Current Energy: 20
Current Training: Dragon Kind Modification EX (5/10) This omake bonus in thanks to - Fenix987654321
Saturday, February 12th, 2011
Hebert Household, Brockton Bay
"What are you doing?!" Taylor asks you in panic as you withdraw one of your throwing knives (broken shards of Gram, to be specific), and stab it through your right hand. You blink and look up at her, her spoon full of cereal having been dropped to the table as she rushed towards you. Then you glance back down at your now bleeding hand. Knowing you have a limited amount of time before the hole closes and you have to repeat the action, you temporarily ignore her question to withdraw a glass from a nearby cupboard.
Then you turn to sit at the table with your cut open palm hovering over the mouth of the glass.
"Training." You state by way of explanation.
"Oh. Huh." Taylor answers, instantly calming down and returning to her seat to clean up the mess she made.
"So..." She asks carefully, eyeing your bleeding hand as the glass beneath it slow fills to about a quarter full and then stops, as your bleeding begins to slow. "What exactly...?" She trails off.
"How much do you know of this ones legend?" You ask, lifting your hand away from the glass and shaking it slightly. You don't really have 'fast healing' as it were. You just have an enhanced ability to function while suffering injury, coupled with a slightly faster healing speed. You'll be fine by tomorrow, but for the moment, the injury won't hinder you much.
"You killed a Dragon and got its powers?" She offers after a moment of thought.
"Yes. This one defeated Fafnir in single combat. Then this one ate his heart." You explain, putting emphasis on the last words before continuing, ignoring Taylor's wince of disgust.
"As this one does not wish to experience having my heart removed and eaten in front of me - something I could, in fact, survive, we must proceed slowly." You finish, grabbing the glass and gently sliding it across the table to your Master, who blinks owlishly at you before looking down at it and blanching slightly.
"No. Ew. Ew ew ew. Can we skip this one?" She asks desperately, leaning away from the thing as though it might bite her.
"Assertion. No. You're current physicality is worrying to this one. You are vulnerable in a way that I cannot always foresee and defend against. Please." You state, tilting your head to peer into your Master's eyes over the rim of your glasses. There is a pregnant pause wherein your Master's gaze shift between you and the glass a few times, until she eventually sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose.
"Ugh. This sucks. You suck. I hate this. Go grab me some orange juice." She complains, reaching out to gingerly take the glass in hand.
"It will taste worse if you allow it to dry." You advise, before rising to poor a glass of orange juice to place next to her. Taylor sends you a dirty look but quickly relents, turning back to the glass of your blood.
"Training. This is training. Training to-" She pauses with the glass halfway to her lips.
"What is this going to achieve?" She asks suddenly.
You resist the urge to roll your eyes and preempt her by putting a finger beneath the glass and lifting it slightly. Taylor splutters somewhat as the viscous fluid begins to flow and then coughs and splutters at you when she is finished, turning to glare at you as she coughs and wretches.
"Being a dragon." You answer her smugly.
Despite how good of an explanation you consider that to be, it fails to protect you from the combined assault of both Taylor and Nemesis as they begin to chase you. Taylor to punish you. Nemesis... seemingly just for fun.
Saturday, February 12th, 2011
The Heap, Brockton Bay
Your Master, blessedly, gave up on trying to destroy you shortly after you remembered that you can, in fact, become intangible.
"Query. What are our goals for the day?" You ask your Master curiously as she begins to fiddle with the interface for the Wardstone, arcane script and energies emanating from the thing like the heat haze from a volcanic stone.
"We're going to see if we can rig the Friend or Foe Wards to ping Mouse Protector specifically. Maybe do some more work while we're at it." She answers you patiently, now too absorbed in her work to maintain her annoyance with you. "Go grab Oliver and Wreck for me while I work would you?" She adds, her hands whipping out to begin fiddling with the enchantments on the castle as though they have a mind of their own.
"Acknowledged." You answer, stepping away from your Master and walking through the wall and out into the hallway. The Heap, as always, is huge. The only reason you are easily able to locate anything in it at any given moment in time is that almost everything of significance is on the ground floor. Still, the building is much more lively now, with Dockworkers running too and fro setting up wiring and other things throughout the building in preparation of it's upcoming conversion into something of an entertainment center. You even find yourself ducking around them as they move about, despite your invisibility.
Eventually however, you find your way to the garage, where Trainwreck and Oliver are currently arguing over... something.
"And I'm fucking telling you, it's easier to just staple a normal fucking gun to an axe than it is to try and make a variable fucking pilebunker you fucking nerd." Trainwreck asserts, throwing his hands into the air in exasperation.
"But- it's a pilebunker. Why wouldn't I want a pilebunker. Come on! I cut ties! I got shot! I- I haven't even asked Taylor out! Not once!" He yells back in complaint. You lift an eyebrow at that but remain invisible to watch the goings on.
"You haven't asked the boss out because you've got no balls, and she ain't got the time. You've known her for what.. two weeks? Fuck off." Trainwreck scoffs.
"We're teenagers! It isn't like I'm asking to get married!" Oliver complains, blushing.
"And you never will if you gotta fucking overcompensate with a stupid piece of shit pilebunker that's somehow also a gun!" Trainwreck yells back, turning to point at the blond.
"It's my weapon! You already said you can do it! Why are you being such a dick today?" Oliver complains.
"It offends my sensibilities kid! The fuck kind of weapon is a pilebunker!?" He yells back.
"What if it shot rail spikes. Train shit is your 'aesthetic' right?" Oliver counters immediately, causing Trainwreck to pause in his yelling and take on a contemplative expression.
"...Yeah okay, I can do that." He begrudgingly admits.
"Gentlemen." You greet, choosing this moment to appear between the two of them as they share manly looks of acknowledgement with each other. Or something.
"Jesus fucking christ!" Trainwreck yelps, barely thinking before swinging a metal fist at you that you catch with one hand, leaning into the blow to prevent it from pushing you back.
"Trainwreck. This one is pleased to greet you in my new form." You nod to the man, pointedly ignoring Oliver for a second.
"...Emmy?" Trainwreck asks curiously, slowly retracting his arm.
"Yes." You acknowledge, withdrawing your own arm.
"Uh- how... how long were you-" Oliver begins to ask but is cut off by Trainwreck.
"Single?" He shoots.
"Married." You answer somewhat sadly.
"Women's right?" He continues.
"Inviolate." You reply, quirking your head as you try to determine where this line of questioning is going.
"Kill count?" Trainwreck continues, nodding along as he speaks.
"...High." You reply taciturnly.
"Hah! Knew it! You're some kind of badass mass murderer this time huh? The pattern holds!" Trainwreck cackles, snapping his fingers with a metallic clink. You frown at that. It's true that you have fought in wars, and are a hero of old who has participated in more than his fair share of combat, but you aren't a 'mass murderer'. That implies a degree of maliciousness and self satisfaction behind your actions that simply wasn't present. It only seems that way because the heroes of old held very different standards to this new generation of spandex wearing-
"No seriously how long were-" Oliver tries again nervously.
"Long enough." You state flatly.
"Okay, hear me out. Don't tell Taylor anything you just heard and I'll-" He tries to beg, only for you to cut him off with a neutral looking smile on your face.
"Master requests your presence in the Ward room." You state, gesturing to both men and then vanishing.
You try not to smirk as the blond boy pales.
"What the hell is a pilebunker?" Taylor asks as Oliver cautiously lays out what he wants by way of a weapon.
"Some lame giant robot shit." Trainwreck opines, earning a scowl from Oliver.
"I- Look it's for hard targets right? If you want me for ranged support, then any time I get into melee, I'm probably screwed anyway, and this-" He says jabbing a finger at the childish rendition of what he wants on the round table "- is basically the biggest most immediately lethal thing I can think of!" He finishes with a nervous smile.
Taylor examines him for a moment before looking down at the weapon and back up again.
"Okay. What about a costume? Armor?" She says, turning to Trainwreck curiously.
"Was waiting for you on that one boss. Figured we could do something cheeky with some of that magic shit." He says with a shrug.
"I had some ideas for that too!" Oliver blurts out, obviously having expected more ridicule and less support, then begins to sketch something else out on the table.
Once things have settled down, the group moves from the Ward room to the Garage, where they spend the better part of the rest of the evening getting Oliver's equipment ready. They don't finish it - there's no way that much work could be done in just a single day - but Taylor deems it necessary for him to be prepared, trusting in her modifications to the Heap to assist in her location of Mouse Protector. There is, unfortunately, not much else she can do.
It is getting late into the evening, when something finally disturbs the group of bickering craftsmen. You only even notice it because you aren't actively participating in the exercise. A small gap opens in one corner of the garage, and disgorges a small body onto the ground.
"Master." You quickly warn in alarm, rushing forward to examine the situation even as Taylor and the rest of the team look up in response to your call.
"The fuck?" Trainwreck yelps, as you kneel next to the body, appearing and checking her for signs of life. Several things immediately jump out at you. One, it's throat has been slit, though by what, you can immediately tell. And two, this corpse is quite naked. You try not to think about what that implies. Mostly, because you recognize this person. Not in this emulation, but in your last you encountered her. It's where she got the tag that transported her body here, in fact.
Dinah Alcott is dead, and you can't for the life of you figure out how or why.
Frowning, you tilt your head down fractionally to examine the corpse, even as Taylor slides to a stop next to you, hands already aglow with golden light.
Through the lenses of your glasses, information bursts forth.
L̷͉̩̝̲͎͛͑̂͜ą̶͔͖̱̯͎̍͆̽̇͝c̸̦̙̒͝ͅͅk̸̪̺͈͉̒̈́̋̀̈́ ̴͉͓͜͝o̷̟̯̠͇͌̋͜f̸̨̻̻̰̀̕ ̸̥̎̓̇̈̾͜p̴̰͚͓͓͛̽̆̾h̵̲̀̇̋̄͠ÿ̴̬͓͇́͋͝s̶̟̼͔͂i̷͉̼̤̳̗̎̔̅ć̶̡̨̯͆̌̌̍͝ä̵̧͇̩̬͇́͗l̸̤̝͆͂̏̂̋ ̷͓̩̠̩̈͊̾́̔͐s̸͈̀̋̇̆̈̆i̸̝̯̜̻̽ǵ̷͎̣͛́͂n̷̠̥̲̆̔̎̅͐̕s̸̖̣̼̃̄͛̿͗̕ ̸̩̖̐̏̃̓̒̕o̵̻͔̝͓̻̬̊̐̀̓f̷̡̦̤͕̿ ̵̭̖̪̤̍̊̇ͅe̷̳̠̾̃̔x̷̰̺̟͑h̶̫͎̒a̸̖͎͒ů̷̢͔͉ͅs̴̥̭̪̲͔̠̏͊t̸̪̝̹̻̰͂̓͝͠͝ͅį̷̢͈̋̿͐̈̂̌ǫ̵̢͈̘̤̌n̶̹͎͑ ̴̫͈̊̀̂ǫ̵̻̲̔̓̒̽r̷̙̠͕̤͇̎̀͒̓͜ ̷̜̇̑̓́̕s̷͈̦̦̹̅͒̍ͅṯ̴̠͖̄̾̽̓̌̌r̴̡͙̞̼͗͝u̸̥̘̲̤͑ǵ̸̯̝͘g̷̲̓̂͠l̴̡̰̮̃e̵͛̓̽̆͜.̷͈͆͗̄̎̔͝ ̶̴̧̢̣̲̻͎́͌́͝S̴k̴i̶n̵ ̴a̸p̸p̸e̷a̵r̷s̸ ̴t̸o̸ ̶h̸a̶v̵e̷ ̶n̶e̶v̵e̶r̶ ̵s̸e̵e̷n̷ ̶t̴h̶e̸ ̸s̶u̸n̴.̴ ̸̶̆̍͜H̸̜̄e̴͈͂̓̈́a̵̳̟̥͘ḻ̸͇͂̕t̷̻͎̹̐͝h̶͕̋ý̶̨̗̠ ̸̢̲́ą̸͝p̵̝̪̎p̷̉͜ē̶̙͔͂a̶̗̞͛̍̍r̵̫̈́͜ä̵͖̞́̂n̸̮̹̲̔̚c̸̞̄e̷̳̓́͊,̴̬̼̍ ̴͕̟̦̔̈ḏ̴̨̗́̀̒ĭ̸̚͜s̵̪̠̦̍́̊t̸͍̼͐̓̾į̷̹̞̈n̸͙̟̽̄͌c̷͙͖̭̓t̴͔͘̕ ̴̡̨̔̅̋ḻ̵̪͌̒̾a̶̦̐c̸̜͆t̷̳̰̅ͅ ̸͕͛̾͛ő̷̑ͅf̷͕̺͕̃͊̂ ̵̳̼̼̏̍w̴͚͕̯̾̓͘e̶͔̊̾͠a̴̰͆̏t̵͙̀̅h̴̨̡͉̉ḙ̶̩͑͝͠ṟ̷͍̀͂̇i̷̜̮͒̓n̵̞̗̤͗ǧ̴̡̖͇̉͊.̷̰̖̓͗ ̸̷̝̺̱͔̼̐̑̀E̴̢̒͠ͅx̷̭͑̎ṯ̴̠̯̔̊͑r̴̟̠̓͜ḛ̷͛͌͠ͅm̴̛͙̰̓e̵̯͘l̶̙̺͔͘y̶̨̒̋͜ ̵̳̇̚̕p̴̞͇͊̈́à̸̤m̷͇̜̫̔p̴̤̋ȅ̸̱̠ŗ̶̢͓̌͛ẻ̶̞̻̜̈́ď̷̓̋͜.̸̱̌́ ̷̸̣͓̤̯̰͂͋̒̚
̷̺̥̐̅͠U̶̘̅̀̆n̷̫̾͆̌l̷̩͔͎̄̈͝i̸̧̪̎k̸̻̱̰̊e̵̝͙̽̉́l̷̫̒̊̎y̵̛̳̍ ̵͎͔̈́̿̋t̷̹̓͐̇ọ̵̺̅ ̸̜̈́͒ḩ̴̡̂̎͝ͅa̵̹͖̽v̸͉͕͌͆̊ḙ̵̚ ̴̛͈̦̝̉e̶̮͚̋v̵͙̲̍ë̷̗͑͠r̷̝̈́ ̵̻̗͇͑̀ļ̶̗̙̓̈́̚ḛ̸̽f̴̛̖̓̽t̵͎͠ ̸̗̃͝p̴̛̞ļ̴̉ḁ̵̞̆ͅc̵̛̳̺̞̾͂ê̸̜̗̳ ̸̜̪̀o̴̼͔͑̔̔f̷̖͊́ͅ ̷̱̈́̍̀b̶̨̖̮͗̈́̀ḯ̸̡͖͗̆r̵͎͕̂t̶͖̂̉͊h̸͉̤̉͜.̸͖͖̆ ̷̴͍͌̿͑E̶x̶p̴r̶e̴s̴s̷i̷o̶n̶ ̵m̷i̶l̶d̸ ̵a̷n̶n̶o̵y̶a̴n̷c̴e̴.̴ ̵̴͈̭̆͌̀͝Ű̸̻͑̉̕̕͘ǹ̷̙̱̠͔̠͜s̷̠̏͠u̴̦̘̟̼͍̫͛͘̕͘ŗ̴̖̻̿͗̊̈́̽p̶̢̩͖͋̏͂͐͝r̵̖̞̣̰͔̣͗̈̓̋̑̋i̷̺̹̳̱̫͑͒̉͆͑͋s̵̬̱̃̽e̶͂ͅd̸̢̩̬̀̈́͋̓ ̴̡̛̝͙͆b̸͇̥͈̒̾̆y̵̛̲̟̙͑ ̴̛̪̭͇̗͆̈́̋̒̿d̵̢̙̙̯͎̈̾̈́̽̊͜è̸̦̓̎̈á̸͂̒̄͜t̷̰͙̋h̷͎̭̦̖̻̄̎.̴͖͕̩̠̟͂͋͊̓̋͑͜ ̸̸̧̰̗̭̘̤̣̫̋̋̅͌̌͜U̴̦̗̺̪͔̲̯͖̖͓̔̀̓n̴̬͈̘̬̞̣͓̔̉̊̀̊̅̑͠b̴̳̦̦̅̊̀̉͘ö̵̰̼̞͍t̵̛͈̅͊̉̄͂̈́͘͝h̷̢͚̰͚͎̮̫͊̀̌͊̑́͒̊̄̕e̴̼̩͋̈́̇̅̃r̶͎̅̒́̓̆́̎̎͘è̴̢̢̨̫̼̾̀͂ď̶̨̢̩̩̘̠̬̺ͅ ̸̧̧̟̟͐̉͊̔̽̆͗͐͆͝b̵̻̠͛͒ỹ̷̻͈͈̠͍͈̪̙̏̊̓̊͌͑̓͜͝͝ ̷̧̛͔̗̈́̎̽̋̓͋̚͝d̸͎̘̤̩̟̞̐̉͊͛͋͒̈́͗̔͗è̵̮̲̹͈̰̟̹̣͊͝͝a̸͚̰̅̃̒̐͆t̵͚͎̭̞̭͗̏̀̆̍̎̎͑̎͠h̶̨̘̟̪̙͉̟͆.̴̘͇̮̥̖̮̟̩̹̄̑̿̊͘̕ ̵̵̧̦̱̱̻̞̐̀̈́͋̈̒̑̚U̸n̷a̴b̸l̷e̶ ̷t̴o̵ ̶a̵c̸t̵i̶v̴a̶t̴e̶ ̴t̷a̴l̶i̶s̴m̵a̶n̵ ̷w̵h̶i̵l̸e̵ ̷d̶e̴a̶d̸.̸ ̵̸̢͓̟̲̯͕̤̬͕̻̖̣̙͛͆̍͛͗̇L̷̡̯͕̠̱̮̯͋̉̓̀͑̍́̕ȩ̵̧͉̼͉̘̭͔̔f̴̦͚̺̘̖̌̋̀̿̐̍̓͋̃̐͘ͅt̵̡͔̗̠̖̰̞̊͌̓̄̓̓̒̅͊ ̴̛͖̖̯̭͔̩͓̹̊̊̀̿̈́̿͛̂̓̍͊̈́͠a̸̙͚͇̖̥̗͎̍̚s̴̢̘͕͍͈̰̜͓̠̹̗͇̠̤͒̑̓̇͋̓ ̸̧̛̬͔͔͖͖̥̮͕̪̹̱̪̪̈́̍̉̓͋̄͋͗̑̈́̋̆͘å̵̛͉̦͉͎̞̲̰̗͔̤͇̐̍̍̑͐̔̄̎̅̕͜͝ ̸̡̲̞̞̩̙͂͂̑̊̚m̷̧͍̳̠̗̩̟̝̭̝̺̳͚͖͆̿̇̽̿e̵̞̱̣̎̿̽̇̔̑̽̃͑̋̀͘͝s̸̡̙̗̗̥̹̣̙̗͛̏̃͑͂̋s̷̨͚̪͖̝̍̍̋̏̓̔̀a̸̺̖̝̗̺̩̱̝̠͙̠͕̺̩͛g̴̔̓̽̑́̾̒͜͠ȩ̸̠̻̺̖̗͚͙̺̘͍͚͇̓̓̽̅̈́̈́͜͠.̴̡̘̘͚̞̯̣̚ ̸̶̡̧̮̪̼͓͉̤͈̘̜̪͓̻̠͓̱̺̭̭̿̈́̿̍̑̎̿̄̍̽̒͛̂͗̑̽͐̕̚̚̚͝͠Ĺ̵̡̙̝̥̙̏͂͑̎͂̉̓͑̆͑͛̕͠ḙ̴̢̨̓͒̔̈́̒̾́̈͘̚͘f̶̨̥̿̈́̌̂̅̃̂t̶͓͇̼̻͕̲̫̱̦̩̻̥̋͋̊̄͐̑͛ͅ ̶̢͇̼̠̻̖͔͇̲̗̝͆͆̈̀̎̐͘͜͠a̸̛̯̙͚̜̪̟̯͆̓s̴̛̰̣̲͔̤̙̹͉̫̉̓͊͆͂̈́̿̓̀̃ ̸̢̛̰̰̦̺̠̊͛̃̋̏̂́̂̓͘̕͠a̶̩̋͛̂͆͊̌̈́̊̍̇ ̵̢̢̱̯̯̟̱̞͚̥̲̺͑̈́̽ͅw̶̢̯̲̩̘̖̲͈̻̯̖͔͖̙̎͐̀ă̶̟͓̫͙̟̜̾͛̎̓̈́́͐̇͊͠r̷͕͓̀̀̔̓̔n̸̡͈̘̤͑̃́̈́̍̆̈́̂͑̒̕͜͝į̸̬̌́̓̀̊̿̂͌͌͘ͅń̷̨̛͈̞͚̼͍͔͔͜g̵̯̲͎̦̦̰̱̲̀̀̒.̶̡̤̠̫͔̦̙̳̰̘̪̪̬̒́̌͌̀͂͘͘͠
You wince, and then shift the glasses further down your face.
Well. You suppose you should call the PRT.