their field - Dr. Strange with his magic, Professor Xavier with his psionics - and they aren't so casual about how they describe them. How would I…?"
"Get them?" I gave her a wide grin. "Probably." I snorted. "And for a lot less than I paid for them, too. She-hulk style telepathic immunity already gives you a head up."
She turned from her desk top to give a more considering stare to the glowing form of the Final Dice.
"I didn't totally lock down my mind, though."
"Oh?"
"My path of telepathy," I began, "starts with the idea that any hole is a bad hole."
Jennifer gave me that stare again.
"Anyways…" I cleared my throat. "Yes. So instead of the whole 'open mind, transmit and receive' style, I had this here," I pointed at my head, "to be able to form one-to-one telepathic bonds, and further connect anybody involved into a simple gestalt - even across planes! It can be used to transmit thoughts, memories, emotions, information, and-share-senses-and-have-mind-sex." Those last words were blurred together. "Best of all, my mental defences are extended to anybody the connection is active with."
"It's good to see you have your priorities straight," she said, after a long pause.
"Uh huh!"
We stared at each other for a while, me with a semi-rigid smile and her a raised eyebrow.
"You know that I'll still remember this when I go green, right?"
I shrugged, humming in forced nonchalance.
"Is that it, then?"
"Mmm… About half way, maybe?"
"I'll need a small break, then - especially since we haven't gone over the candidates."
==== OWT ====
A/N 1: Any replies as to how the info-dump is doing? Specific sources are in "Apocrypha: Summons Batch Notes #1," and I'd be cool with giving even more detail if wanted.
A/N 2: Feedback as to grammar, dialogue, phrasing, scenes, etc? I'm getting a lot of summons ideas, but not really anything about the writing itself.
A/N 3: This was getting big. Had to STAHP!
Peace!
~AB
1.4: Applied WordsA/N: This chapter has the rest of the MC's powers being mostly detailed (it was cut off last chap due to getting-large-ness; *only* mostly due to writer fatigue). Mostly dialogue; one single scene.
1.4: Applied Words
White cube labyrinth (SCP-167), SCP Foundation universe [1st year] - March 25th, 1986 - About a hour later.
Lunch was reduced down to a selection of colours: black, brown, green, blue, orange, and yellow. The selective absences of other colours, let along specific food groups, was not something that was learnt in a single sitting. Desks, tables, chairs and many place settings were sacrificed upon the alter of experience in order to find out that white, red, and pink coloured foods were prohibited, let alone meat products in any form. Chewing was done with mouths closed, and we didn't face each other.
A rather strict set of requirements, but as Jennifer hadn't yet opted to use Dots to calm her grey raging 'side,' it needed to be done to get through a meal in peace - rather than pieces.
The past few meals with her, successful or otherwise, I was torn between opposing perspectives: that of getting some 'solutions' from the future, of letting her work out her problems on her own time, of pushing the Dots as a fix, and the background fear that some part of her wanted the grey raging giantess as penance for the actions she took while zombified. Bringing up the latter point was something I refrained in doing - I do have some small touches of common sense, occasionally - but I'm going to insist on some form of inner problem resolutions before she gets any substantial upgrades. After all, just because somebody wants to spend Dots doesn't mean I have to approve it.
After a carefully polite lunch, Jennifer brought up the topic of the surroundings.
"When were you going to tell me about this place?"
"The white cube labyrinth?"
She nodded.
"You haven't gone through the SCP entries?"
"I've been… Busy." The last word was spoken quietly.
"Gotcha," I said. I pushed the chair back from the desk we were using as a table - only permissible because of my 'deep cleaning' via summoning - and walked over to the doorway that lead further inside. A wave indicated the depths, but I also made sure that my gaze scanned the single cubical room we were in, as well as the outwards-leading opening. "Well, this is SCP number one-six-seven, whose main properties are infinite space and a non-Eu… cydean…"
"Euclidean?" She asked, once she had joined me by the large doorway. There was room for both of us to lean against the sides, and still have space between us. The chain that went through here lay close to her slippered feet.
The next room over was physically identical in dimensions, with the same chain running over the floor and out through another doorway. The last, third opening was sealed the same way as in the first room, with clear plastic and duct tape. More of a privacy screen than anything else.
"Yeah, that," I replied. "A non-Euclidean labyrinth."
"That's why the chains, then?" A shifting of her posture had her toes tapping the dull metal links in question.
"Right," I said, nodding. "Tons better than a ball of string or some crayon marks by the doors. They 'lock' passages in place. Don't… Ah… Break them by accident or something, okay?"
She half-smiled, only a shadow of humour in the expression. "I'll do my best."
"The greatest thing about here, though, is the way it gains that infinite space." I left that teaser in the air without following it up.
Jennifer indulged me. "And how would that be?"
"A variation on copying and pasting, space-time reality warper style," I replied. "It started with the question I asked myself: how would an infinite-scale location without an airlock not drain the local atmosphere? Answer: by simply duplicating the local conditions immediately outside the cube!" I patted the door frame that loomed over us both, then leaned back against it.
"Something to play with for the next few years, Mikal?"
I shook my head. "More than that, Jenny: it's coming with us." I forestalled the expected question. "I've got big pockets - it'll fit in them. No summoning required."
She blinked in surprise, before a small smirk graced her face. "Congratulations, you now officially have gained more hoarding space than the Collector. Any plans?"
"Of course!"
I spent a few minutes going over them, while Jennifer provided critical feedback. Once we headed back to her desk setup by the in-sight Final Dice, she brought up a new topic.
"How come you haven't pushed enhancement his way?" Her glance in the direction of the still Mr. Deeds, sitting at attention, was all it took to give my excitement the brakes.
"A few reasons," I began, stalling for time as I gathered my thoughts. We were both settled in her luxurious leather seats before I continued with my explanation. "I take you already know the basics about him - the perfect magic butler, go-to guy for quality service, endlessly polite, genie-tier delivery service?"
She made a sound of agreement.
"The only real issue is how far he takes the butler role. To put it bluntly: there are no limits."
"When you say 'no limits,' you mean…?"
"If he is capable of doing a request, it will be done. No morals, no qualms, no restraint, no objections. Only polite obedience and encouraging commentary, up to the time of his death. Then… a new Mr. Deeds can be brought into the world with less effort than a morning stretch." A rather sickly half-smile creased across my face. I've kept my relations with the butler-genie as friendly and polite as possible, even with knowing with absolute certainty that he would not - could not - object to anything I'd ask of him. There were so many horrible ways to use him that I've made deliberate efforts to not even brainstorm them, let alone write down ideas.
"I understand," she said. Jennifer had her own expression of distaste plastered across her face. It relaxed somewhat once she readjusted her chair to less directly face the butler in question. "Perhaps a change of topic?"
"Of course," I said. "Though, ah…"
"What?"
"Going back to examining my abilities, I find it somewhat awkward that the next one was what I called my 'guardian spirit.'" A moment of concentration revealed the foggy form of a humanoid figure. "Want it to organize your desktop?"
"I don't see anything," she replied. Even so, she placed a hand protectively on the scattered papers and notebooks that lay on the wooden surface.
"Right, heh," I said. A number of my abilities were normally invisible, and as Jennifer didn't have the sight to perceive them, well… Another moment of concentration caused the foggy mass to disperse into nothing. "A scroll-sourced, automatically recreating, permanent version of unseen servant, enhanced with some basics. They include the ability to cook and do basic craft skills. A poor alternative and rather redundant with you-know-who," a hand gesture indicated the direction of Mr. Deeds, "but I hope to enhance it more later in the future."
Jennifer opted to not say anything this time.
"Hey?"
"Yes, Mikal?"
"I arranged to have you here because you do have those standards, morals and right noble sensibilities." I reached out to touch her hand, but pulled back before I did so. Jennifer noticed, but didn't say anything. "You're a good person, and I hope that trait sticks to me as well as it has to you."
The seriousness of my words was broken by her sigh. "Thanks. Can we can get back to it, though?" In spite of what she said, she appeared more relaxed, with the hints of a smile showing.
"Righto! So… Resistances." I scratched my chin. "They're rather overblown, as I'm immune to the normal types of the classic elemental 'energies': acid, cold, electricity, fire and sound. That is supposed to go as far down as absolute zero, and enable me to comfortably walk in lava. For the occasions when my immunities aren't fully effective, I instead get healed by those very forces instead." I took in the contents of the cubical room - desk, Jennifer, various fixtures - and came to a decision. "No objections to me not demonstrating that here?"
"No, it's fine."
"My regeneration is another developmental path that would make sense to not demonstrate, right?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
"No problem." We shared a moment of silence, both of us aware but not speaking of Jennifer's grey raging side. "It's also on the heavy side, as the only way I think I can be killed involves absolute disintegration, done at least twice over in rapid succession." I didn't mention that my integrated armour would have to be included in that. "The inability to stay fatigued also necessitated changes to sleep: when I make myself doze off, another layer of healing gets added on, and I'm in a sort of hibernating coma. Waking depends on triggers or a preset length of time passing. What else…" The rings on my fingers glinted as a reminder. While they weren't strictly needed anymore, their presence provided an additional layer of redundancy as well as being a false weakness for others to exploit. Fingers led to hands, and further on to arms and limbs. "I can also do some party trick style separation of limbs, parts, head, and so on, but haven't really felt the urge to test it."
The rest of my powers were went through rather quickly: flight, language comprehension, eating, invisible arms, senses, temporal immunities, and aesthetic upgrades. For a conclusion, I wiggle-danced in my seat with my glowing effects acting as an impromptu disco ball.
"So…" I drawled the word out, tapping my moccasin-shod feet in anticipation. "What do you think?"
Jennifer didn't answer immediately, instead opting to go over her notes with different coloured pens. A lot of red was used, and what appeared to be a summary page was less than half full. It gained more and more empty space around it, as the desk was cleaned of the other stationary.
She subtly adjusted herself before addressing me, the slight repositioning somehow making her appear both taller and more professional - irregardless of her sweat-suited apparel.
"I've come to some conclusions," she said, "but I don't know if you'll like them."
I shrugged in reply. I'm open to criticisms, the more constructive and detailed the better. I already know what I gave myself was far from an optimized, meta-gamed 'build.' I didn't approach it that way in the slightest. Instead, my focus was on a strong foundation, survivability and comfort. Jennifer's perspective would be pushed through her lawyering, the green filter of her time as She-hulk, and all the super-heroing that she did in her slightly bigger form. Expert advice that fell into the 'I don't know what I don't know' category.
"While powerful in reach and scope, nearly every single ability you have supports laziness, sloppiness, or both."
Whoa, harsh.
She began to go down the page, marking each point off with a small check-mark. "Summoning from an earlier time? Undo mistakes. Invulnerable armour? Not dodging. Non-lethal enhancements? No need to learn restraint. Reactive speed? A prompt to dodge, and time to think. Anti-detection? Make it a non issue if you're seen or your plans fail. Regeneration? Injury, pain and death all rendered meaningless. Sleep? No drive to optimize the time your summons take. Cleanliness? No need to shower. Sustenance? No need to cook, or even to eat well. Auto-translation? No need to learn other languages. Lack of direct offence? Throw the fight to someone else."
Each point drove me a little bit deeper into the plush abyss of the mammoth leather chair. I couldn't argue with the truth or accuracy of her comments - they were realistic assessments, even if their delivery was brutal.
"Given that you basically had everything from everywhere to choose from," she continued, "I have to ask: Mikal, was this all on purpose?"
"Ehh…" I deflected the directness of the question. "Sort of…?"
A pair of arms were crossed. Jennifer's posture shouted 'explain!' to me, even if she was silent.
"You already know of the pressures I was operating under, right? Couldn't summon anything too powerful, applied while getting ready to go through a portal, supposed starts only?"
She merely nodded minutely, her short brown hair barely shifting with the movement.
"Well, those were the overt ones," I continued. "In my head, I already have an 'ultimate' power: that of summoning. I keep on coming up with applications and variations of how it could work, how it should work - but find my body, mind, imagination or some other factor limiting. I've even got some ideas on how to improve them beyond what the Dice can do, but… That will take leaving this universe and the hopeful sharing of another being's over-powered, broken ability."
"I mean… Jeez," I sighed, and rubbed the back of my head. "I don't want more active abilities. I want to focus and specialize. Like… I just remembered that basic invisibility and phasing through matter were another two abilities! I'm already drowning in choices, forgetting to use what I do have, and I never was good with multi-tasking, let alone single-tasking."
"Then why not improve that aspect of yourself?" Jennifer asked, uncrossing her arms.
"Because mental improvement is a slippery slope!" I heatedly replied. "Even things as simple as perfect memory can change self-identity, let alone the spark of genius, or the ability to easily handle multiple concurrent trains of thought. To become 'more,' what I am now would be 'less' - as well as others who I'd pass on the way." I paused. "Alternatively, my personality stays the same - but the same mistakes get done by me, magnified by however many degrees, merely better justified and argued." I shook my head, dismissing the thoughts. "I could go into more details, but they are just variations on the same reasons."
A glance at the light sweater that covered Jennifer's arms confirmed that they were thicker then my own. I could get jealous, but that would be silly while knowing that between the two of us, she had worked out far more. "Take super strength as another example. Were I to give myself anything close to Hulk-tier strength, the planet - and the people in it - suddenly become much more fragile, making the whole 'living in a world of cardboard' a rather tense reality." I further speculated on her green alter ego, She-hulk: the only times she'd be able to free herself from that ever-present stress would be when she partnered up with a similarly strong individual. Given examples would be tasteless and tactless, so I refrained.
"I did a compromise with my speed bursts: as I don't want to live or function permanently as a speedster, the ability to do it temporarily - especially without having to manually activate it! - allows me to benefit without the boredom that would come from a slowed down world." I leaned back, and took some time to stare at the multi-colour lit white ceiling. I was now about to tread into more personal territory. "Before all this happened - subway incidence onwards - my driving goals were headed into a completely different direction."
Jennifer gave me some silent space, which I gratefully accepted.
"I visited a monastery," I began, "with the idea of seeing whether becoming a monk would be for me. It wasn't, but not because of any restrictions that they operated under." I shook my head, still staring at the ceiling. "No, it was because in monkhood, there was another form of acquisition: of knowledge, study, and practise. All that instead of a simple life of kindness, contemplation and worldly renunciation. Now," I panned my gaze back down to my hands, the pair of simple rings that adorned them, and held them up into Jennifer's sight. "Now, I am armed with the methods to become the ultimate thief, hoarder, and destroyer."
"You don't have to become that," she countered, "any more than I have to be a raging monster…"
My eyebrow raised stare met her eyes, with her looking away first. It wasn't a direct admission that she had the means to handle herself, but it was a start. Jennifer turned back to her paperwork rather than broach the 'grey' topic.
"As it would be safe to say that you don't want to become a expert fighter, what are your goals? What do you want to work towards?"
"Mmm. Good question," I mumbled. My hands open and closed, repeatedly, before I tied them together as one. "The personal ones, here, merge with that of my new identity as a summoner. Friends, family, and a stable home become the most powerful friends and family I could make them, and a home the most impressive of all time." The bare interior of this white room didn't inspire much, but my work on it had barely started. "The best summoner possible."
"Do you have any benchmarks for those?" My powers summary page was ignored for the moment, with a new sheet of paper getting pulled from the pile on her side of her desk. Her pen hovered over it, as she readied herself to take notes.
"For summoners, only two spring to mind: old Planeswalkers, from the Magic the Gathering, and the unique magitech artificial intelligence called Ghostwheel - the created child of the ruler of a multiuniversal royal court." My hands shook, and I didn't even bother to stop them. "Beings so powerful that I'm afraid to even check into the future regarding them."
"Treat them like natural disasters or cosmic phenomena, then," Jennifer offered. "Planned for to the best of your ability, but otherwise kept out of mind."
"Yes," I replied, slowly calming. "That may be for the best." Some deep breaths had me settled further, and I continued. "Barring those extremes, I have methods of getting multiple sources and mashing them into a coherent whole." A wave at the dominating, glowing form of the Final Dice emphasized how that would be done. "Unique in-person teaching or power-assisted advancements are also a consideration - but not one that I'd be entertaining while in this accursed SCP universe."
I was mentally flipping through which upgrades to mention that I'd give myself - likely an exercise in futility, as I'd just get a future-sourced message with the final choices later - when Jennifer spoke.
"I've narrowed down your next candidate to one choice, Mikal."
'One?' I wondered at the lack of discussion involved. Part of the reason the laptop was stationed on her desk and the various copious notes made was due to that.
She pushed a single sheet of paper towards me. There was a lot of scratched out text, with a single circled name about one-thirds from the top.
"I still don't know what to trust about this approach to reality - that everything exists, somewhere, and 'fiction' is but a reflection of that…" Jennifer paused, lips pursed. I can imagine that her putting off of reading the copies of the Marvel Zombies comics weighed on her mind rather heavily. "But I do know that it is rather overwhelming for me alone. I'm not a scientist, inventor or even a gifted researcher - the closest I've done is looking through legal cases for law school. I'm tired, stressed, and rather out of my depth. Trust me on this, okay?"
I gave the name one last look.
"Sure, Jenny. Will do." My face broke into an optimistic smile. "I'll be interested in seeing what Dr. Moira Vahlen of X-Com will make of this little setup of ours."
==== OWT ====
A/N:
- I keep on getting tempted to go slower and slower; I'll attempt to quash those impulses. (Translation: infodump dialogue chapters = should not be done)
- Replies, even as brief as I make them, still eat up a lot of time. I'll need to (force?!) myself to only do so once a week.
- Planned hiatus: mid-February 2019; for life reasons (/long term volunteering). Months to years. I aim to get this work to some sort of arc closure/conclusion by then. (*Will threadmark that info as well.)
- Still intend to have something out every week.
- Can I please get *some* feedback on dialogue, scenes, characters, etc? As is, I don't know if having my cat jump and down on my keyboard and adding in random 'awesome' summons would get more interest.
~AB
1.5: Whose DoctorA/N: I feel good about this one.
1.5: Whose Doctor
White cube labyrinth (SCP-167), SCP Foundation universe [2nd year] - April 21st, 1986 - Just under a month later.
Less than a month. That's the time it took to summon Dr. Vahlen - a pittance, considering she was a normal human. During those weeks, Mr. Deeds, Jennifer and myself cleared out all traces of living in the abandoned Nazi bunker. Even the most microscopic cellular fragments were scooped up wholesale, flash incinerated in whatever small burner the butler-genie had available at the moment. Portable SCP artifacts continued to be obtained - summoned from before their written histories suggest their initial discoveries, as common sense would dictate - then either stored safely, or brought forward in time in scheduled hops.
By the time we were finished, the only odd thing about the bunker was how barren it was. In addition to the removal of Nazi-related symbology and equipment, so too were all living supplies and all industrial equipment taken away.
One exception remained in the form of a sealed off room, overly large in size and cubical in layout, which hosted the smaller white cube form of SCP-167. It was thickly walled off from access to the greater bunker in as seamless and complete a manner as we could all manage, and further packed with as many environmental control and comfort features as possible.
It was through simple temperature changes in that greater hosting room that the nature of the white cube was proven without a doubt. Those changes were felt and propagated through every interior identical room of the white labyrinth, in a speed that was either instantaneous or as close to it as we could figure.
For the sake of my 'pockets,' I would later move the entire white cube to the interior of a stored magic carpet. Formerly the hidden in plain sight vault (and vault door) of an Arabian-esque, low-middle level assassin order, it had around ten thousand square feet of floor space, and additionally prevented aging, hunger or thirst for its inhabitants. I used a simple exploit to enhance the carpet further: Final Dice store option, object possession. With Dots, I enhanced 'my' durability to near indestructible levels, removed weight, and gave it the ability to fold up into a square that would fit in the palm of my hand. The carpet also 'played nice' with other pocket dimensions, totally unlike the whole bag of holding and portable hole disasters.
Inside the white labyrinth, we spread out and claimed spaces. Due to the nature of the place, only four rules were emphasized. They were the use of guide chains, room labelling, mapping, and sealing off of unused doorways.
Jennifer and myself each claimed three rooms, with the shared purposes of reception and a main living space, and the different ones being a gym and a vault, respectively. We made the same setup for Dr. Vahlen, but left the last room empty.
Mr. Deeds had a Victorian England themed room imposed on him, as the butler's own preferences were nonexistent.
As that used up most of our time, only the skeleton of a greater layout was created. Grand plans of gardens, greenhouses, masses of store rooms, buffered airlocks and more were left bare bones. In recognition of Dr. Vahlen's imagined professional preferences, further rooms were laid out for her own use. They were kept empty, apart from the barest supplies and some SCP artifacts we thought would be useful.
On the day when my sole active summoning conduit indicated the X-Com scientist was due to arrive, we set up our informal reception in one of my rooms.
==== OWT ====
"We won the war, then?" Those were the first coherent words spoken by Dr. Vahlen, after her initial panic at the new surroundings. The transition from a laboratory under attack and doomed to be submerged by lava to a mood-lit lounge with classical music playing in the background warranted at least some disorientation. She had one arm across her face, covering her eyes, with the stained laboratory coat sleeve fluttering with her heavy breaths. The other hand was gripped tight into the armrest of her plush chair, fingers sinking into the fabric.
Given what I knew of the X-Com setting her life was modelled on - or vice versa, depending on how I handled my view of reality - a correct answer would be 'no.' Perhaps even 'no, but the surviving resistance did a great job twenty years or so after you disappeared.' "It's complicated."
"How is it complicated?" She moved her arm aside to stare at me, then at Jennifer, Mr. Deeds and the details of the room. What might have been the edge of panic subsided at the absence of any signs of weaponry, guards, or hostile actions of any kind. The soft surface of the inactive massage chair she was on may have also contributed. "We won, we lost, the war is still going on…" Her blue eyes flitted over our unadorned clothing, and she put on a wavering smile. "Perhaps 'we' is the wrong word here?"
I shook my head side to side, not ceding to either agreement or disagreement. I smoothed the front of my thin black turtleneck, and adjusted myself in my own massage armchair. "In regards to X-Com, we can be considered… Ah… Neutral interested parties?" I glanced at Jennifer for confirmation, and she nodded. "Yes. That works. It is more a question of distance and inability to render timely aid than anything else." I took in her dishevelled lab coat, the greens and whites scuffed, torn and dirtied. "Would you perhaps want some time to settle down?"
"No," she replied, her own head shaking loosening the frazzled bun her brown hair was in. "I want answers. If, of course, I am allowed to have them in the first place." An edge of an accent was present in her words. German, I'd assume from the setting material sources, but I wouldn't want to completely assume such.
"Not a problem," I said, and let out a long breath. The next time I do this whole song and dance, I'd prefer it was done by addressing a group - or maybe even a prerecorded multi-media display? Something for the future. "At the moment, I go by Mikal."
"Jennifer Walters," was her self-same introduction, given by the lawyer seated next to me. She had dressed for the occasion in one of her many black tailored suits. Jenny was here to support me in this meet and greet, as well as provide a female presence. A minor detail, she had told me, but the difference between 'waking up' in a room that had two strange men versus those men plus a herself could be considerate.
"Mr. Deeds." He followed the pattern only when a gestured prompt was sent his way, and gave the doctor a small bow as he spoke. The short man was posed and dressed very formally, rigidly straight in his monochromatic butler uniform.
"Dr. Moira Vahlen." She didn't automatically speak, only doing so under the combined, waiting gazes of the three of us.
"So," I began, "what do you want to know, Dr. Vahlen?"
"Everything."
And so we tried to do just that.
==== OWT ====
Hours later.
Only the heavy vibrations of Dr. Vahlen's massage chair served to alleviate her anger. That emotion was specific, focused, and directed.
"There was a terrible loss of intelligence imposed on you both." Her German accent was heavy as she spoke, and her right hand remained clenched in a white knuckled fist. "It is the only viable explanation I can come to."
"What do you mean, doctor?" Jennifer braved a question towards the scientist.
"Both of you." She shook her head, jaw muscles tensing as she clenched them. "The very means to answer the questions you are looking for your 'research' to provide have been spoken of during your fantastical recollection. Do you know?" Her blue eyes whipped between us. "Either of you?" The absence of any enlightening response seem to drain something out of the doctor, and she sagged back into her armchair, eyes closed.
Whirring machinery and breathing were the only sounds.
"We've been through some rough times and personal pressures, Dr. Vahlen," I said, trying to relax in my own armchair - but not to the extent of turning on the massage functions. A glance at Jennifer revealed that she was handling this critique well, with only the thinness of her pursed lips indicating any disquiet. In other words, no grey rages imminent. On my own end, I've had much worse bosses during my working life, so this wasn't something to get worked up about. After all, the scientist's working career was done during wartime with an invading alien species. Stress would be expected. "You're here for, among other reasons, to see things in ways we may - no, have - missed."
"I accept that," she replied, waving a languid hand in the air before returning it to the armrest. "Anger is counterproductive. Spent, now." She straightened up, and blinked herself into a more alert state. "Apologies for my unprofessionalism."
I shrugged it off, while Jennifer made an equally noncommittal sound of agreement.
"In order to prove a number of points, I need to establish some benchmarks," the doctor said, then turned to me. "What are the costs and effort involved in obtaining your 'future messages'?"
"Not much, nowadays…" I thought of the more recent attempts, typically involving checking some details Jennifer had provided me. "Maybe a few minutes for the whole process, and less than a minute's worth of being tired."
The sole operating massage chair was turned off, then turned back on to the lowest setting when the doctor reconsidered. Clearing her throat, she then said, "In some of the more esoteric brainstorming consultations I've had with Dr. Shen, alternate means of computing architecture came up. They'd include tremendous amounts of quantum processors, room temperature super-conductive materials, fibre optical wiring, perpetual motion energy sources, specialized artificial intelligences… And then we'd get into the really far-fetched ideas." She rubbed the ring finger of her left hand, then frowned and ceased the motion once she noticed it. "One of those involved the use of high bandwidth reverse temporal data displacement to solve past-present enquiries."
I pursed my lips in contemplation. 'I think I get what she means,' I thought to myself. 'I just need to puzzle out the wording…'
She didn't wait for me. "In other words, asking a question in the present," she moved her paired hands to her left side, "having the results get answered in the future," and then to the right, "and then sending the data back in time to instantly answer the query." The doctor shook her head, and relaxed her arms in her lap. "Apart from coming close to one single version of the theoretical power needs by the projected energy resources of a complex exclusively dedicated to clustered elerium generators, the other structural issues remained woefully conceptual."
"And I could function like one of those?" I asked.
"Correct," she replied, nodding. "An extremely low-bandwidth one, considering that you use hand-written hard copy, but functional irregardless."
Jennifer brought in her own question. "When Mikal tested those batches of hundreds of xeno fluids, he did something to what you are proposing, right?"
"Exactly," the doctor replied. "There was even the escalation from individual units to the larger collectives. That demonstrated an increase in chronological span, as well as problem complexity. I estimate that his efforts are similar to the virtual construction of an entire universe which then collapses into a null existent state upon the hand-written rewrite effort… I must test this." She rapidly patted the pockets of her lab uniform, a frown growing in severity at each movement. "Do you have a hand held computer? No… That would take too long to… Documents and writing implements?"
Jennifer and my own shared chuckle caused her brow to furrow. "Yes, plenty of them, Dr. Vahlen. Likely too many. One moment." It was a matter of seconds to summon in the nearest blank paper notebook and pen onto her lap.
She all but tore the pages apart in opening it, and began to messily write.
'Guess we won't be needed for this part,' I mused, then turned to Jennifer. "How are you holding up?"
She took a moment to observe the excited scientist before answering me. "I'm not nearly as into it as the doctor is, but the idea of all those hours poring over saved web-pages, notes and more could have been skipped… It's frustrating."
'And my fault?' I mentally tacked on that addition. "Sorry about that."
"Not to worry, Mikal," she began, "there is always the future -"
"Yes, the future!" Dr. Vahlen interrupted Jennifer, then stopped once she realized what she had done. The lawyer waved her on with a smile, and she continued somewhat more subdued. "I've assembled a request for… My future self? Would that be the proper terminology?"
"It's a work in progress," I replied, shrugging. "As good a term as any."
"Excellent, very good." She flipped through her notebook one more time before speaking again. "The time span is estimated at less than a week, and the relevant dataset would be a series of numbers. Somewhere between five to twenty in total, with each being one or two digits."
As I prepped the summon, I couldn't help but wonder something Dr. Vahlen's detailed examination brought up: how was it that my future based retrieval substituted in a present rewritten letter? Was I, in fact, 'collapsing a virtual universe,' or was it something simpler, like the summons just grabbing onto the nearest 'future' copy of the document - a 'future' that existed minutes away instead? A hand covered the yawn of my exertion, and I put those questions out of my mind.
The results of this experiment was a single piece of paper, with a line of numbers written down the middle of it. I held up a hand to stop Dr. Vahlen from getting out of her massage chair, then went through my now familiar routine of rewriting. I made sure to make as exact a copy as possible, even in regards to the digits' placement, size and positioning. Once complete, the 'future' copy rippled slightly and my more current one disappeared.
The proffered paper was taken from my hands with careful precision, though the scientist did all but power walk between her seat and my own. Her face was a rainbow of expressions as she flipped through her notebook with constant referrals to the lone page. Bits of writing, blocky and neat, were put next to the numbers as she worked. It was a marked difference to her earlier frenetic mess. She kept silent, calming herself quietly, once she had gone through the material.
"I can have the answers to your queries in under a week of elapsed time, and a hour of your own," Dr. Vahlen said.
Given our recent dialogue, the calm confidence in which she spoke wasn't surprising. I'm not attached to a time-consuming method when a better, more efficient process is available.
"Great," I replied, trying to match her own demeanour. "Ah… Is there anything else you wanted? Food?" I waved towards the silver platter which held traces of neutral-coloured sandwiches. "Further clarifications?"
"No," she said. "And yourself? Am I free to go?"
My half-hearted laugh was abruptly cancelled once I realized she was being serious. "Of course, Dr. Vahlen. Nothing else, thank you." I turned to the unmoving figure of Mr. Deeds. "Please show the doctor to her rooms, and provide any living necessities she wants."
"Of course, sir." He replied with a bowed head, and redirected his focus to her as he walked to the exit-ward entrance. "If you would come this way, Dr. Vahlen?"
She stretched and got up from her seat, turning off the massage functions as she did so.
"Given that I'm off duty, how about some drinks?" She pulled apart the remains of her brunette hair bun, letting her hair cascade over her shoulders, and gathered her notebook and paper from her seat. "I've had far too much happen and far too little opportunities to… Let it all out, as it were."
Jennifer's posture straightened up. "Excuse me…"
"Yes… Ms. Walters, was it?" The doctor was beside Mr. Deeds, near the doorway. The duct tape covered chain marred the hardwood flooring somewhat, but at least it wasn't a tripping hazard that way.
"Jenny is fine, if you would."
"Alright, Jenny. Yes?"
"Would you be okay if I came with you?"
"I'd appreciate that." Her smile melted some years away. "Do you have any drink recommendations?"
A small flurry of exotically named booze and cocktails flew over my head. Before the three of them left, the scientist left a note with me. It had just three words on it: don't undo this.
==== OWT ====
The next day had me consoling a distraught Jennifer and resurrecting the doctor.
Last edited: Dec 8, 2018
1.6: Our Doctor1.6: Our Doctor
Dirt garden room, white cube labyrinth (SCP-167 SCP-167 - SCP Foundation ), SCP Foundation universe [2nd year] - April 22nd, 1986 - The next day.
"How do you like the new suit?"
Dr. Vahlen held up a dirt stained hand, globules of soil falling onto the cuff of the white sleeve. They quickly faded to nothingness, leaving the pale clothing pristine. "It's excellent, thank you. The means by which Mr. Deeds acquires perfectly tailored clothing is quite extraordinary."
While the scientist had opted to have her clothes Dot enhanced to spare the burden of cleaning them, I instead choose to 'wear' my personal armour, all the while ignoring the fact that I was technically naked. It currently appeared as a full body suit of motorcycle leathers, gloves and boots included, all in black. The choice wasn't for any 'edge lord' purposes - just for practicality, and a timeless blending in. I observed the same cleansing process on my own covered hands before I replied. "As well as drinks?"
"Those are substantial as well." There was a slight hiccough in the delivery of her words.
We kept silent in the dedicated dirt garden. The only sounds were the rustling made from the soil trees as they rapidly grew in size, budded fruit, and collapsed under their own weight. On the times that the brown 'plum' trees remained intact, minimal effort from Dr. Vahlen or myself was enough to make them fall over and start the process anew. While there was some moisture in the dark earth, it didn't prevent us from sitting in it, on top of our respective inflatable camp cushions. The ceiling mounted heat lamps served only to keep the room well lit and warm, without being enough to even dry the top layer of this rippling soil.
"Did you want to talk about it?" I asked her, while staring in the opposite direction. 'This soil is growing at a decent pace.' There was no need to be explicit in the question. Earlier today, there was a room in ruins, absolutely splattered with gory remains, while the stench of booze and entrails and Jennifer's sobbing hung in the background. The experience was a first for me, and not a good one either. A glance back at the silent doctor revealed she was fingering the skin under the neck of her white turtleneck while grimacing.
"Perhaps another time." She moved a few feet on her cushion, not bothering to get up, and plucked a soil-textured pseudo-plum from an ascending soil tree. A toss lobbed it in the direction of the nearest white wall, but her efforts fell short. The mock fruit fell apart in a burst of dirt on dirt, and brown sprouts quickly emerged.
'Was her death fast… Or not?' There weren't any pieces large enough to be identifiable as hers, let alone human, in Jennifer's formerly intact reception slash lounge room. I don't know how long a human head can remain conscious when decapitated, and I imagined trying to find out would be in bad taste. It went along with the topic of being eaten by a shark: point your head into the mouth first - the alternative could be far worse.
"Righto," I replied, then hesitated. I put as much precise care into my words as possible. "Ah… Any regrets that your first Dots expenditure was on your resurrection and some memory 'fuzzing'?"
I ripped some dirt trees apart with partial summons as I waited, the pieces splattering the ground with soft thumps.
"Not at all, Mikal," she said. "I'm half-tempted to utilize that procedure for other repugnant experiences, but fear the ease with which such selective self-modifications can be executed."
"I'm the same way, doctor." I could understand that perspective.
A small laugh, rare in occurrence, came from her. "While the formality is appreciated, I'd rather you'd go with Moira instead. Considering that my credentials, let alone my very identity, don't exist in this universe, I'm more than comfortable dropping it."
"Gotcha, Moira," I said. I silently rolled the name around in my mouth a few times after saying it. It was hardly a Michael, Matthew, John or one of those other countless common names - it flowed nicely. I was never one to point at a person and say they 'were an X,' with the 'X' being their name, but… I'd have to see whether Moira here changed in nature with this shift. Or, as perhaps more likely, I'm simply vastly over-thinking these things. "I have my own slippery slope that I'm trying to not be tempted by: that of endless mental augmentation. Intelligence, memory, partitioned operations… Basically everything and anything I can imagine."
"I can understand the temptation," she said. "While working with X-Com, a number of soldiers had the obligation to be enhanced. The unlocking of psionic potential, the use of Meld for genetic modifications… I found the nearly full-body cybernetic MEC troopers to be far too radical an undertaking, but… The risks balanced the rewards."
"Is that the only criteria you balance your choices on?"
"There? Yes. It was the only one that mattered." She scooped up a handful of soil that had a brown sprout just appearing. It grew for a few seconds before she used her other hand to crush the plant, then brushed the crumbled off dirt beside her. "Everything else was sacrificed for the duties of practically, expedience, usefulness… Wonders turned to wartime applications in a world where the human race was at risk in becoming an endangered species. Hunted. Killed."
"Yeah." A simple agreement. The X-com world was utter crap, and was on the road to getting far worse. More so in comparison to my home Earth, though there were instances of much more terrible places. None of which we had any direct experience in, though.
"Psionics, however…" She sounded wistful.
"You interested?"
"Intensely," she replied. "I'd like to start with something simpler, however. Youth and immortality."
"Jumping straight to those ones, eh?" I said with a chuckle. My stocks of the Numerian strange fluids were still numbered by the barrels, and those requests could be easily filled. Their exotic nature could easily be 'grown' by these seeds as well, if the amounts ever ran low. Much better than spending the Dots to get the same effects, even if the Final Dice had recorded the processes to apply those effects.
She shrugged. "To have them so readily available and not make use of them would be a waste, bordering on insanity."
"And you're not worried about the whole chance of death-by-flesh dissolving?"
A lip-pursed silent stare met my query. 'Of course not, obviously!' I shook the question away with a shake of my head and a smile, but any further words were cut off by the arrival of Mr. Deeds. Trailing behind him came Jennifer, short brown hair cloaking her downward tilted face, with her own black suit notable in all the small ways it was off - a hanging button here, a loose thread there - each disturbance marring what should have been a perfectly tailored fit.
"Madam, sir," the butler began, "Ms. Walters." He bowed out of doorway opening, stepping over the guide chain, and stood at attention against the wall. He was another casualty of Jennifer's last grey rampage, though the only cost was the accumulated memories gained since his last bell-sourced summoning. Annoying and not something to encourage in the slightest, but a number of preexisting notebooks all addressed how to best 'restart' him from his freshly wiped state.
The lawyer gave both of us a timid wave, returning her gaze to the dirt-covered floor once her eyes met those of Dr. Vahlen's.
Unable to take a step back from her seated position, only the doctor's backwards leaning indicated any apprehension.
"Dr. Vahlen, Mikal." "Jennifer." "Ms. Walter." Our greetings meshed together.
"Well…" I broke the awkward silence that emerged. "Now that everyone is here…" I summoned another inflatable cushion on the abundant dirt floor for Jennifer, but she ignored it and instead stayed near the white wall by the doorway. It disappeared as I banished it back along the conduit it came through from, sighing, then resuming speaking. "Since the to-do lists have been all but completed, all I really have left to do is hibernate away the remaining years here."
Nothing was brought up about visiting this Earth, or the greater SCP Foundation universe. All of us already knew enough about the risks and horrors this place represented, and nobody was insane enough to broach them. Case in point, I had a single tiny cupcake with the potential to chokingly overwhelm an entire universe, securely locked inside of the four linked-state instances of extradimensional safes. It was one such weapon of mass destruction I had up my metaphorical sleeves, all painted with the hope and intention that I'd never even need to consider them.
"As well as figure out how your variant of teleportation works, assuming Zelretch was correct," Dr. Vahlen added. "He isn't around for a convenient portal this time."
"Right," I replied. "The deadline is unfortunately literal in this case." I had some ideas I'd be testing out. "Still, any requests?"
"Just two," the doctor said. "I'd normally be substantially apprehensive in interfering with what is a supposedly stable sequence of events, but I believe the reward would be more than consummate than the risk. That is of the entirety of X-Com's technical knowledge base, along with a selection of alien artifacts."
"You're not suggesting that I do a large number of summons, are you…?"
"Not at all," she replied. "After X-Com had established multiple continental bases of operations, irregular courier flights travelled between them. Only a few others and myself were aware of one of the secondary purposes of those efforts: to transport encrypted backups of the entirety of our accumulated knowledge base, offline, with some critical samples that doubled as black market trade goods."
"That sounds great, but… Can it be used without the necessary systems set up here?"
"It is my intention to make it possible. The likelihood increases enormously with access to future knowledge."
"Of course. Right. Awesome, approved. And the second?"
"An atmospheric sample from Psyren, for obvious reasons."
"Hmm." That was probably the absolutely easiest way to gain psychic abilities, and a small puff of air was very low on the effort totem pole. "With proper containment measures, that won't be a problem either."
"Thank you."
"No problem." My focus moved to white room's edges. "Jenny? You've been pretty silent. How about you? Requests?"
Her still form, leaning against the wall, slowly moved into more active awareness. A blink of brown eyes and dry, chapped lips were licked. "Only one for me, Mikal: the legendary super Saiyan racial attributes."
'Legendary? That sounds substantially different from the 'regular' Saiyans, if such a thing could be said.' My eyebrows rose. "Ah… Aren't they…?"
"Highly emotional, prone to anger and violence? Yes. They also have unlimited growth potential." She stood up straighter as she talked. "And a tail, which I don't want."
'What does a tail matter?! Tails are awesome!'
"However…" Jennifer coughed into the silence. "… since they are so obviously an overly emotional species, I'd need to ensure that my state of mind is not… Susceptible to undue stresses or mood swings."
"Righto. Makes sense." I let out a breath I hadn't been aware of taking. This request clearly side-stepped a lot of other complications.
Dr. Vahlen provided her own approval, which prompted Jennifer to leave as fast as hurried politeness would allow. We played - excuse me, seriously worked - in the conceptual soil for a while before splitting up. I cleaned the room of all non-soil traces and anomalous seeds, covered it with a weighted tarp, and then left with Mr. Deeds.
==== OWT ====
I didn't pay attention to the passage of time except through the asking of a single question: 'is it the ninth year yet?' As the answer kept on being 'no,' I continued to sleep away my life. Jennifer and Dr. Vahlen had their own methods of skipping time, and my offer of pulling them forward was always on the table. I didn't track how long they kept awake relative to my own schedule.
The theory behind my teleportation methods were simple, once I obtained some future-based answers. The more basic variant was merely summoning myself somewhere else, and was best suited to the local here-and-now; the advanced version grew on the same concepts I used to implant that soul absorbing metal into zombie She-hulk's spine. Sequentially, it was like casting out my summoning fishing reel, bringing the hooked item in close, then unsummoning back to its point of origin - all the while I 'gripped' its retreating form. I'd need to reserve some time for that to leave this SCP universe.
The practise was messy. My full body regeneration went through a number of workouts before I was confident in being able to land without making a 'splash zone' out of the activity.
My small list of externally sourced summons were already assembled to cost somewhat less than the safe time I had left in the SCP Foundation universe. I had things set up so that I didn't even have to be conscious for when they arrived, though I didn't want to waste much time without a remote summon active. The biggest decisions then were the sequential order in which to do them.
==== OWT ====
1) Some bloody flesh chunks from the strongest Super Saiyan that I knew of: an ancient figure named Yamoshi, pulled at the same time as a Senzu Bean. The hope was that they'd push Jennifer into doing her personal adjustments ASAP, rather than delay them even further.
2) The Psyren air samples would be kept in compressed storage, and duplicated as needed. Though Dr. Vahlen was the first taker for its psychic ability granting effects, I was also curious as to how it'd work with myself.
3) The X-Com package of tech and samples came from the doomed interior of a Firestorm interceptor, moments before an unlucky convergence of patrolling alien ships were due to shoot it out of the sky. By the time it would arrive, the doctor would be finished with her psychic adjustment process and could get started on rebuilding this technological foundation.
4) To aid in that rebuilding, I'd once more nab a Gismo from the A for Anything alternate Earth. The first one I had absorbed into the Final Dice during its initial upgrading, and hadn't made a copy of it prior.
5) The last of the dwemer and an immortal corprus disease victim, Yagrum Bagarn, would be summoned some time prior to his death, and when he'd be in a suitably open frame of mind. Stabilizing his disease and restoring the condition of his body would go a long way towards recruiting his abilities in enchanting and magitech. That I'd gain a new method of granting immortality and disease immunity to others would be a major plus, let alone the dwarven metal his spider-walker was composed of.
6) A pair of magicite, Fenrir & Zona Seeker, from a Final Fantasy setting. It'd confirm another form of summoning, as well as if it was possible to gain a completely new forms of magic. They were picked up moments before their destruction - a moment in history far past their canonical uses. As I didn't know how to 'equip' them, I'd just stick them in my abdominal cavity and hope for the best.
7) A golden dragon egg from the land of Alagaësia. It would come from when Galbatorix's mass genocide of that species began. As that particular dragon species were already prone to long-term sleeping, I shouldn't have that much problem keeping him well off. The bonding process would need some work due to the whole 'human' thing, though.
8) The Sekirei named Matsu number zero-two would provide an 'in' to the technomancer powers path, while also being a woman suited to planning and some technological tinkering. I hope she and Dr. Vahlen mesh well together. For incentives, I'd outlined possibilities that included up to the retrieval of every Jinki and Sekirei with their Ashikabis, as well as custom 'adjustments' of their relative power levels. Depending on how contract negotiation went, I might need to plan in a decade at that alternate Earth. Since none of us here had the genes for being an Ashikabi, there was no risk of her getting bound by accident. I preemptively prevented any such changes happening via Dots as well.
9) A Welding Jar and a Lotus Bloom were my two picks from the Magic the Gathering multiverse. Separate summons, as I wasn't able to find any safe source to retrieve the both of them together. The jar was a one use item designed to repair artifacts, and the bloom provided a harvestable means to farm Planewalker-tier mana. I'd mass copy the former and grow the latter.
10) The last externally sourced additions to my cheat-tier gardens were stat-boosting seeds from Dragon Quest. One each of magic points, skill points, sorcery and luck. One batch or each separately, either way was fine by my calendar calculations.
11) In a nod to the Russian Roulette-style game rigging, I'd also be picking up some very well contained samples of the Wild Card virus. While other substances existed that were similar along the veins of 'high mortality power granters' - Quantum Juice from the DCU, for one - I opted to minimize my choices.
12) Harold Summer, also known as Tom Smith was Arcanum's master of summoning school of magic. Among all my choices, he'd be the only one to be bounced back home after an instantaneous Dice scan. With luck, he wouldn't even blink during the deep sleep he'd be in when I get him.
13) One single Jah Rune from the second Diablo. My plan was to jury-rig them into my bonded armour as a weapon enchantment, granting it the perpetual ability to ignore target's defences. I could stack similar abilities onto my armour once this one meshed properly.
14) Another Final Fantasy ( ) acquisition, a single Summoner Asterisk. Unlike what a single play-though would reveal, more than a single asterisk of each type existed. That granted plenty of opportunity to nab one that was due to meet up with an unfortunate accident. It'd be joining the magicite pieces inside my abdomen - at least until it was 'mastered,' assuming such a thing was possible.
15) All the fragments of a 'good' broken Dungeon Heart, picked up from the aftermaths of a underground battle. It would be shrunken and repaired, with the Heart's final uses depending on a number of factors.
==== OWT ====
Not everything went as planned.
==== OWT ====
A/N: Wrapping up the SCP Universe setting. Feel kinda 'meh' about this snip/chap, which is to be expected with its list-ish ending. I'll plan on how to eliminate that in coming settings.
Last edited: Dec 19, 2018
1.7: Reality Intrudes1.7: Reality Intrudes
White cube labyrinth (SCP-167), SCP Foundation universe [9th year] - June 17th, 1994 - Seven years later.
In choosing to hibernate away the time required for my summons to arrive, I gave away the chance to micro-manage the fallout of their arrival. This was a calculated action of sorts, as there technically was not anything preventing me from reaching into the past the second they showed up.
However.
There was a question of happiness - happiness of people other than my own.
So I choose to deal with some messes instead.
The biggest one was literally big: the normally small-house sized interior of every room of the white cube labyrinth, SCP-167, had ballooned in size, likely due to the influence of SCP-184 Dr. Vahlen had mentioned 'adjusting.' The expansion was monstrous, as I wasn't able to estimate the dimensions apart from noting that the building everyone was now sharing was only visible as a brown blob in the distance. That probably explained the lack of guide chains everywhere. Without them, I'd be the only reliable means of retrieving anybody who got lost.
'Like other peoples' dragons.' The imitation rubber of my body armour's boot heels stuttered, mid step, for a moment on the reflective surface of the white, plastic-like floor. No light sources were visible, so I'd have to assume that the whole 'flood the area around the white cube with bright light' trick worked. It'd explain why they were in a sub-building, at least - nobody wants to live in a well-lit space every hour of the day.
No golden dragon was flying around in this false sky. The hatchling had initially impressed upon Dr. Vahlen as his Rider, as she was the sole pure human inhabitant available, but some panicked efforts and Dot spending had transferred the connection over to the not-quite-so-golden dwemer, Yagrum Bagarn. Yagrum got what was possibly the best 'emotional support animal' in existence, a definite boon to his 'last of the species blues,' and the doctor… Well… She got to pretend the loss didn't hurt with the odd drinking binges with She-hulk, research and application of various sciences, and the exercise of her new psionic abilities.
A joint effort between the doctor and the dwemer was the equipping of the golden dragon with various high-powered accessories. While full-body power armour was out, some type of assisted flight methods or jet packs was most definitely in. Some low-risk enchanting projects could help rekindle Yagrum's abilities, as his first complaints were that the 'tones' of everything were jarringly off. The liberal Dot-sourced gains of various magical sensing abilities helped him, though I never thought of picking up magical hearing.
There were a lot of abilities whose higher thresholds the Final Dice didn't have the ability to grant: She-hulk's strength, Dr. Vahlen's psionics, Yagrum's tonal magic… While I knew of some beings in this whole omniverse-as-everything I seemed to now be living in that truly set some super-standards, none of them could be summoned in the ten year windows I had. At least, not now. Visiting the worlds those beings existed in presented a whole another set of problems.
The brown blob in the distance stubbornly remained out of my reach. 'Seriously. SERIOUSLY. How big did they make this thing?!' I stopped walking, and stared at the distant point in irritation. A look backwards revealed that the doorway I initially teleported to had already blurred into undetectability.
"HEY!" I yelled aimlessly, hands waving in the air. "WHAT THE HELL, MAN?! WHAT! THE! HELL!"
I doubtlessly imagined the quiet "sorry!" that came in reply.
I sighed, rolled my shoulders, and summoned up a stored tripod and telescope. Once it was set up, some minor adjustments to the device had me able to look at the group's domicile with clarity. Through the lens, a collection of prefab walls and structural components joined together into a sprawling, single-story complex that huddled against a white wall. The location could suggest being built around one of the labyrinth door openings, but I wouldn't know till I got inside. Careful finger taps panned the telescope over the building, and I eventually found an entrance within my sight.
'Away I go!'
==== OWT ====
Minutes later.
"Heya guys!" My greeting was sent into the room, drawing some responses. I headed toward Dr. Vahlen's corner while looking around, first passing by Mr. Deeds who stood at attention by the doorway.
She-hulk was the first to give me a wave, the black-suited, green-skinned giantess briefly looking up from her laptop and keyboard setup. A brutal crunch heralded the death of electronics under her distracted fingers, and she finished the destruction with a one handed relaxed squeeze. With a sigh, it got tossed into a waste basket filled with plenty of the same, and a new wireless keyboard was pulled from a stack beside her dark varnished, wooden desk.
Another corner of the room was filled with the near-golden gleam of dwarven metal. The master crafter Yagrum Bagarn popped to the side of a large collection of intertwined metal. The pulsing, blue-white blaze that enveloped his hands was extinguished as soon as it came into my sight, more clearly revealing his bearded countenance. He wore a robe with golden coloured threads, done in a pattern I didn't recognize.
"You again." A hint of the upward twisting of his lips behind his beard was the only hint of his smile. "Has it been long?" The question may have been addressed to me, but the growing neck of his Rider-bound dragon snaked into sight over the dwemer's shoulder in response. Some rapid telepathic communication answered the question before I could, and the small dragon shrunk back down to an even smaller size behind him. "A few months. Let me know if you need anything, Mikal." Without giving me a chance to get a word in edgewise, he restarted the flame-like glow on his hands, waved it my way, and returned to behind the assemblage of standing golden cables. Hissing bursts and flashes of different coloured light followed his disappearance.
The englobing cluster of computer hardware and screens that grew outward from the otherwise blank white wall was Matsu's. Their lack of activity or sounds suggested the mind-type Sekirei was elsewhere or sleeping. I ignored it on the way to Dr. Vahlen's setup, which was a half-circle of computers and holographic projectors. Her white-suited form was half-reclined in an over-sized massage chair, the light vibrations of its activity mostly masked by the sounds of hardware around her.
'Mikal.' Her telepathic voice came with a burst of emotional overtures - happy, relieved, anxious, stressed - and information.
'Moira.' I replied in kind, sending curious-relaxed-mellow back at her, along with an info package that detailed my latest successful summon of a broken Dungeon Heart. I only got the sense of approval from her before I was engrossed in what she sent me, paying the barest levels of attention to not trip on the cables around her seat as I approached.
The doctor's mental data package was an update on events over the last few months. In regards to She-hulk, her attempts at 'understanding' the entirety of the Marvel universes settings were painfully frustrating, and not helped in the slightest by some sort of reminder of the breakup she had with Yagrum. The ceasing of the male dwemer's fascination with his newly healthy body ended the torrid affair he spent with the green giantess years ago, and he was joyfully reinventing as much of his races' techno-magical works as possible.
'That explains his regrown beard,' I thought, and dived back into the faux memories.
The golden dragon had self-named himself as Guld, and caved under popular criticism to use Dot-based size-changing abilities if he wanted to remain in the common area with everyone. Dr. Vahlen had been working on setting up production blueprints and designs for alien and hybrid tech, but left most things at the planning stage. She was waiting until some better infrastructure was set up to before getting things assembled. The overly large size of the white cube labyrinth rooms was also the doctor's fault, though an accident. No details were provided, beyond a tint of embarrassment. Yagram was was still occasionally given modern science topics for study, and he and his dragon were the only ones here who didn't use any form of time-skipping. The doctor and Matsu were both moderates, staying active for anywhere from a day to a week per month. She-hulk skipped the most.
In regards to Matsu… The Sekirei was in a coma, for at least two months now. Stable, but she didn't show any signs of improvement.
Some rapid blinking shook me out of the psionically assembled data package, and I rapped the top of Dr. Vahlen's massage chair. Her head swivelled to face me. "Let's take a look at Matsu, alright?"
"Ah -" Her words were cut off with some coughing. She sipped down about half of a summoned bottle of water I provided before resuming speaking. "Alright."
==== OWT ====
We didn't have far to go - Matsu's comatose body lay among a pile of cushions and pillows in the pseudo-room all her computer hardware formed. Her head was aimed at the plastic tarp that covered a white wall doorway, slashed through with some cables near the floor, and her feet towards the common area. A quilted blanket covered her body, neck to toes.
We settled on either side of her, and I did some basic medical checks that I knew of: feeling her breath on the palm of my hand, and checking her pulse on her neck and wrists. I didn't find anything abnormal about them. I tried to take off her rounded glasses, but my hands just passed through them.
"Matsu did that to her glasses to prevent accidents," Dr. Vahlen explained. "There are some other enhancements on her eye-wear, but she didn't give me all the details."
"Hmm," I replied, and gently shook the Sekirei's exposed shoulder. From the look of her top, she was still wearing the chest-hugging white dress that was her unofficial uniform during the canon series. My efforts only served to cause her head to shake side to side, long red-brown hair following the movements. The hope that she would be easily woken was tossed away. I adjusted her blanket, and addressed the doctor. "What can you tell me, Moira?"
"I haven't needed to do anything to take care of her," she answered. "Though perhaps these," she moved the blanket to expose Matsu's forearms and brought them over her stomach, "might explain something."
I brushed back the voluminous white sleeves of her dress to reveal her hands, and the silver and gold rings that were on her thumbs. Holding my own hands up beside them revealed them to be an exact match, though on different fingers.
"The gismo replicator can't do magic devices yet, can it?"
"Only the primary one," Dr. Vahlen replied. "And it needs some involved preparation in order to do so."
That knocks out the duplicate theory, and makes it far more likely that they were my rings sent into the past. My favourite mantra might just be 'paradox is my friend' at this point. 'Might as well do this sooner than later.' I hovered my hands over Matsu's, trying to get a scale of our different finger's sizes. They weren't that different - that probably explained why I did-will use her thumbs. 'Time traveller's word tenses are annoying.'
What and where merged together, being defined as two millimetres of skin around her thumb between the main and first joint, absent any blood.
When? Two weeks prior to her entering this coma.
How? Snugly fit around the middle joint of my pinkie fingers, right about… now.
With that mental directive, the extended small fingers of my hands had a tiny sheath of skin appear around them. A fatigue-inspired long blink was the only cost. I shifted my metal rings to be on top of the skin ones, then unsummoned them all together. Any signs of the years I wore those rings disappeared with my regeneration, though I did have to go through some deep, calming breaths. The rings had been worn as a habit and then only as red herrings since before stepping through Zelretch's portal - my regeneration and self-sufficiency already surpassed what they provided. Reason and panic battled; reason won.
When my eyes finally opened, nothing much had changed. Matsu was still lying there, ringed hands on her stomach, and Dr. Vahlen was typing something out in the air, eyes half-closed. I mentally sent a burst of curious-interest her way, and she stopped her movements.
"Continuing some work from before," she said, waving a hand towards where her own out of sight cluster of hardware was. "Nothing time-critical, but my preferences are to keep working when I have the time."
I nodded in reply. "How did this all happen?" I moved her arms around so that the blanket again covered them, and fluffed some cushions around her neck. A critical look at her unconscious posture had me doing cushion adjustments under most of her body.
"Would you prefer…?" She pointed to her head.
"Nah, speaking is fine," I replied. Given with how ill-used her voice was, her vocal cords needed the exercise.
"To cut out the preamble, Matsu had plans to access a reality-warping computer in order to generate another instance of itself. I cautioned her to wait. She didn't."
"Ah. How bad is it?" There were many, many horrors in this universe. A coma could be signs of something far more drastic, as well as being an indication that our secure bunker would be losing its anonymous status.
"SCP eight-six-six." The doctor's words came with a burst of information.
I silently went over the highlights: infinite computing power, extradimensional topology, reality warping functionality and automatic 'accidental' defences.… Constructed after year two thousand AD?!
"How on earth…" I muttered, incredulous. "It hasn't even been created yet!"
"Some of the SCP artifacts have cross-temporal reach. Combined and upgraded with those of more conventional unlimited local range, she assembled something that could serve her purposes. It is likely connected to this hardware."
The absolute mess of screens, cables, metal boxes and more that surrounded this cushioned alcove was intimating. I wouldn't want to randomly poke around in it, and even if I had some sort of guide manual it would be an arduous task. I only spoke after picking through the outer edges of the electronics boundary that surrounded us. "Well, I can understand why you didn't do anything, then."
"The risks weren't worth it."
"Right."
"I was intending on doing another future check when you arrived."
"Of course. The usual?"
"Yes. Number series are the most efficient."
"Okay… Hold on." Dr. Vahlen kept silent, not even returning to her telekinesis-assisted remote computer work, while I set up the summons. I set the target date to about a day in the future, and pulled it into my hands. I completed the familiar routine of copying it onto another similar piece of paper before handing it over.
"I… I need to verify this."
'Eh?' I had expected some sort of confident explanation, not having to watch in startled bemusement while she scrambled up from her cushion seat. I gave the unconscious form of Matsu a few reassuring pats, then headed out of the padded computing alcove.
Dr. Vahlen was perched on the seat-edge of her silent massage chair, holding the edge of the numbered paper, lips moving silently while pages of text and images flashed by. I recognized various SCP Foundation images, among them the logo for the Temporal Anomalies Department. It was easy to do so, as the enlarged image was the last thing she stopped on. She pressed some buttons and clicked through several 'confirm?' prompts while I watched.
"Moira?"
She held up a hand to shush me, then pressed one last button. The white lights of the room began to pulse, and a recorded, mechanical voice blared out of unseen speakers. "Evacuation drill! This is an 'abandon ship' drill! Please take all critical portable items and backups to the assembly area! This message repeats! Evacuation Drill! This is…"
The doctor lay back on her massage chair. Moments after, high-pitched whirring and thumping began sounding from the device as it was set to levels higher than I knew of. Small electronics started flying around us both. She waved me closer, and I leaned over her head.
"It's not a drill," she whispered. "Get the shrinking funnel and the multi-safe ready." Her face tensed as a particularly intense whining sound emerged from the chair, then relaxed as it faded. "Put all of the larger items inside your carpet space."
I started the process. The big artifacts were moved without a hitch, while the safe and funnel were kept 'at rest,' just prior to materializing near us. I gave her a pair of thumbs up, keeping my questions to myself for now.
"Excellent. I don't know how much time we have," she continued. I followed her gaze to observe Yagrum and She-hulk breaking down their spaces. In the latter's case, it was literal. "Time…" She laughed, a sad maniac chuckle. "Time will be getting very tangled soon. You'll need to figure out how to deal with Matsu. It's probable that… Is it getting warm in here?"
Everything went white.
==== OWT ====
~AB
1.8: Rush HoursA/N: This chap immediately follows the prior.
1.8: Rush Hours
White cube labyrinth (SCP-167), SCP Foundation universe [9th year] - June 17th, 1994 - Moments later.
I was only able to deal with watching Dr. Vahlen disintegrate into ashes in front of me by steadfast denial of reality. I was already prepping my mental interior to accept what I perceived as a discarded, false memory - what it would be replaced with, I don't know, but it'd certainly be better. If it wasn't, well… I'd deal with that some other way.
At least it was too fast for anybody to scream.
As the first real field test of my fire-and-heat immunity, that experience was a rousing success. I used the time that the heat-infused glare filled my sight to rapidly pull up my body armour over the remaining exposed portions of my head and hands. Another directed thought had my personal force-field covering it as well. Once I felt slightly more secure behind my motorcycle-like helmet and the glassy energy covering, I took a look around.
Nothing remained. The only hints of my surroundings being the same space was the bare open doorway to the next room of the white cube labyrinth, a short stone's throw away. I had to estimate the placement of everything else from that one landmark.
'I need some integrated tech in this thing,' I mentally mused. 'Augmented reality? Communication taps? Superman-esque x-ray vision? Something for the future.'
I didn't move from my spot, only rotated and imagined chalk outlines where the bodies had been incinerated. Rather morbid, but the act did serve to keep my mind focused and the mood serious. I left the summons for the safe and funnel hanging, as there was no point to bringing them to this bare room.
'Nine years,' I thought to myself. 'Seven years past the minimum safe threshold Zelretch stated, and an infinity of time past what I expected.' I curled my hands into fists, the armour and shielding adding bulk to the gesture. There were no rings under those layers. I flexed them a few times, thinking. 'Matsu's efforts may have attracted some negative attention, and my sending the rings to her sealed it. Or perhaps one of the many hundreds of SCP Foundation artifacts I 'acquired' started a temporal investigation and some cauterization methods were implemented…'
I shook my head. None of those thoughts were helping me, and even if I did find out the root cause of this super-nova-esque heat flash - so what? Was I going to come clean? Become an SCP Foundation entry for the single remaining year I had left in this universe before it all went down the toilet? (Assuming Zelretch was correct, of course.)
No, nein, pass, null, negative!
My plans and intentions were to get out this universe ASAP, ensure everybody survived, and maybe-hopefully get Matsu's pet project completed before I left. All not necessarily in that order.
==== OWT ====
About an hour later.
The required future-sourced corrections were impersonal and vague. A building at a specific location and specific time needed to be removed from existence. I dealt with it by multi-stage summoning, all done nearly simultaneously.
Six stories tall, commercial building; parking lot and basement. Four days ago.
An empty prairie. Twelve years in the future.
Some soft grassland gained an unexpected concrete installment, and everything changed.
==== OWT ====
"Excellent. I don't know how much time we have," Dr. Vahlen continued. I followed her gaze to observe Yagrum and She-hulk breaking down their spaces. In the latter's case, it was literal. "Time…" She laughed, a sad maniac chuckle. "Time will be getting very tangled soon. You'll need to figure out how to deal with Matsu. It's probable that success with her efforts may lead to some integrated defences of the white cube labyrinth."
…
The revelation that the drill exercise 'wasn't' was met with some grumbling and 'last minute' tasks. The sense of fear wasn't that intense due to the absence of any seen threats. Everybody except the dragon, Guld, went through the shrinking funnel. Guld instead manually reduced his own size and went into the safe with Yagrum.
…
Apart from Matsu's computer nook, all the other personal spaces had been stripped bare of everything worthwhile. None of us wanted to risk anything that could worsen her comatose state.
…
I needed to stack events in my favour, so I swallowed a few thousand shrunken stat-boosting luck seeds. Some Dots were spent to stabilize the effects on myself afterwards, though I didn't notice any immediate or obvious effects.
…
Future messages confirmed that winging Matsu - in other words, bonding her to an Ashikabi, a person with Sekirei genetic traces in them - would provide her with the needed power to break out of her state.
None of us here had the native ability to do so, but genetic tweaking could confer our eligibility.
…
Yagrum wasn't interested, nor was Guld. She-hulk was, while Jennifer Walters wasn't - and then only if Matsu switched her gender to male, for very obvious reasons. Dr. Moira Vahlen was ambivalent about the whole thing. And I… I was torn up about it.
…
A dictated message from future Matsu convinced me to go ahead.
==== OWT ====
"Mikal! Mikal!" A tiny set of arms beat on my neck in time with her words.
"Yes, Matsu?" I turned my head only the slightest amount necessary to put the shrunken, red-brown haired Sekirei in my sight. She was in the absolute safest position I could grant her: directly on top of my right shoulder, underneath a bubble of my armour and force field, which also had ballooned up to provide space around my head.
"You were spaced out there! What happened?!" The cuteness of her excited panic was offset by the squeezing she applied to the top curl of my ear with both of her hands.
I made sure not to laugh at my 'shoulder fairy' as I spoke. "Ah, apologies. I had to deal with some memory doubling due to an attack." Left unsaid was that our bond had been gained through that very doubling of time.
"An attack! Are we in danger?"
"No," I replied, stopping an instinctive head-shaking that would have shook her. "I undid it… It un-happened."
"As expected of my Ashikabi." She finally let go of my ear, but not before patting it. "With such clean ears, too."
My laugh was changed into a suppressed cough, and I turned my head fully to the right to better observe Matsu. Along with her round-rimmed glasses, she was still wearing her chest hugging white dress from before, leaving her shoulders and an upper-chest diamond-shaped cutaway open, and had knotted her loose sleeves tight against her forearms. She was positioned in that traditional Japanese sitting posture - seiza, I believe it was called - on top of the mattress-like cushion that rested on my bare shoulder. As far as size went, her standing height was about equal to that of the full length of one of my hands. Her shrinking was the result of one trip through the same SCP funnel, a passage which cut her down to one part of twelve scale.
However, such a reduction wouldn't help to bring the roomful of computer hardware and SCP artifacts she found necessary for her very ambitious project. Doubling down on funnel use was necessary: two sets of reductions of one part in twelve. To put those numbers in perspective, a hundred centimetre cube would first be turned into a eight point three centimetre size version of itself, then shrunk further to be less than seventy percent of a single cubic centimetre. This microscopic work necessitated that Matsu use a sort of hanging platform within my shoulder bubble: a floating, desk-like workspace roped to miniature 'hooks' on the inner surface of that spherical space. Scaled down, that shoulder-borne cavity served as an extremely tiny bedroom-office for her.
She worked on reconnecting the compacted version of her entire room, while I did my best to stay still and summon whatever next parts she needed. Doing such was simple, as my spot on the floor against the white wall of the bare room, directly beside the looming empty doorway, had little to distract me. It was in this quiet space that I was able to think about Matsu, her winging, and my own role as her Ashikabi.
My thoughts turned to words. "Once we're out of this SCP universe, I'll un-wing you."
"What?" The faint sounds of her activity went completely silent.
"I'll pay the Dot costs."
"Why are you saying that?" The faint rustling of fabric, closer to my ear.
"Because I'm not your fated Ash… ik..eb? Gah, I can't even pronounce it properly."
"It's Ashikabi."
"Yeah. That." I nodded in acknowledgement.
"How do you know you aren't?"
"I've read the whole Sekirei manga series," I answered. "It's Minato. You all get your happy ending."
"You already changed things when you summoned me here, Mikal. I read it too."
"Mmm. Matsu, I picked you because of your technomancer skills and the hope that you'd be better off… After…"
"Was that it? The only reason?"
"No." I shook my head slightly, careful of her position. "There was some hope of a relationship, but I already knew of major personality differences. I also wasn't going to make myself… genetically eligible… as a temptation, either."
"So you were interested in Matsu?"
"Of course. It'd be hard not to be. My… inner conflict… is that I took the choice away from you."
"Matsu chooses Mikal now!"
"But can you even not choose me, now? Is it possible?"
It took some time for her to reply to that. "Sekirei follow the commands of their Ashikabi."
"I see. Very well, Matsu - here is a direction: be fully honest in expressing yourself regarding our connection."
Instead of speaking, the sounds of muffled sobbing soon came from her.
"You're crying?"
More of the same.
"Um. Wow. Come here…" There was a bit of a challenge due to our relative scale, though.
"Matsu is already here."
I snaked a pair of invisible arms through the space between my skin and the body-hugging force field I had active. Those spare hands had more space in my right shoulder bubble, and I used that to cradle her closer to the side of my face. The proximity of her doll-scaled form came with increased volume of her sobbing.
"I'm glad you're able to open up like this," I said. "I'm not a fan of social masks."
"Eh?" A brief interruption for her to voice some confusion.
"The belief that people need to put on different layers of deceptions in order to interact with others. I try to keep it simple, by being as honest as possible, all the time with everyone."
She didn't respond, though her tears may have slowed somewhat.
"Heh. It meant that I didn't have that many friends, either. Such is life. I'd rather be integrous than popular." A slow, cautious shrug.
Sniffles turned to silence, while she remained loosely pressed against my head. "Will you be honest with Matsu?"
"Of course."
"Do you really think Minato would be a better Ashikabi than you?"
My intake of air came with a hiss. 'Honestly?' "No. Not at all."
"Is there any way he is better?"
"Um. I can't actually think of anything. He isn't really a stand-out person, apart from some human decency. He's only 'better' because the storyline says so, really."
"Matsu knows that. Minato was an inadequate human."
"Harsh. So…?"
"Yes! Your argument is all about ensuring that I was still eligible for such a person!?"
"Uhh…" 'Not really? I hope not?' Instead, I went with, "Preferably someone better."
"Such as you?"
"I… wouldn't want to assume."
"Matsu is thinking that you're being strange."
"I guess I am, at that." My sad laugh shook my chest. "I haven't had the best relationships with highly sexed, beautiful women…"
"Huhu!" A mood reversal. "Mikal thinks Matsu is beautiful?"
"Without a doubt."
"Fufu!" She curled up closer beside my head, intertwining her tiny hands in my hair. My invisible hands cupped her closer, pressing her fabric-covered self against the side of my face. "What happened in those relationships?"
"Pain and madness, Matsu." I sighed, and ground the helmeted back of my head against the bare wall behind me. "Let me tell you a story about lies, cheating, betrayal, stalkers, 'lost' engagement rings and more…"
The topic of de-winging went off to the side, and I began to retell the miserable story of the intimate relationships in my life.
==== OWT ====
While Matsu's assembly of her room's worth of computer hardware may have had more interruptions due to our conversations, the tone of her activities were more positive.
Talking about my relationships branched into more comprehensive dialogues about my life. There was some spirit of fairness in my actions, as the canon Matsu had all but memorized the biography of her Ashikabi before her introduction to him.
I setup another telepathic connection with her during those days, but only after doing a check of cognitive or informational hazards we may have picked up. Thankfully, we were both 'clean.' I nearly immediately had to tweak the settings on that mental bond, as Matsu used it as a means to throw lust and rather provocative imagery of the various 'debauched experiments' she'd like to perform my way.
They were distracting at best, and sad at worst. That would likely change as our relationship shifts, but that would take time. I countered with affection-fondness, and the emotional tug-of-war stabilized somewhat.
We fell into an easy routine in those days. She worked on her micro-scale hardware; I supplied parts, shrinkage, Mr. Deeds' assistance, and future-sourced advice as necessary. She slept; I kept watch, took notes, and made plans. She complained about being kept small and cooped up; I elaborated on the attacks she wasn't even aware of. Our size disparity kept the kiss-empowering noritos to a minimum, though it was one of the few things she didn't complain about in the slightest.
The various assaults fell into different patterns: heat, cold, radiation, conventional and exotic explosives… Suitcase nukes and bombs large enough to be mistaken for gasoline tanker trucks. Stranger attacks included waves of sound, intense gravity, pulsating fleshy and plant-like masses. The sound of Matsu splashing into liquidized flesh under umpteen levels of high gravities was disturbingly burnt into my memory.
While I wasn't stressed out about the attacks themselves, I was getting anxious about how easy they were to handle. Everything seemed geared towards eradicating a normal threat. To put it in fantasy terms, they were the knights sent off to kill the giant horde - rather than the arch-mages beating back horrors from the Far Realms.
Irregardless of considering myself an extradimensional eldridtch abomination… Where were the cognitive hazards? The stasis time traps? The rewriting of natural reality, the attention devouring entities, the matter transmogrification, the infernal legions of the damned, the many, many lethal hostile SCPs that I didn't pick because they were too damn dangerous?!
My imagination conjured up more demons than whatever forces were used against me. It was so distracting that some of the attacks that I totally no-sold, such as heat-based ones, I simply let run their course rather than deal with them.
Though I did work to undo them if Matsu complained.
==== OWT ====
About two weeks later.
We stared at the computer console setup that was framed by the bare doorway for minutes before speaking.
"Was that always there, Mikal? I think so, yet I also… don't think so?" The tiny, wobbling presence of my sekirei spoke as she leaned against the side of my head.
"Welcome to the world of temporal paradox memories, Matsu. While I think you don't have the same types of time protections I do, our shared mental connection stops crazy things from happening to your memory. Apparently this 'doubling' is the best result for a regular mind."
She whimpered something about knowing everything at any costs, and I continued to examine the newly-always there console. It was arranged to be used at standing height, with a square monitor the size of a small kitchen table, and an over-sized keyboard below it. The monitor and keyboard appeared to be floating, but a glance underneath them revealed bunches of wrist-thick bundles of cables and wires that provided them support. A high-pitched humming sound could be heard near the hardware, and passing in hand's reach of the hardware revealed that the hum could even be felt as a fine vibration - a lesser cousin to the experience of handling a gas-powered weed whacker, perhaps.
Beyond the doorway lay a white room absolutely filled with server racks. They faded out of sight in the distance, both to the horizon and the unseen ceiling. The glow of blinking blue LEDs provided a dim contrast to the plain white light of this otherwise bare room.
The keyboard was… Intimidating. I kept the fingers of my doubly armoured hands securely knotted together behind me as I leaned over the… contraption? I don't know a proper hyperbolic label for what I was staring at.
"Mikal! It has an 'any' key!"
Panning over the rows of buttons revealed that particular bane of technical support calls everywhere.
"Huh. You're right."
Other notables included "/0" - divide by zero, I assume - all the buttons of a scientific calculator, some highlights of ASCI alt codes, such as ∞, α, and Ω… Hazardous warning symbols, such as those for radioactivity, , and biohazards, … In fact, the more I stared at it, the more buttons unfolded at the edges of my vision. Things reset to normal whenever I blinked and gazed at the keyboard's centre, though the addition of that 'any' key would always be off-putting.
In this stupefied silence, a single beep drew our attention to the screen. A single letter of bright green DOS era text rotated in place in the bottom left corner, going through the visual impression of a spinning line. Another beep, and a new line of text appeared:
Press any key to continue.
==== OWT ====
A/N: Good news/bad news: I'm sick! So… Less work, more writing? Yay? *cough* *wheeze* Been a few weeks now. Thanks for all that contributed during my last muse-ish collapse. SCP universe stuff is wrapping up.