Quest

by Kahlil Johnson

Uhhhh

55. Le

I've never posted anything in the NSFW forums before. But the thought of this story hit me with an itch that I couldn't scratch in any other way. For what few of you who would recognize me from SB, yes, I'm that Potato Nose. Hopefully, that won't put any of you off this story, but if it does... well, I won't blame you. Chapters of this story will only be posted here, and nowhere else, not even my .

Prologue

Deal with a devil. Slippery slopes. More than one bargained for. There's plenty of metaphors for the road to hell being paved with good intentions. Nobody intends to be a villain, after all. Nobody really wants to be an awful human being. Many of the worst people believe themselves to be good, or doing bad things for a good reason. Sometimes they're bad enough to get into the history books. Most of them are bad enough to ruin other people's days in what are, over the long run, forgettable ways. Some lucky few of us only ruin our own lives.

And ruin my own life I assuredly did. When I finally die in whatever way that comes to me, I'll have to square with my own decisions. I can only say... my intention... were good.

It seemed so harmless at the time, after all. It was only a story.

And the most damning part of it all, is that for everything that happened, I can't even say I'm sorry with honesty.

It all started with that CYOA. Didn't it? No, earlier... that website. Sort of. Except even that's not right either, is it? Go back further. To when I was eight. Standing in the bathroom, about to get into the shower, and catching sight of myself in the mirror. I knew I was a boy, of course, except I didn't really get what that was supposed to mean. I never got along well with boys, and girls never wanted to associate with me, being I was a boy, so I found myself spending a lot of time by myself. I knew the basics of the birds and the bees, I knew that we were all physically different, I knew I was a boy and that was that.

But catching sight of myself in the mirror that night, I fleetingly wondered why that little bit of dangling flesh made so much difference to everybody that it determined who I was, who I could play with, what I could wear, how people saw me. That single bit of my body that I had no say in, that made me a label to everyone that saw me, one of the first things I was judged by on sight, and identified as: male, boy, guy.

Something I was identified as that I had no positive attachment to.

That fleeting moment of self awareness, bubbling to the surface beneath layers of repression, fear, and a desperate need to please people who held power over me was my first clear recollection of actual gender dysphoria. It wasn't, as many would think, so much a dislike of being male, although that was a component of it, but more a resentment of the label that came with it, despite the blatantly obvious fact that I was thoroughly terrible at BEING a male. My mannerisms from my youngest years were too delicate and poised, I was sensitive to others' moods, I felt envious that the prettiest clothes were for girls.

And my father hated that I showed any traits that weren't masculine in nature. The irony of it all was that the masculine traits I had-- an enthusiasm for rough housing, an interest in martial arts, a wish to be liked by girls and a very significant desire to someday have a girlfriend-- were either ignored or disregarded in favor of stamping out any perceived homosexual or effeminate tendencies. As though any such traits in me reflected in the masculinity of my father, although who knows? Maybe it was hereditary; maybe these things in me were traumatic to my father because they pointed to a part of himself he didn't or couldn't acknowledge. As a machinist, he didn't have the sort of career that encouraged introspection. For him, if something was the wrong shape, he took it and stuck it into a lathe, a metal saw, a drill press, or some other precision tool of constructive destruction, and meticulously carved away anything that didn't belong until it was either the right shape or it broke. If the former, all was as it should be, regardless of what the newly milled component began as. If it broke it was defective and to be discarded.

My father was unquestionably a man that should have never sired, much less raised children. At some point, the courts recognized this, because for a while I was sent to live with my grandparents.

My mother was a flighty woman. She had been a ballet dancer, until she married, and ballooned into a woman who had more in common with a blueberry or a roly poly than anyone a person would associate with toe shoes and tights. I don't blame her for giving up dancing as soon as she moved out; when living with my grandparents I was unwelcomely railroaded into ballet by a grandmother who lived dance and had zero awareness that other people could have desires, interests, and aspirations that didn't match her own. I spent three years in ballet, an ordeal that was punctuated by performances in The Nutcracker every year as Fritz, not for a talent in dance which I didn't possess but for the simple expedient that I was the only boy in the class that was performing, and my poor flexibility and lackluster dance skills made for a means to differentiate me as a bratty child.

Of course, what I lacked in dance talent, I made up for in timing, and even if I couldn't keep my back straight with my leg out in Pointe behind me, I could keep in perfect time to the music. I think that was perhaps the sole reason I didn't have a complete meltdown during the three years of dance that were forced on me, the simple fact that the was something in this horrible experience that I was good at. It made me desperately want to be an actor, because I hungered for the feeling of being on stage without having to contort my legs and hips into positions that even after years of training were actively painful for me, every time I did them.

Ironically, these unpleasant years would serve as something of a highlight of my childhood, not because in retrospect they were enjoyable-- they weren't-- but because what came after when I returned to my parents (a couple years before my mother abandoned us) was so much worse. I won't linger on the details of the years that followed but it's frankly a miracle that I never attempted to kill my father in my teens, because I certainly thought about it a lot. I will suffice to say that one of his lesser flaws was his willingness to strangle his son into unconsciousness, in a fashion not dissimilar to Homer Simpson strangling Bart.

Except in the Simpsons it's played for laughs and I can testify that there's nothing humorous about the sensation of cotton stuffing your ears as your hearing stops working, and your vision narrowing to a point before just fading out completely, only to wake up having pissed yourself. I don't actually know how long I was out, but it was long enough to scare him, because after that last time he never strangled me again. Maybe he was afraid he wouldn't stop the next time. Maybe he just didn't want to get pissed on again. I'll never know. I haven't seen him since I was twenty-eight and that time only by accident. While I occasionally check the obituaries I have no desire to speak to or see him again, but I had resolved some years back that when he was finally in the ground I would do literally what I've heard people say figuratively, and I would willingly accept and plead guilty to any public indecency and grave desecration charges the law saw fit to impose.

It is a decision, a resolve, that I would never get to carry out.

I'm a grown man, now, older by a decade than the callous parental figure who haunted my nightmares and made me resolve to be a better father to my son than my father was to me. I'm still not comfortable in my skin but it's an old discomfort, one I've long since gotten used to, a self loathing ache that's so familiar I'm certain that death will be its only relief. I still do martial arts although my failing joints take more and more of my fitness away and I haven't been a part of a dojo in twenty years so my form is absolutely trash, but it keeps me from turning my wife into a widow from heart disease.

All of this melancholic rambling, of course, is important to this very moment, as I sit across the table from my son, as he confides to his mother and I: "I think I want to transition."

When he was growing up, there were clues. A couple of Halloweens he dressed up as a girl; he's always had my grace, although none of my passion for martial arts to my great regret. I didn't force him into martial arts, nor did I shame or punish him for displaying girl traits. I'm not my father or my grandmother. But hearing him say this was crushing to me, not because I felt it was wrong, but because my first thought was that I could understand intimately the experience of gender dysphoria and I would die a thousand deaths by strangulation at my father's hands before I would ever wish my existence on my son. My daughter? My child. I want my child to be happy, and healthy, and safe. I want nothing more than happiness for him or her. But most of all, I never want anyone, my child least of all, to feel the same lingering ache of dissatisfaction and disgust I do for myself. Does this mean I'm trans too? I don't know.

I don't remember much more of the dinner, except that I made sure to emphasize that to my son of daughter, I don't care what gender so long as they're happy and healthy. I don't know quite how he's feeling-- for now just for ease of reference, I say he, because I'm still getting used to the idea, and I'll support him in whatever he needs. But I don't know what he's feeling about my response in particular and I know that means that on some level he doesn't trust me, nor with this, and that means that I've failed him somehow.

I think about all of this as I'm brushing my teeth before sleep in the morning. I think about this as I get up the next afternoon. I think about this as I take my walk down to the park and back. Or at least, down to the park, because I don't get back, as a scraping screeching noise jolts me from my thoughts, and I look up. A detached, bouncing tire from a moving van looms large in my sight. Beyond it I have the incredibly clear, detailed split second image of the van scraping sparks from the concrete divider on the median, and all I can think about is this is a really shitty time in my son's life for me to die.

--

"If you get hit by the tire, is that the equivalent of being kicked by Truck-kun?"

The question catches me off guard. With it comes a sort of awareness, or rather, the understanding that up until now there has been no awareness for me.

There's no sight, and no sound. I don't mean silence; as a life long sufferer from tinnitus silence has always been unpleasant for me but like many such discomforts in my life I'm so accustomed to it that being without it is as much confusing as it is relief.

All discomforts are gone, in fact. Emotional weights that have sat on my metaphorical shoulders for all my life are absent, and there is a peace that accompanies this weightlessness that's freeing. Have I been judged by Osiris and permitted passage to the field of reeds? Is this the nirvana of Buddhism? Am I finding awareness during a Pralaya of Hinduism? Or is this inky blackness the Sheol of Judaism?

"All and none, I'm afraid," the voice answers. "As inconvenient as it is, nonexistence defies any definitions applied by the existing. Or more accurately, defies defining by those existing where you are familiar with existence. Your awareness is still rooted to certain limitations, so that explanation is going to be as good as you get for the moment."

Reincarnation?

"After a fashion. The droplet returns to the ocean, flies high on the winds, and falls to earth. What it carries with it from its journey returns with it to the ocean, but it makes many stops along the way, doing many things." I get a mental impression of a shrug. "Or it makes the journey back quickly instead. It all varies, for all types of oceans."

Like the lifestream of Final Fantasy mythos.

"All and none, as I said before. Many have the pieces but few understand even their individual part, and none comprehend the whole image they assemble."

Cryptic fortune cookie bullshit.

"As I said before, all and none."

I never was a fan of such pointless verbal legerdemain. Even here and now, or nowhere and never? Lacking emotion I still do not have a liking of it.

"Lucky for you, then, that you will not have to deal with it long."

So I'm going back, then?

"Oh, yes and no. I won't bore you or myself with details you won't understand, can't understand, and won't remember later. That last bit is built in to the system, you see. But there are interested parties who have decided to make you an offer. To, among other things, let you, the monad of your particular droplet, decide what you wish to do next. An informed decision, after a fashion."

An informed decision? Hardly. When another controls the flow of information, there is no decision, only control of information to cause the outcome desired. Twenty first century mass media and propaganda were adequate displays of that factor.

"For a corporeal being, of course. They are ruled mostly by their hormones. But you are not corporeal right now. The monad of yourself, your self, is still capable of free will. It is, in fact, the ONLY thing the monad is capable of. And control of monad is impossible, it's one of the things that makes all versions of life worth living. Regardless of why a choice is made or how that choice is influenced, only the monad of the self can make or abstain from making a choice. It is, in many ways, the truest expression of free will and sentience."

That doesn't change the fact that I only know what I am told or shown.

"In what way does that matter? All choice is partially informed, whether by observation, deduction, or desire. Nobody and nothing knows everything about and coming from a decision. Not even We."

I know that's a segue into a ROB identifying themself and I'm not playing that game. I have no interest in ROBs or Qs or any other brand of near omnicient dickery. I just want to know what they know about this supposed choice so I can act in either self interest, spite, or whatever other egotistical motivation they want to prove of me.

"You were unfortunate in your life, and it has laced you with a bitterness that transcends even the surpassal of emotion and hormonal regulation of a corporeal self. I will not apologize because it was neither my doing nor my responsibility; all of that rests squarely on the shoulders of those who inhabited your corporeal world and no others. Their own expressions of choice and free will. No omnipotents or deities had any hand in making the play you existed in save as bystanders and accidental architects of the stage. But what you do not know is this: from the outside, all can be seen. The letters on a page only know the parts of the page on which they are written, while one who reads them can see them all in their entirety, and their relation to the other letters and spaces written therein."

Cute. A flatlander metaphor, now. From religion to math?

"Both are attempts by limited minds to reduce a seemingly unlimited universe to concepts they can comprehend. That one is more strongly based in evidence than another is immaterial; they both serve the same function and have the same goal, which is to understand. But we are getting off topic."

I wasn't aware there was a topic to be getting off of.

"You guide the conversation between us to your desire to understand. The great question has always driven you, and can never be satisfied, because even We cannot see all or comprehend more than We can comprehend, merely what We can experience and learn."

Turtles all the way down, huh?

"If there is existence above Our own, We do not yet know it, but one day may encounter it much the same way you encounter this and Us. Perhaps We will one day stand on the back of the next lowest turtle and question those who trim the nails of its toes. But your decision comes soon and you must know things before you decide."

So what is this decision then?

"Whether you will move down to the next turtle's back, or remain behind to attend to what is unfinished on the back of the turtle you know."

Then there's nothing to discuss. I'm sick of the world I've known, and its petty cruelties, its pointless and empty tyrants, and the endlessly banal discoveries made useless by minds unable to comprehend their implications, my own existence and understanding VERY much included in that category. I crave comprehension or eternal non existence, and I don't much care which I get.

"Your wife grieves for you. She never remarries; she decides herself to be too old and never stops loving you. But this is not all."

My wife is a grown woman. I've set an email on a timer to be delivered to her in case of my death, when I can't push back the delivery date. I love her but she is better off without me; I've never been anything but an anchor on her life and a burden in her home.

"She has never seen it thus, and you know it. But even this is the lesser compared to the next: know you that in doing so, in moving on without concern for what you leave behind, your son follows you into this emptiness of his own choice."

Suicide? The thought gives me the first REAL emotion I've felt since I've been here. That he would be so desperate to escape is... it's horrible. Even more than my wife, I've loved my son since the moment I first became a father.

"The monad may choose to self terminate. You have even suggested it already; the non existence you half desire and half fear. That your offspring's soul be extinquished is itself as much a tragedy as the extinguishing of any monad."

How do I stop it? There's no question now of moving on or switching off.

"You will be offered a deal. It will even be familiar to you in a number of ways."

Familiar?

"You will be able to choose for yourself many of the parameters. You wish to ease your son's misery at his gender. You will get the opportunity to do so. But whether you succeed or fail, will be entirely based on your own choices."

You really ARE a ROB. This is a CYOA isn't it?

"It's an easy enough structure for you to understand. We will even use one you are familiar with."

That narrows the field significantly; the only CYOAs I can even be called passingly familiar with are from Worm. Which is a nightmare scenario in itself. The two I can think of offhand are Worm CYOA 1 and CYOA 3, although I've seen CYOA 5 and 6, neither of which I particularly liked, especially not if I'm the one who's going in.

"None of those. You see, one of the primary purposes of existence, as far as We can tell, is the narrative of existence. The story of it. We will not bore you with why such things are required, We will simply say that all souls require growth. And the best of stories are neighter easy nor comfortable."

I've gone through more than enough discomfort in my life to fill a series of novels.

"And yet you wish a boon. You want to save your child's life. You want to give him- or her- happiness. You ask a great deal from reality to get this; you will pay a great deal to receive it. Won't you?"

A silly question. If I had the power I'd rewrite reality to help my son. And if I had the opportunity I'd travel hell and heaven alike to find that power.

"That right there, is choice. It matters not that you don't know what CYOA you will be using, simply that you trust it will have the ability to grant what you will work to gain. As such, you will have fifteen years."

Oh shit.

"Fifteen years you must survive in Earth Bet, after which time you will return to the moment in time before the tire struck you. We imagine that after surviving Earth Bet for such a duration, a stray tire will be an insignificant tribulation."

I know which CYOA this is, because I opened it up after reading a story based on it.

"You will not be going as yourself; that will involve certain complications, not the least of which your latent self destructive tendencies to endlessly punish yourself for your own mistakes; let's not forget what you did fancifully when you tried filling it out a few times."

I'm not sure which scenario he's talking about. It could be the scenario where I was dropped into the Dallon kitchen and was subsequently crippled by Panacea after accidentally injuring Brandish in self defense when she immediately assumed my bald head meant I was Empire trying to repeat the Fleur incident. That one included a week long power delay culminating in a trigger incident with Panacea stuffing me in the basement for the duration for interrogation, with Brandish's assistance, where Panacea couldn't verify I was telling the truth about not knowing how I got there because of a boon that made me unreadable to parahuman powers.

"That was one of the reasons you aren't 'dropping in', yes. Although none of those scenarios was particularly healthy. The ABB trafficking drop in was especially egregious; regardless of what the CYOA says, you COULD be driven mad with suffering and pain, and despite your latent self loathing the regression of your monad serves nobody, least of all yourself."

So what ARE my restrictions?

"You will stretch your comfort zones quite a bit here; you've never been entirely comfortable with your sex drive or sexuality. We will force the issue a little. In addition, you will have some work to do."

What kind of work?

"The Endbringers. You must attend at least three fights in your first two years. You must make a tangible difference in the fighting, or in the rescues. And you must ensure that Scion dies, either at your own hands, or through your own efforts indirectly."

Gold morning. Two years after the start of the story.

"You will be arriving the day Taylor Hebert triggers. What you do from there, is entirely up to you. Whether you survive, whether you return to your family, all is up to you."

Existence is always about the story, or something like that, wasn't it? The story is always about the hero overcoming dreadful odds.

"For every story of surmounting the odds, there are a thousand about those who fail or fall short, some only inches from their goals. These, too, are valid stories, for all that few wish to read them. Be mindful that this does not become one of them."

When I was a Dungeon Master, I was well known for being perfectly willing to derail a campaign and destroy the game world if the players decided to fuck about or act like murder hobos. A dare to read the forbidden tome ended with the world being buried in warring factions of giant snakes and spiders; I always felt like it lent itself well to a campaign's feeling of tension and desperation if my players knew full well I had no qualms about giving them a Bad End. And my campaigns ended badly more often than not, at least in the early years until word spread. I suppose the shoe is on the other foot, isn't it?

"Another aspect of your impulse to destroy yourself, all those worlds you created which you willfully destroyed for the sake of your 'realism'. It made for good storytelling, didn't it? But you are out of time. Your choices have been made. It DID involve spending a lot of your so called points on the side power you'll be giving to your son that won't be a great help against Scion, regardless of Wildbow's asspull at the end, but remember: you wanted this. You decided it was worth it to make the attempt. The rest is up to you."

--

I want to protest, want to ask what my powers are, but then somebody is shaking me awake. "Cameron! Hey, Cameron! How do you even sleep through your alarm?! Get up, it's almost seven thirty!"

A deluge of information hits me like a train. Or maybe like a truck? Some kind of cargo bearing vehicle, except the cargo is a new life. Nineteen years of it. I'm disoriented, I feel imbalanced somehow, and I have to pee. I roll out of bed as fast as I can, but for some reason I'm wrapped up in a big fluffy quilt and attempting to roll out of bed twists it around me like a cocoon. Great for keeping warm in early January in New England, not so great for landing on my feet, which I most emphatically do not accomplish.

As I untangle myself from my bedding while recumbent in my undignified position on the floor, I catch sight of a leggy brunette wearing indigo shoes with matching skirt and a knitted, form hugging Christmas sweater. She face palms, trying and failing to not laugh at me. "You know, when they assigned you as my roommate I didn't know I was getting a morning slapstick show. I'd have done it sooner." Caitlin Guntermann, third year into her bachelor of sciences and mostly coasting by. Some people are made for college and Caitlin is absolutely not one of them, but she's so damn smart she manages to squeak by anyway. Either that, or she's fucking the dean.

"Yuck it up," I reply sourly, finally fighting my way free of the sheet that seems determined to keep me from getting an arm under me so I can get the rest of the way untangled. "Is there any coffee? I need coffee. Show me some mercy and give me coffee would you?"

"Only because you made me laugh," she replies with a smirk, spinning on her heel and walking out in a strut that has me staring for a moment. She really knows how to work those heels, a skill I never mastered as much through a lack of interest as anything else. And I've got a weird sense of deja vu, or overlap of some kind. Something is off.

My dorm room feels vaguely familiar and completely unfamiliar at the same time, and I have a sense of some kind of urgency. Oh, and I still have to pee.

Caitlin's only been my roommate for three days-- or rather, I only moved in three days ago. Something inside me reflects on the oddity of choosing to move in on a New Year's Eve instead of being out partying but I've never been the party sort. I never had the time; fighting to keep a 3.7 gpa from slipping lower in my senior year are up all my attention with little time for dating or partying, much to Mom's disappointment and Dad's relief.

It's these thoughts, incongruous to me for some reason, that keep my attention as I zombie my way into the bathroom. It's only as I stand in front of the toilet, staring down between boobs I do not remember having, at a pair of plain white panties that have no Y front, and nothing beneath them to pull out and piss with, that my thoughts finally assemble themselves into something relatively coherent.

I don't have a penis. But I'm not a college student, I'm a forty six year old man. I have boobs. Why do I have boobs? I'm confused, everything looks bigger than it should oh my god what the fuck is happening? As though on autopilot, like I've been doing it all my life, I slip my panties down and take a seat, letting nature take its course as my thoughts whirl like a tidal vortex.

There's a fleeting memory, an opportunity of some kind. I was thinking of Patrick. Except he wants to transition, was playing with the idea of Patricia. Don't deadname him or her wait I'm nineteen, not forty six. What year is it?

2022/2011.

2011. It's 2011, I know this because I'm Cameron Eleanor Cartwright, I just graduated from Saint Viator High School last year, an all girls academy where I was something of an odd duck. Few friends, made worse by a visitation from the boob fairy in my junior year, a development I hadn't wanted and didn't welcome because getting a whole new supply of bras and blouses ate into both my money and time, neither of which I had enough of. It was a job I couldn't just delegate to one of my parents, either, because Dad was squeamish and Mom always got stupid lacy stuff that cut into my skin and I had no need for because nobody was gonna be looking at my bras but me.

Okay, so I know who I am. Kind of. And I resent it; I have enough problems with just trying to figure out being me without having some old man stuck in my head. And somehow I knew I was going to get called an old man, but actually experiencing it is even more unpleasant than I could have guessed. Forty six isn't old. Except it absolutely is old, it's more than twice the legal drinking age which I haven't reached yet.

And this is exhausting. I have a... a job. Something I need to do. But I'm still... hazy, about it. Besides my job at the book store at BBCC to help pay a fraction of my tuition that my Pell Grant doesn't cover, with student loans taking up the remainder, I don't HAVE a job except to take classes and hope I can accumulate high enough grades and some credits that are transferrable to Emerson College so I can shoot for a masters in journalism, and- Wait. Emerson College? That's in Boston. BBCC... Brockton Bay Community College? The college Annette Rose Hebert taught at before her car accident?!

Who the hell is Annette Rose Hebert?

Like a key turning in a lock, the question opens up a torrent of information, and feels like it drives a spike into my skull. I'm vaguely aware of having to grab the sink to keep from falling over sideways. Taylor Hebert. Danny Hebert. Emma Barnes. Scion. Cauldron. I have to kill Scion? Wait, Scion is an extradimensional... worm... whale... thing?

In two years the world ends. Almost everyone in it dies, and several other worlds besides. My reality is a piece of fiction? Many worlds theory... quantum mechanics, what the hell? Who were you before you landed in my head?!

A writer, hard and soft sci fi, fantasy, long time gamer, storyteller, actor, singer, martial artist, a childhood that turns my stomach and chills my blood, all whirl past me fleetingly as I try to shut it all off. Get a grip on this. And I desperately need to stop talking to myself. Before I met... ROB? Before I met ROB, the woman I'm inhabiting didn't even exist. Probably. Maybe?

How much of my confusion and arguing with myself is a struggle with the woman I displaced, and how much is just my native crazy, the coping functional insanity that's chased me from childhood all through my adult life?

All of it. All of it is my mental dialogue. Never mind that I have the memories, the emotions, of the woman who was created to give me a place in this universe, it's all background. Even if the emotion still feels real to me. What did ROB say? Hormones. All hormonal responses. Even the responses I'm having to my rather hot roommate and oh my god why did I think that I don't want to even THINK about that now.

I don't have time to be horny. Where's the doge with the bonk bat when I need him? And that meme won't even be created for another seven or eight years back home, and probably never here. Unless I do something about it. Wasn't I supposed to get some kind of superpowers?

I don't feel like I have powers. Did ROB fuck me over? He said I asked for this. Is this an insurmountable task I've set myself up for failure over again?

"Cameron? You still in there? Did you fall asleep and drown?" calls out my roommate, probably loud enough for everyone on the floor to hear. "You want me to flush before the paramedics get here and take you to the morgue?"

Oh my god. "Do you have my coffee?" I holler back, not even dignifying her trollish commentary with a verbal response.

"Yes, I got the coffee! But I'm not bringing it in the bathroom, unless you ask me nicely."

"Just... put it on the bedstand next to my bed," I reply tiredly. I still have a class to get to, and I'm probably going to be late at this rate. I have to attend to my normal life-- or whatever passes for it, here-- if I expect to survive here for fifteen years. Especially if I never actually get superpowers, and I have to kill Scion without their benefit. Sure, there was a fanfic author back home who wrote a story about saving Earth Bet completely without any actual superpowers, just knowledge of the wormverse, but honestly there was too much serendipity in both his narrative and Worm itself for me to attempt the same approach. If I'm going to make it back home, and give my son what he needs to stay sane and happy, I intend to approach the problem with every possible weapon in my arsenal.

The thought sparks a piece of knowledge. Wait a second. I have an arsenal? On one of the container ships out in the harbor?

Like a beacon in my mind, I know exactly where it is. Now, I just have to figure out how I'm going to get to a container ship run aground a half mile out in the harbor in water twenty five feet deep. Nobody will know it's there unless I lead them to it, but unless I'm a stronger swimmer than I think I am-- and while in my old life, I was on a swim team, swimming is NOT a New England preferred hobby, especially in January-- I'm going to have to at the very least rent a skiff or a boat of some kind.

This is going to go absolutely swimmingly, I can tell.

Pun, er... not intended.

--

If you don't care about the build, and want to see the reveal as part of the story, ignore the spoiler.

Spoiler: Build

View in Thread

Last edited: Aug 10, 2023

Oct 13, 2022 ReportLike QuoteReply

17453, TimboSlice, Grand Munchkin and 146 others like this.

Threadmarks: Chapter One (NSFW)

View in Thread

Potato Nose

Potato Nose

No, seriously, I'm an author, stop laughing.

Lewdness ahead. I'm not a porn writer so I'm not sure how well this one will hit or miss. Hopefully, it's not terrible.

Spoiler: Keywords

Chapter One

After guzzling my coffee and getting a hasty shower, I'm digging through my clothes, which to my embarassment and annoyance are mostly haphazardly dumped into a pull out rolling drawer beneath my bed. I'm coming to realize that I'm not much of a clothes horse. Probably because of going K-12 in a series of all girls schools, a measure by my dad to ensure that I stayed chaste and pure before marriage. Looking back on the childhood I remember, it seems that in many ways I as Cameron didn't have it a whole lot better than I as Anthony did. Mostly isolated, Mom wanted me to be more outgoing but that just wasn't my nature, and Dad didn't help. In hindsight, it's pretty clear that his main reason for sending me to Saint Viator was to keep me away from boys; I don't exactly know how he thinks I'm supposed to ever get married and give him grandchildren.

As Anthony I wasn't much of a clothes horse but at least I folded my stuff after I did the laundry. As Cameron, I let my mother iron my school uniforms and hang them up. I wasn't much prepared to live alone. Another week, and I'd probably be stuck either asking Mom to wash my stuff or just wearing clothes out of the laundry basket. Yuck. Was I on course to becoming Foul Bachelorette Frog? Thank ROB I got her when I did. So to speak.

There's a boring sameness to my wardrobe. For the first time in my lives, I have both the opportunity and the social permission to wear clothes that are pretty, clothes that I like. Not a school uniform, not drab slacks or neckties that felt like a machinist's hands wrapped around my throat or button up shirts designed to make me look like a Sharp Dressed Man, identical and interchangeable with every other such man to emphasize my fundamentally replaceable role in work or my ultimate expendibility. Back in tenth grade as Anthony, after spending ninth grade with Grandma and Grandpa and getting another year of dance classes (although no stage performances; she was just teaching dance for the college rather than a theater company like when I was in grade school), I had a math teacher in her fifties one day pull me aside after class and ask me to not wear such tight jeans because they were provocative.

Thirty years later and I still haven't forgotten it; once I realized what she meant I think it was about the only time until I was in my twenties that someone ever openly stated that I could be interpreted as attractive. And while I don't really want people of either gender bothering me, not when I have a hell of a lot more to worry about than a relationship, at the same time I almost hunger to be attractive, to FEEL attractive. So this drab wardrobe of mostly sameness feels almost like a betrayal. A let down, like being the lucky caller to win "a new Toyota" from a radio contest, and receiving a new Toy Yoda.

Still, I do my best with what I've been given. Namely, a half decent looking skirt, and a banded blue and green sweater that hugs my form enough to make it obvious that I'm actually female. A blouse beneath, basic white underwear, and stocking socks in a single color that stretch up just past my knees. The skirt is about three quarter the length of my thighs, and I take a moment to check my zettai ryouiki, a clear and smooth span of skin about a half inch from stocking to skirt hem, tasteful and rather... nice to look at. I turn right and left, getting a good look at myself; large B or small C cups, decent hips with a trim waist and nice legs. Heart shaped face with medium length, coppertop hair that despite being not washing it and barely brushing it after sleep seems to be falling just perfectly. My stage experience as Anthony serves me better than Cameron's knowledge of makeup; she has a makeup kit that her mother bought her but never taught her how to use and she didn't have any actual close friends to teach her the basics or any tricks or tips. I get the palest foundation I have, mixing it with a little water to thin it so it comes closer to my skin tone, then pause with the sponge half way to my nose. The smattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose and cheeks are kind of fetching, and it seems like a real shame to cover them up. My skin is smooth and unmarred by scar or acne, unlike my memories of either version of high school; I think I'll skip the foundation. I settle on a light eyeliner, a faint green eye shadow, and a coral tone lipstick in one hastily applied layer whose edges I smooth with a kleenex.

Glancing at my alarm clock, I scowl. Ten to eight. I snatch up my purse and my bookbag, stuff my slightly oily hair into a quick ponytail, and give Caitlin a wave and a "See you later!" as I scurry out the door and run as best I can in my skirt- which isn't as quick as I'd like if I don't want to give everyone a lot more of a show than I'd prefer.

I try to ignore the tiny thrill that thought gives me.

Class is well and truly begun as I step into the class room, trying hard to not be noticed and failing miserably. The Instructor, Professor Clayton, is a late fifties man with surprisingly hale hair despite its shock silver color and rather disarrayed condition. He tugs at the collar of his polo shirt and obligingly stops talking, staring at me pointedly the whole while I try to make my way to an empty seat. As I start to sit down, he says, "Please see me after class," before he returns to his lecture. This is not how I'd hoped my first day in sociology would go.

--

Weirdly enough, I actually remember enough from Anthony's sociology classes to catch right on as the professor continues his lecture. I take notes in a blue notebook with a rather cutesy looking gel pen with cartoon unicorns on the stem. While looking at the pen I catch sight of my nails, frowning slightly as I realize that I didn't apply nail polish. Maybe tomorrow; they don't look bad and they're a short and practical length.

"-As such, it's important to remember that every aspect of what you see around you, what you know without thinking to do in company, even music and media, are facets of your native culture. Without understanding your own culture from an outsider's perspective, you will always struggle to understand the core of what the concept of society really infers. On Wednesday, I expect you all to be caught up on chapter one of your text, and I'd like a paragraph each in answer to the four questions at the end of the chapter. See you in two days."

The other students do the end of class shuffle, as I cap my pen and put both it and my notebook into my backpack neatly. Professor Clayton catches my eye meaningfully, and I wince, before I hurry over to the desk with as apologetic an expression as I can manage on my face. "I'm so sorry Professor, I slept through my alarm! I didn't have a class this early last semester and I-"

"What is your name, miss?" he says, cutting me off.

"Uh, I'm Cameron Cartwright."

"I see." He checks off a name on a list with a hum. "You weren't present for the syllabus reading, but I do specify in it that four absences or a total of six tardies and absences is an automatic fail in my class. Do you understand?"

"Yes, professor." I hate how small I sound right now. I hate how small I FEEL right now; I as Anthony was never a tall man but Professor Clayton has something like five inches on me, and I'm not built particularly sturdy.

"You're in college now, Miss Cartwright, and while you may think that just being pretty is enough, you will actually need to put in a good deal of effort if you wish to succeed. Have you decided on a major?"

"I'm planning on journalism," I answer honestly. At least, for my civilian life, that is. The Anthony part of me reflects on the absurdity of my planned career as a reporter slash superhero. Did ROB do this on purpose? Is this a cosmic joke in reference to Clark Kent? "I want to be an investigative reporter."

"Mmm. Well, you've certainly got your work cut out for you," he says in response, giving me a once over that I find rather uncomfortable. "For your sake, I hope you can manage it."

He doesn't give me another look, instead taking a seat behind his desk and opening up his binder. "I suggest you move along; I have another class coming in shortly."

I go.

--

My next class is at building B just across from the administrative building. It's not really a problem to get there in time, even after speaking to Professor Clayton. Last semester was my awkward adjustment semester so now I know where all the buildings are and how to navigate the campus. As such, I have plenty of attention to spare for my surroundings and in particular my fellow students. From the perspective of Anthony, a forty-six year old man, it's striking that these barely-adults don't have the slightest clue of just how beautiful they all are. How alive and how hopeful and especially how damn HOT they are. During my own young adulthood I never thought much of seeing myself, although later I would see pictures of myself and wonder when I had ever looked that good because it certainly hadn't felt that way at the time.

I can understand now why Cameron-me had no appreciation for her own considerable beauty but I really wasn't prepared for how my heart almost jumped out of my throat when a sleek looking young man in dark jeans and a windbreaker casually smiled at me in passing. I'm still not fully used to all these boys, or men, everywhere that I could at least in theory just walk up and talk to, although I find myself reading just a strongly to some of the girls. I can't fully decide if the walk to my next class is heaven or hell-- probably a bit of both-- but by the time I get to class I'm feeling a little warm and decidedly weak in the knees.

My perspective as Anthony has clarified a lot of things that were never explained to me as Cameron, and it does seem that Cameron's sex drive is about on par with Anthony's. And even if performance in my later years was hampered by my blood pressure medication the interest never went away. Cameron-me would have been pretty vulnerable given the combination of no real social circle and no first hand witness of how scummy some guys could be while they were still inexperienced enough to be obvious about it.

Thankfully, the next class is Precalc 1 and given it's the first day we're mostly going over stuff so basic it's an honorary Karen. Another reference I'm making from the future, there. I'm going to have to watch what I say around people just so I don't stay referencing memes from the future of another world, and isn't THAT a weird thing to have to think about. Still, it distracts me temporarily from the growing warmth in my belly that keeps spiking at inconvenient times, like when I just want to focus on getting my day out of the way. I briefly consider the merits of sneaking back to the dorm after class and rubbing one out instead of getting food, a concept that boggles Cameron's mind because holy shit have I actually never masturbated? And being I was married long enough to raise a son, I do know the basics of how to how to please a woman and am reasonable capable at it, pleasing myself as a woman is another game entirely.

I'm so preoccupied by this train of thought that I almost miss the end of class. As everyone else gets up, I hastily gather my things and put them away, keenly aware of a dampness in my nethers that's reminiscent of the pre that accompanies an especially enthusiastic erection but a lot more of it, and all I can think of is how I really need to change panties. And I hope Caitlin is out of our room because I've already decided in a combination of horny and practicality that if I intend to actually get anything done the rest of today I'm going to need to do something about this.

The dorm building is abuzz with activity-- one thing most college students have in common is a loathing for being up before eleven if they can help it, which means that the bulk of the students are either coming in or going out of their rooms. A lot of the girls in the building range from good looking to drop dead gorgeous, helped along of course by the fact that almost all of them are in the eighteen to twenty five range, where everyone has a fast metabolism, all their teeth, and are high on life. The only thing saving me from a hormone induced aneurysm is that it's January and everyone's wearing full skin coverage- except one or two like me, who have decided to display a touch of absolute territory. I keep a cool expression despite the fact that I'm burning up and I desperately need alone time, but I don't miss the sidelong appreciative glances I get from a few of the girls in the dorm common area. More common are envious looks and poorly hidden scowls; another trait of the young besides good looks is their incapacity to maintain a poker face. Like me or not, I'm getting noticed, and I LIKE it.

I like it enough that my legs feel weak and my hand shakes a little as I swipe the keycard to our room.

"Cait?" I call out. "You still here?"

"Huh? You back already?" Caitlin answers over her shoulder at her desk, much to my disappointment. "Don't you have another class this afternoon?"

"Yeah, but it's not til one thirty and I wanna catch a shower, since I didn't have time this morning," I reply, only partially dishonest since, now that I'm here and the room is occupied, my next bet is the showers. Which I was gonna need anyway.

Caitlin turns in her chair, a lolipop sticking out of the corner of her mouth and a foam finger spacer on her left hand. In her right hand, she's holding a nail polish brush with a rose pink polish. I can make out the smell of the polish's acetone base. "Ah, well a word of warning: at this hour because of all the afternoon classes, most of the hot water's been used up." She gives me a critical look. "By the way, did I mention I'm super jealous of you? You didn't shower, you barely have any makeup on, and yet I bet you turned every male head you passed."

"Uh... thank you?" I reply, trying to sound a bit uncertain, even though I know damn well that I caught the attention of most of them. "I'm just gonna go grab my towel and a change of clothes."

She turns back to her desk, and resumes her nail care. "Mmhmm. You have fun with that cold shower."

"Probably exactly what I need," I mutter, going over to my own bed and pulling out the clothes drawer from underneath it. My rumpled clothes greet me.

Maybe it's annoyance, maybe it's a need to reassure myself that I'm still Anthony after the last six hours plus however long I was floating in emptiness, but I yoink the drawer out all the way. I almost upend it onto my bed, except I didn't make it this morning before I left, and I hate folding clothes on an unmade bed. So I proceed to make the bed. I don't have time to be fancy with the clothes but I do get everything folded neatly, and everything I'm not changing into gets put back in the drawer where most of the wrinkles will ease out and the clothes themselves take up less space. I snag my towels and my shower basket, and throw a wave over my shoulder at Caitlin, who has her back turned and doesn't even notice.

The shower room only has one other woman in it, a zaftig girl who looks as shy as she does cuddly. She gives me a bashful smile as she opens the curtain and steps out of the shower stall, a thick body towel around her body. She finishes wrapping her wet hair in a second towel and collects her own effects before hurrying out to the changing area.

I pick the stall in the far corner, in the very back, and pull the curtain closed. Memory tells me that these showers are all the same: roughly five foot square, tiled cubicles stretching from floor to ceiling. The right wall has a ledge to set bathing supplies and sit down on; I set my basket on the ledge, and turn on the water. As Caitlin warned me, it's not hot, although considering it's January, I'm just grateful that it's not actively cold. I'm sure the hot water tanks will refill faster than I can use them, as long as not too many other people are taking showers, which by the state of the showers on this floor, I'm gonna say is a reasonably safe bet. And for the time being, I'm finally alone. I take a moment to look myself over.

As a former martial artist and a former, reluctant dancer, I have to say: I have damn good legs. Experimentally, I sit down on the ledge next to my basket, and stretch my legs in pointe. My calves are slender but toned, with good shape and ankles that progress into feet that look like they could belong to a model. My thighs are strong without being bulky, and have little enough fat on them that standing up I have just a trace of a thigh gap.

Of course, my self examination then leads straight up those thighs to my neatly trimmed mound-- and I am apparently a natural redhead. Simply thinking about it reminds me of the heat in my inner thighs, the slight warmth in my neck and throat, in my chest, and intensely in my belly, just behind and below my belly button. Places on me are tingling in an enticing fashion, a tingling that intensifies as I experimentally touch my stomach between my naval and bush, and the sensation of it makes my skin jump and my legs shiver. I don't think I've ever felt anything quite like it; it's an electric jolt that travels from my core to the palms of my hands and the soles of my feet. It's startlingly similar yet strikingly different from being turned on as a guy; as a man, when I'd been aroused there was always an impatience to it, a tension that ever increasingly demanded release. But here, at least for now, I find myself wanting, needing, to prolong it, to draw out more sensations.

So I do.

My fingers explore my body. My inner thigh, behind the knees, my belly, my sides, all inflame the pleasurable arousal, that makes me dizzy, sets my senses aflame. All of this is bewilderingly new from the perspective of Cameron, who from her memories had always been told that sex was shameful, sinful, and dangerous. So today is a first for me in multiple ways, and I'm not ashamed to say I savor it. My nipples aren't especially sensitive, although the crinkled and tight skin around them is, especially when I abandon my bare hands and began brushing my skin with the loofah in my basket. THAT is an experience; as I drag it slowly down the valley between my breasts to my belly, my body seizes and my breath catches in my throat. It's all I can do to turn what would have been a vocalization-- and probably a loud one-- into a harsh gasp.

The feeling of the loofah travelling past my navel sends a powerful jolt through my core, and an equally powerful ache, but not an entirely unpleasant one. Or rather, an ache that seeks contact, needs it desperately. Looking down at myself, I take a deep breath, and spread my thighs.

The motion itself sends sensations through me that nearly topple me over. Okay, there's absolutely no quesiton in my mind, women have it better and by a margin so wide it barely bears comparing. As keyed up as I am right now, every sensation is pleasurable beyond description. Moreover, parting my legs puts my left thigh in the path of the lukewarm shower spray, and suddenly I understand all the detachable showerhead jokes I'd ever heard or read. Or, I guess they weren't joke, but naked truth played off for laughs. I stand up on shaky legs, and reangle the showerhead a little more towards the bench, before taking a seat again, stretching my right leg out over the ledge, and my left spread wide.

I am not prepared for it. The pattering of water is diabolically random this far from the showerhead but at unpredictable intervals spatters and drops hit my labia and shake my whole world as the contact ripples through my body like an explosion of electricity. I'm clenching my teeth, the aching needing to be satisfied now but it's so... damned... frustrating! Now despite the pleasure that each touch of the water and brush of my loofah sends, now I'm starting to feel something like an echo of the old impatience but it's being driven by these feelings that I've never known before. Impatient for the next random drop of water, I brush the loofah down across my labia, and in the process, discover that my clitoris has swollen past the hood and, with my legs and labia parted so widely in this position, ends up brushing the loofah full across it.

This time I DO make a sound, unwillingly, one I quickly bite off as my right leg judders and my shampoo bottle tips over, hitting the bathroom floor. Rather than do anything about it, though, I've apparently hit the point of no return because my next brush of the loofah across my clit is deliberate and slow. This, THIS is what I needed. What I craved.

I grab my towel and bite the corner of it, water splashing from my skin onto the terrycloth as I discover that I've never actually known what an orgasm was, I only thought I did, as one last brush of the loofah across my clit and labia makes my belly seize so hard it's almost painful, my toes curl, a half strangled, half groaned cry muffled by my towel, and it just... keeps... GOING. My hips shake, my thighs clamp together, and I almost fall over, only kept from doing so by somehow managing to get both feet on the floor and dragging my poor towel into the path of the shower spray. I'm helpless to do anything about it. I have trouble inhaling, my limbs shudder and shiver uncontrollably, and after an eternity where it almost feels like I'm dying in the sweetest, most blissful way possible, the orgasm finally starts to ebb, although I'm hit by more than one aftershock, and it's at least two minutes before I can actually do anything, minutes curled over with the water hitting me in the right side of my face and completely drenching the towel still tightly clasped in my clenched teeth.

I've never felt so good in my entire life. I'm giddy, I'm hungry, and I feel like giggling, full on giggling. I'm dopey and half dreamy, and I can't help but wonder if it's because this is the first orgasm this body has ever had, if it's actually a difference between men and women, or was Cameron just blessed with a body that can achieve heights normal mortals would never dream of.

I finally begin the process of showering, a process complicated by the incredible senstivity of my post orgasmic body. I can't help but pity poor pre-blend Cameron, so repressed by her upbringing that she never even thought to explore herself. Examining memories I can recall times where I was turned on in the past but had no clue what it was, and I remember it made me incredibly bitchy.

Still, as intense as this was, I'm a little worried about what happens if and when I find a partner of some sort here on Earth Bet. The idea... scares me. The two year deadline-- the mission to kill Scion-- these are not future events conducive to their or my long term survival.

As though to punctuate my thoughts, the building is suddenly shaken, a shaking that accompanies the sound of a thunderous explosion about a second later. Distantly, I hear a scream out in the hallway outside the bathroom, and I quickly finish rinsing my hair and shut off the water,

Drying off as a woman is a bit more complicated than as a guy; the shapes are all wrong and the towel doesn't wrap as easily nor stay as close to the skin when it does so. The difference in diameter between my hips and my torso is more pronounced. Even with I'm guessing B or C cups my hips are still wider than my chest, and I eventually manage to get the larger towel wrapped around myself tube top style. The bottom edge of the towel comes halfway down my thighs, and I peek out the curtain. Still nobody in the bathroom. With a last, resentful look at my soaked and dripping hair towel-- Sure, it seemed like a good idea at the time, but dammit, I should have been more careful-- I squeeze out my hair, squeeze out the towel as best I can, and then do a fast hair wrap before hurrying out to the changing area.

I'm halfway through unlocking my locker when there's another loud explosion, and this time there's barely a breath between the shaking of the building and the boom. It's getting closer, whatever's happening out there. Clothes, clothes, clothes! I dodn't have a second skirt like the one I wore this morning and that skirt smells... a lot like aroused woman, so I went with the next best thing I could find: jeans. That necessitated more normal socks, of course, whic go on first, followed by jeans that even on my trim body still take a bit of time to shimmy up past my hips. They're well worn jeans and familiar to me, and I curse as I realize I didn't put on underwear in my hurry. Well, too late now. Blouse, belt, and RUN! Back to my dorm room.

Caitlin's gone now and I can't really be surprised. People are rushing around, asking each other what happened, and if anybody saw anything. By the time I get down stairs, my wet hair again pulled into a ponytail but much less oily now, whatever happened is over. Students are out in the parking lot, pointing fingers and talking excitedly. Of course, I go outside.

The parking lot has cars scattered about, more than a couple on their sides or their roof, like something big swept through the parking lot and scattered them like leaves. But those cars, damaged and upended as they are, were the fortunate ones, because in the far end of the parking lot, there's a crater that looks to be at least twenty feet across, maybe more. The smouldering remnants of several cars that had been in misfortunate parking spaces serve as a sobering reminder that I am a frail, squishy human being on Earth Bet, in probably one of the most dangerous cities in the United States that still has recognizable government authority. Multiple cars destroyed in a single... whatever hit them.

This was collateral damage. If I'd been coming back from the Hardy's across the street instead of, well, taking a shower, would I have been hit by that? The lingering euphoria from my shower is gone, now, replaced by a gut wrenching fear. On the upside, at least I'm not hungry anymore.

View in Thread

Last edited: Oct 15, 2022

Oct 15, 2022 ReportLike QuoteReply

17453, Sable Keech, JohnSmithMIB and 107 others like this.

Threadmarks: Chapter Two

View in Thread

Potato Nose

Potato Nose

No, seriously, I'm an author, stop laughing.

Pre chapter blurb. Thanks for reading, no warnings needed for this chapter.

Chapter Two

There's nothing like a crater in a college parking lot to remind a person that they're living in Earth Bet.

With the damage to the campus, people's cars, and the accompanying police and PRT presence, one would think classes for the rest of the day are canceled. One would be wrong. Despite this, there's a lot of people rubbernecking outside or from windows, people are talking to reporters, and in general treating the incident like it's some kind of circus instead of a potentially lethal close call. From what I can piece together hearing people talk, it was a running fight between the Merchants and Empire Eighty Eight. Blowing a twenty foot hole in asphalt is not a small event; it's been a while since I researched explosions but I do remember that twenty pounds of dynamite is good for a twelve foot deep, twenty five foot wide hole in the ground. So the blast force was a little less that twenty pounds of dynamite, or else the smashed vehicles that had been in those parking spaces muted the explosions somewhat.

Or maybe it was a parahuman blaster power-- Purity is a high end flying blaster associated with the Empire. She had a falling out with Kaiser, and she's attempting to be a hero, however bad at it she may be. Not that most people know she's 'left' the Empire given she mostly targets minority gang members and avoids fighting the Empire.

The whole thing has punctured any illusions I had about being in a safe or reasonable environment. This is Earth Bet; check your illusions of safety at the door. Squishy normals like me are either window dressing or nameless casualties, and without superpowers I'm going to have a bad time surviving, much less actually accomplishing anything. Except my mind goes back to the stockpile of materiel in the harbor aboard that freighter. There's a lot of stuff in that cache, enough to play the part of Tinker without a piece of space whale dandruff stuck in my head. What's more, I'm the only person who knows it's there. But for how long?

I need to figure out a way to get to that ship, preferably without drawing attention to myself or drowning in the process. And then figure out how to get everything to a base of operations that's not out in the ocean. Except doing that means I'll need to find a location that's both well hidden and not already in use. Okay then. No running off half baked after the cache until I have an actual plan like some author fiat idiot who runs off to stop Taylor's--

Shit.

With everything that's happened today, I completely forgot today was the day of the locker incident.

On one hand, she's sort of instrumental to canon Gold Morning. Letting her trigger go uninterrupted (not that there's a whole lot I could have done to stop it without powers that wouldn't absolutely ruin my life here; that would invite questions I can't and don't want to answer) was probably the right play. Plus, with as much of a magnet for trouble that she is, in addition to her complete inability to de-escalate a confrontation, ideally I want to stay as far from her as possible.

But that might have been a decent reason to prevent her trigger, too, because there's no question that she was the catalyst for destabilizing the Bay in the canon timeline, drawing Leviathan down on the city and later the Nine. Could the city have melted down without her? Unquestionably. I'd even go so far as to say inevitably. Just not as soon as it did.

And I'm running myself in circles second guessing my options when I have English 222 in... ten minutes? Yeah, I REALLY need to get going.

--

About an hour into the class, my stomach decides to remind me that I've now skipped both breakfast AND lunch. It's only another layer to my discomfort, since these jeans are some of my older pants and I had a small growth spurt over the summer. I've mostly changed out my wardrobe since then but I hate to give these up because they have meaningful pockets. Collectively, these discomforts are pretty distracting, and I'm grateful that it's only the first day, when everyone's easing back into class. Hopefully Wednesday will be easier. I only have two classes tomorrow, but my afternoon is taken up by a shift at the campus book store. I'm not really looking forward to it, but as retail adjacent jobs go at least it's not a Starbucks.

Finally, class finishes. The jeans, despite being as tight as they are, haven't drawn as much attention as my skirt did this morning, but there's still a few people watching me as I walk out the door. It's still enjoyable but with my head not clouded by hormones I also feel a vague discomfort at the looks some of the guys are giving me. I'd always been dissatisfied with being a man but right now I'm keenly aware that I'm only five foot four and a hundred fifteen pounds. It almost feels like I'm being sized up. Still, I make it to the elevator without incident, and leave E building.

With the conclusion of my last class for the day, I'm free to do whatever-- and right now, the whatever I want to do is eat. I don't have a car, and as Cameron I never got a driver's license, just a state ID. As a result, food is limited to walking distance eateries or cooking in the dorm kitchen. And while I could just get some fast food, it feels a criminal shame to do that to this brand new body. So, dorm cooking it is.

Unfortunately, that means I need to do a little shopping, at least for tonight. I walk the mile to the Randall Foodie's, fully conscious that from there, on Captain's Hill, I'll be able to get a good look at the Protectorate ENE headquarters out in the Bay. The conversations I overhear feature heavily the incident today at the college; apparently anything happening this close to where the people with money are is grounds for firing the local PRT Director. I can't help but roll my eyes a bit. Cameron lived a relatively sheltered life, but I, as Anthony, was an urban rat just shy of ghetto and neither trust nor particularly respect anybody with money, fame, or a badge. At least, not without getting to know them.

I keep my purchases minimal, mindful that not only am I going to have to put the leftovers in my mini-fridge, but also that I weigh less than half what I'm used to, and despite having a teenager's metabolism I'm not going to go crazy with the food. I buy myself a few slices each of cheddar and roast beef from the deli, a few bagels from the bakery, and a single serving premade salad from the produce department along with an orange for breakfast tomorrow. For tonight, though, it's bagel sandwiches, and I don't have to deal with the dorm kitchen. Cameron isn't much of a cook but I'm something of an obsessive with my cooking spaces and I've lived in a communal setting before when I was in a boy's home in my late teens. Cameron's memories of girl's camp tell me that girls can be just as bad as boys about messiness, and I can't stand the idea of having to spend thirty minutes cleaning the cooking space before I even get to start cooking, much less eating. Not today.

It's only when I'm coming out of the store, sun setting at quarter to five, that I get a look at the bay. The grounded container ships still have some of their cargo containers on them, a detail I'd never read in Worm, but even from here it's plain to see they've been ransacked. I can't imagine how the cache was missed save by ROB's intervention, or else being put there well after everyone had picked the ships over completely. The second furthest ship, a small one by comparison that rests at a shallow angle, slightly rolled to one side by maybe five to ten degrees, although I can't say which side because in the long shadows of sunset I can't actually tell which end is the front. My mental map tells me that in a buoyancy compartment that was never flooded, the cache of stuff is waiting for me. The technophile in me is eager to see everything that's there, although I have little hopes that anything wearable will be my size. Then again, maybe it's one of those fiat things where everything in it will be usable by me.

But I've been standing out in front of the Randall Foodie's for at least thirty seconds, and I don't want to draw bad attention to myself. I head back to the college, sticking to Caleb Heights Boulevard until Mercer Avenue, which leads more or less straight to the college with the added benefit of being probably one of the best lit series of streets in the city. I'm grateful for it because it's quite dark by the time I get back. I assemble two bagel sandwiches for myself, the third bagel reserved for tomorrow's breakfast, and surprise myself by not being able to finish the second one despite having been famished by the time I got back.

I spare a glance for the whiteboard calendar I put up next to our door, which has not only an erasable month but also a sideboard where our work shifts go. A habit from Cameron's household, one Dad instilled in me to ensure that everyone knew where everyone else was supposed to be so they could plan around it. Caitlin's last class ended at 4:30 and she's not working tonight. It's almost six, now- maybe she decided to go eat? Well, I'm not her father. Or her mother. Whatever.

I put my leftovers and tomorrow's breakfast into the mini-fridge in our room and get to studying, starting with the questions for Sociology, the only coursework I have today, before I proceed to read ahead a bit. Despite being a bit on the dry side I end up reading up through chapter four in sociology. Discussing the nuances of social training in isolated tribes compared to the more pervasive and generic traditions of a nation is fascinating subject matter.

By nine thirty, I'm done with reading ahead and still no Caitlin; I'm starting to get concerned. This is Brockton Bay, after all. Images of muggers, killers, ABB human trafficking, and worse start running through my head. While I don't know her THAT well, she's fun to talk to, a decent roommate, and generally a nice person. Exactly the sort of person this city eats alive.

I'm just about to get up and start asking around the dorm if anyone knows where she was last seen when the lock clicks and the door opens. "Cait! I was getting worried, where'd you go?" I ask, rolling off my bed to get to my feet.

"Worried?" she says with an arched eyebrow and a smirk. "How sweet! Are you my mother now?"

Annoyed, I fold my arms. Two can play that game. "Please, I just don't want to go through the hassle of getting a new roommate before I've even had the chance to get used to the one I already have. Seriously, though."

"Well, you can relax now, I'm back. A guy in my gender studies class asked me out. I decided to take him up on it because he's kinda cute and I already knew him a little from last year in a workshop we had together for time management." My eyes flick towards the calendar on the wall; Gender studies was her 2 pm class. "We just went out after class ended."

Five hours, huh? I give her a smirk of my own. "Ah, good date, huh?"

"It was alright." She stretches, and saunters over to her desk, aiming a grin at me. "Turns out he's a good kisser-- and pretty good with his hands."

The comment is clearly intended to pull a blush out of me, and if it was yesterday it would have succeeded. Instead I give her a nod and a smile. "Glad it worked out for you. You gonna give him another date?"

That wasn't really the response she expected. "Probably. I'll see if he calls me tomorrow." She sets her backpack down, digging through it briefly to pull out a textbook and a notebook. "What about you? See any cuties yourself, today?"

I give her a mild shrug. "Lots of eye candy, but I got too much to do with my life and not enough time for dating right now. Especially not in this town."

"Oh, please. Lots of awesome girls just on campus. If I was a little more gay I'd maybe give you a spin myself." I blink at her blankly. She gives me a knowing look. "Oh, please. You cover it pretty good, but I saw you checking me out this morning when you weren't awake enough to hide it. Haven't you heard? Be a Legend, don't hide it."

Oh, right. Legend is gay, isn't he? Didn't know there was an actual slogan about it in the gay community, though. Also, need to dispell a misconception. "I like both, actually," I admit, the confession startling me slightly. When I was just Anthony I wouldn't ever have acknowledged it openly, even to myself, but looking back I quite clearly remember a time or two I saw a guy that absolutely stunned me. I continue, "Doesn't hurt you have absolutely killer legs."

My riposte pulls a blush out of her. Before she can even reply, I hastily add, "I'm not gonna make a pass at you or anything, too much chance of things not working out and I don't shit where I eat. So you can relax, your virtue is safe from me."

Her mouth works wordlessly for a moment, before she manages to rally herself. "Are you so sure your virtue is safe from ME, though?"

"Not gay enough, remember?" I counter with a laugh. "You have fun with your boytoy in your gender studies class. I have double the potential dating pool you do, so I'm not too worried about it if and when I ever do decide to start dating."

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, rub it in, why don't you, Miss Effortless Hawtness? Still can't get over how your bedhead is better than any perm I've ever bought. Completely unfair. Teach me your secrets!"

I stare at her a moment, trying to find a response, before I shrug and lace my fingers together behind my head. "Hey, what can I say? Not everybody can be Irish."

Caitlin laughs raucously, and opens up her textbook. "You know, I think I misjudged you when you moved in. You're a lot less an easy target than I thought you'd be. Now shush, I gotta read before I fall asleep at my desk, Gingersnap. Go make someone else jealous for a few hours."

"Envious. Jealous is when you're worried someone will take what you have, envy is when you want what someone else has." Her middle finger in response is at odds with her grin. I count it as a win. I lay back down on my bed, putting in a pair of headphones and plug them into my MP3 player, queueing up my favorite playlist. Canary's Ur-sound begins playing, and I close my eyes to lose track of the world to the sound of her voice.

--

My shift at the campus bookstore Tuesday afternoon is quiet. Late registration students coming in for books, currently enrolled students picking up last minute study supplies, students selling course books back at a fraction of their original purchase price to recoup a few extra dollars for noodles and gas. It's not TOO busy but with only three of us, the line never quite empties til near the end of my five hour shift. It wouldn't be so terrible if it weren't for the fact that every guy is eyebanging me and more than half of them actually make passes. Which isn't the awful part, but I'm working, and to my great distress yesterday's experimentation has apparently lit the pilot light on my personal furnace, which seems to ALWAYS be warming me up at least a little. The combination of wanting to do... things... and not wanting to complicate my life or job any more than I absolutely have to makes me slightly short tempered, and I end up snapping at one of the students. "Look, I'm just trying to do my job here so can I please just ring you up WITHOUT you badgering me for my number?"

He looks at me with an expression that transitions from shook to hurt to embarrassed over the course of maybe a quarter of a second. "Hey, I was just asking. Sorry if I offended you," he says weakly. I forcefully don't allow my expression to reflect my own emotional state, which includes embarrassed, angry, ashamed, frustrated, and regretful all at once, with a frankly unpleasant degree of horny under it all.

Instead, I paste a customer service smile on my face. "That'll be one twelve eighty five after tax," I say pleasantly, resisting the urge to verbally castrate this poor kid who's probably desperately trying to salvage his dignity after I shut him down publicly this. I've been on his side of the equation, and I have to remind myself that he's never been on my side of it. As he pays, I add quietly, "Look, you're not bad looking. You know how to dress yourself, and I'm not saying you're not date-able, just that I'm not dating for the foreseeable future. Find a girl who is, and enjoy-" I don't say enjoy the few years everyone has left, instead, "-your life together. Okay?"

He freezes briefly, and for a split second the look he gives me is so incredibly vulnerable my heart flutters a bit. "Uh... thanks. I hope things, uh, get better for you in your life," he says with a shy smile that's much more sincere and attractive than the faux confidence he aimed at me before.

I smile wanly at him, suddenly feeling every year of both my lives added up at once. It hits me for a moment that almost everyone in this college is going to die on Gold Morning, and unless I kill Scion before it happens, he's never going to GET his chance to live his life.

I know the necessity of keeping up a front about a civilian life-- but I've spent enough time acclimating to Earth Bet and my new life in it. I need to get to work, get to my REAL work here. Because being one of the casualties of Gold Morning is definitely not off the table for me.

--

Wednesday I prepare to make my move, taking a bus down to Boston to pick up a neoprene wetsuit, fins, goggles and a snorkel, all with most of the remaining cash I have for the week. I'm probably going to be stuck with ramen, canned vegetables, and beans for a week or two, but this is a necessity. It doesn't do do much to take my mind off this morning's Journalism class, where Professor Clayton singled me out during the lecture to ask me about the reading he assigned Monday. I'm hoping this doesn't become a long term thing, and that he just picked me because I thoughtlessly decided to sit up front this morning. I'll sit somewhere in the middle of the pack Monday; hopefully the five day break and the surrounding students will restore a measure of my anonymity. The return Greyhound trip doesn't arrive in the Bay til almost ten at night, but that's fine by me. I left a message on the calendar that I'm going out clubbing but to call me if there was an emergency; hopefully that'll be enough to assuage any concerns she might have.

I make my way through the southern boundary of the Docks, keeping as straight a path as I can to the Boardwalk, and the park bordering it. It's not particularly difficult to get down to the beach, where I strip out of my clothes in a rocky alcove and get into the wetsuit, snorkel, goggles and fins. My phone is set to vibrate, tucked in a fanny pack I wear under the wetsuit; I'm as prepared as I can be. I select the deepest water behind the rocks, and slip under the gentle waves.

The trip is both longer and shorter than I'd have thought. I'm not especially experienced in snorkelling, having only done it once as Anthony back in the late nineties, but I at least manage to avoid inhaling any water. The listing of the container ship-- listing to port, as it happens-- provides a nice, concealed entry point where a dangling tangle of cables dips into the water. Best of all, it's at a point where they can be seen neither from the shoreline nor the Protectorate Rig.

The interior of the container ship takes a little bit of wading to traverse. The ship is full of corrosion and the remnants of various pieces of equipment that have been looted and in many cases dismantled on site for their parts or their metals. I don't think there's a five inch length of copper left anywhere aboard. Finally, though, I reach the buoyancy room.

The smell is heavily metallic and laced with mold. As I touch the wall for balance, my wet suit glove snags on a metal burr, but a fast inspection shows that they didn't cut through, thankfully. The door is rusted and slightly ajar, but with a screech of old hinges it opens readily enough. Opening it turns on a fluorescent light, revealing a surprisingly clean room, aside from some mildew which rims the rotted out sealing ring of the door.

This room is a tinker's paradise; the floor's been built up to level so the ceiling on one side is closer to the floor than the other but the room is clearly divided up into three discrete sections. The first is a medical area, with a pair of roughly humanoid shaped robots, apparently in power saving mode, stand next to what looks like a cross between a nurse's office and a surgery theater. A cluster of what looks for all the world like bacta tanks are stored on five pallets next to the medical equipment.

Across from the medical area, a power armor suit of some kind is hooked into a deployment bay. A computer monitor nearby flickers on with a systems display, all entries listing as "OK" including augmentation modules, which include aquatic and aerial maneuver harnesses. Next to the armor are a pair of backpacks that, when examined from up close, have subtle seams and plug ports that are nearly invisible.

I return to the computer monitor and look over it in more detail. A keyboard and mouse sit nearby, covered in a plastic keyboard cap sheet that protects them from the ambient moisture but, to my disgust and annoyance, the mouse is a ball mouse. I haven't seen one of those in actual use in at least twenty years; my family and I (with the encouragement of my son) switched to laser mice almost the moment they were on the market. Proxy satelite and cell tower uplink, auto repair systems, force field, motive, laser gyro, myomere frame reinforcement, spinal neuro response sensors (apparently in need of calibration), and stealth field.

Wait, a stealth field?!

The documentation on the suit is extensive. As a former writer, Anthony was well versed in arm chair physics, including the premise of the so called invisibility shield, a panel of translucent polymer with a metalensing nanostructure that used a sort of optical horizontal scatter to render things immediately behind the panel effectively invisible. The stealth field operates in a similar fashion, effectively bending light around itself through the operation of the force field; while the force field is functioning, the stealth field can be activated at will. The light bending extends to radar and infrared as well, although middle and upper UV are absorbed by the force field instead of scattered. The stealth field has a radar cross section similar to a common fruit bat. Apparenty, weapons were also planned but whatever happened to leave the lab abandoned (aside from ROB fiat) occurred before the weapons could be constructed.

Which leads me to the third section of the hidden room: something the documentation references as a universal nanofabricator. Beta and alpha versions of all manner of designs are apparently stored in its auxiliary memory, including all systems and components in the room, even itself. I guess that makes the nanofabricator Turing complete? The stupid mental joke makes me half chuckle, but attempting to access the files themselves reveal that a few of the oldest entries are located in corrupted memory sectors, including what it describes as 'Newlife Tubs'. The image matches the bacta tank looking things on the pallets; I'm guessing that means they're a limited resource.

Another medical device that actually seems to BE a version of a bacta tank that it refers to as a rejuvenation chamber is a reusable, if more limited device, than the newlife tubs are.

My phone buzzes against my stomach, sending a thrill through me before I unzip the side of my wetsuit to retrieve it. A glance at the screen tells me it's... HOLY CRAP it's four AM?! The text message is from Caitlin, asking me if I'm okay, and if so, then should she notify my classes that I'm out sick today? I text her back letting her know I'll be along as soon as I finish this threesome, or maybe I won't, but she can mark up on the calendar that I'm perfectly fine-- that should buy me some time so she doesn't feel the need to call the police or anything. I do very much need to get back to the college, though. As though being reminded of the time causes my body to catch up to me, I stifle a yawn.

Seeing everything here, I absolute hate the idea of leaving it all behind, but where am I going to PUT it all? This is probably the most inconvenient possible place this stuff could be hidden within three miles of the college save for straight down through the New England bedrock. Which is probably the point, because here the likelihood of it being discovered by random wreck surveyors and treasure hunters is almost nil. Sure, it'll be SAFE here... but it'll also be USELESS here. Cost to benefit, what's the balance I need?

The suit, and either the flight module or the aquatic module. On second thought, specifically the flight module, given the aquatic isn't really useful until I actually get TO the water. Those two items should be considerably easier to hide than the whole lab, and with the universal nanofabricator I can replace them if lost or destroyed by coming back out here. That shouldn't be too tough to work around, and the suit will be somewhere I can actually reach it if I need it.

So decided, I go through the twenty minute process of calibrating the suit to my nervous system-- the suit seems to be almost exactly my size, top to bottom. I don't linger on it, although I mentally keep in mind the name 'Amaranthe'. Just in case I ever run into the in-universe person who designed all this, and decides he or she wants it all back.

View in Thread

Last edited: Nov 21, 2022

Oct 17, 2022 ReportLike QuoteReply

17453, JohnSmithMIB, zorpman and 84 others like this.

Threadmarks: Chapter Three

View in Thread

Potato Nose

Potato Nose

No, seriously, I'm an author, stop laughing.

Chapter warning: Korean language ahead. Meanings should be clear from context, so don't stress over it.

Chapter Three

The deployment bay triggers something as I step up onto the landing, and the power armor suit splits open at the shoulders all the way down to the thighs. The articulated plating almost looking like one of those wooden chinese dragon toys as the suit opens like a flower blooming. Getting into the suit is a lot like straddling a bench, save for the fact that I slide my feet into the legs of the lower body. As I fully sit down in the saddle-like mounting, the armor begins closing up and securing itself, folding around me in a stiff, if comfortable, enclosure. For an irrational moment I feel a spark of claustrophobia, but then the suit finishes sealing up and I can suddenly move again.

The movements of the suit are a little slow at first, until suddenly I feel a tingling along my spine as the previous nervous system calibration kicks in and suddenly it moves like an extension of my body. It's dark for a second or two, until a display projects in front of my eyes, blurry until it adjusts and suddenly it's crystal clear. A rapid readout checklist flashes past my eyes at speeds no human could possibly comprehend, and then the writing becomes an overlay as I can see the room around me in expanded color range. Box outlines bracket objects in the room, and something is tracking the movements of my eyes because as I look at boxed targets, the overlay displays information such as size, range, estimated composition and density.

"Okay, that's hella cool," I mutter to myself with a smile.

Learning the interface is almost intuitive, but it's not instantaneous. Even with the help of the user manual on the computer, it takes me about forty five minutes to become semi comfortable moving around in the suit, given that wearing it I weigh about three times what I normally do. By this time, I've managed to figure out which of the backpacks is the flight pack, by simple dint of the terminal displaying a "NO SIGNAL" message when I pick it up. Shrugging it on slots whatever plugs it uses into place, and the suit registers it functional and fully charged.

Suddenly, I'm not so sure about the viability of keeping the suit and flight unit off base; what if it runs out of power? I have no idea how to recharge it. For that matter, I have no idea how to use the flight functions either. "This would be so much easier if it had some kind of voice activation..."

Serendipity, how lovely thou art. A woman's voice pipes up, "Voice recognition suite activated. Scanning area. Primary user absent. Scanning region. Primary user absent. Uplinking to primary base terminal. Primary base terminal not found. Scanning for auxiliary base terminal. Terminal found. Primary user last log in: twelve thousand five hundred three hours, sixteen minutes. Inheritance protocols activated." There's a pause. "Communication established with deployment console. New user detected." There's a pinch on my shoulder, and I yelp. "Voice sample acquired. DNA sample acquired. State your name."

My name? Should I give it a hero name? For a moment, I think of Idiocracy, and toy with the idea of answering 'Not Sure' but the moment passes. Something Irish, I decide. Chuchulain? No, too aggressive. Imbolc? Brigid? Too pagan; I don't want anyone to confuse me for Empire. Caerbannog? Are the Monty Python crew even a thing on Earth Bet? Also, that was a REALLY violent rabbit. For a moment I envision hitting Scion with the Holy Handgrenade of Antioch; the thought makes me snicker softly.

Lorg Mor? THAT one gives me a moment of pause. The legendary staff of Dagda, father of the gods. One end to smite, and the other to heal. Also, since the Lorg Mor was a gigantic club, serves as a bit of wry humor considering my slight stature, even in the armor. "Lorg Mor," I answer finally.

"New user Lorg Mor acknowledged. Tantalus mark 3 scout power armor fully charged and operational."

I imagine the Emperor from Star Wars, now, talking about this fully armed and operational power armor. And, I realize, my increasing whimsy and tangential drift is hard evidence that I'm getting punchy. I look around for my phone, wishing I'd stuck it back in my fany pack BEFORE I got into the suit. "Is there a flight unit operator manual?" I ask.

"Flight controls are available in both manual and autopilot mode. Engage autopilot?"

Why the hell not. This thing seems pretty well designed; why wouldn't the onboard virtual intelligence be the same? Wait. "Are you classified as a narrow or a general intelligence?"

"This suit is programmed with a virtual intelligence designed for operating suit systems autonomously in response to physical and verbal cues given by the designated primary operator. Topic memory allocation algorithms permit conversational emulation with heuristic learning."

That... wasn't an answer. Not really. But let's not pressure the potentially nervous AI. Or, possibly, narrow virtual intelligence. Regardless of what it actually is, I don't want to break it. "Alright, then. One of these days I'm going to have to meet Dragon so I can introduce you to her. Destination set: rooftop of the number four dormitory building at Brockton Bay Community College. Are you capable of autopiloting a gentle landing?"

"Location defined. Gentle landing defined. Minimal landing zone disruption and detection parameters accepted. Do you wish to activate the stealth field?"

If this isn't a broad general intelligence it was programmed by an absolute wizard. Possibly both. "Yes."

"Parameters set."

--

Totally-Not-Jarvis turns out to be more narrow than I'd hoped or expected. For suit operations, it's anticipatory and highly capable. For all other purposes, it's not much of a conversationalist at all. Heuristic though it may be, and actively helping me to learn to use the suit, it has no meaningful information for me on the rest of the lab. And my focus is getting decided hazy with me currently going on twenty four hours awake with no likelihood of sleep until tonight. It's not something I'm used to in this body, for all that Anthony rarely slept a full night and semi regularly skipped sleeping at all.

With the stealth field up and the suit dormant, the suit can recharge from direct sunlight, even if only slowly. From completely empty it would take a week and a half to top off from solar charging alone, not accounting the flight module which it turns out has a mode that enables me to use it without docking it to my new suit. Without the power armor, I wouldn't have the benefit of voice commands so until I figure out the manual mode to set and engage the autopilot, it's not useful to me yet, but it's a nice feature for something that can be disguised as a backpack.

It's a little after seven when I finally get back to the dorm room. I'm a bit punchy, but I grin at Caitlin as she looks at me with both relief and irritation.

"A threesome?" she comments with blatant skepticism.

"It was like being wrapped up entirely," I reply with a yawn. "I swear for a while there I was flying."

"Ugh. Alright, whatever, keep your secrets." She walks over to the mini-fridge and pulls out a Red Bull, passing it to me. "I came prepared. This should at least get you through classes, although I'm making no guarantees about the bookstore."

Cameron never drank the stuff, and as Anthony I would have testified in court that Red Bull and it's developmentally hindered big brother Rockstar tasted like horse urine infused with sugar, carbonation, and caffeine. But I'm in a pretty bad condition right now and I could use the boost. Wordlessly, I accept the can, popping the top with unpracticed motions and starting to drink it, then stopping, half gagging. "Oh GOD what is WRONG with this stuff?"

"Yeah, most people just shoot it. Or mix it with Jaegermeister."

"Is that an abuse of the Jaegermeister or the Red Bull?" I reply unthinkingly.

"Ohhh?" Caitlin grins at me and leans in closer. "That sounds like the voice of experience speaking there. And most would say they deserve each other. But spill-- when and where did YOU have Jaegermeister?"

"Summer girls camp," I reply glibly, grimacing as I shoot down the Red Bull as quickly as I can. Uggh. I think it actually tastes WORSE on Earth Bet. Either that, or my sense of taste is better as Cameron.

"Figures. Anyhow, go grab a shower. You smell sweaty." Caitlin makes an exaggerated wince and wrinkle of her nose.

"Oh, shut up. I had to walk here, leave me alone." I take her advice, though, grabbing my bath basket and heading for the showers. While I'd prefer to bathe in the afternoon-- plenty of much needed privacy for what I'm learning is a daily necessity for my temper and sanity-- right now I need the shower more. I can take liberties with myself this evening after my shift at the bookstore.

--

By Saturday morning I realize I'm feeling antsy, and for once it's not because of my anomalously high sex drive. No, this is more an 'I need exercise beyond walking and jogging' antsiness, and I find myself gravitating towards the campus gymnasium wearing a set of sweats that are about as basic and uninspiring as sackcloth.

If nothing else, now's probably a good time to get back into the habit of polishing up my judo and tae kwon do skills. While it's true that at least back home they've been eclipsed by MMA famous arts like Brazilian jiujutsu and Thai kickboxing and the like, I'm at least familiar with the forms and practices of each, having earned some belts in both as Anthony. Judo is top strength intensive, which I'm at a disadvantage over through a raw lack of body mass, but it's better than nothing to cover TKD's weaknesses in ground fighting and throws. Tae kwon do better serves my build anyway, given a sizeable portion of my muscle mass is in my legs and kicks are a TKD specialty.

Besides, I've always loved the feel and execution of a good hook, axe, or wheel kick.

Despite my relative lack of focused exercise this week, I find block hopping, pushups, crunches, and planks to be surprisingly easy; Cameron's in top physical condition for her size. I work up a half decent sweat on my opening calisthenics and conditioning exercises, take a brief break to drink some water, then practice my falls. The mats in the gym are more comfortable to fall on than the carpets I learned falls in, and my forearms are barely even red by the time I finish my side, back, and forward rolling falls.

I've gained a bit of an audience despite my baggy and unflattering workout clothes; most notably, I see a dark haired young man with narrowed eyes watching me with a southeast Asian cast. On further examination in passing as I progress to my poomses-- which DEFINITELY draws his attention-- I'm fairly certain he's Korean, based on his full lips, shallow nasal bridge, and gentle but distinct chin. He looks a lot like (as Anthony) my best friend from college, but thinner and shorter; Baram was half Korean, half American. By the time I've progressed into my third poomse, he starts walking towards me.

I decide to act like I don't notice, but when he steps in with a low body kick timed for my low block, I put force into it, enough to stop the kick from landing, following up with a high face kick which he counters with a high block, and the double center mass body puncheshe deflects with alternating cross body blocks. I stop my poomse, looking him in the eye with a brazenness I don't actually feel. He steps back; I follow suit.

For a moment, we look at each other across the mat, before he sharply barks, "Chah-ryut!"

It's ingrained reflex; I snap to a TKD attention stance, shoulders back and head high. "Kyung nae!" he calls out, and I bow in time with his own, a bow in which neither of us takes our eyes off the other. "Joon-bi!" he announces, and I take a ready stance. He's a little slower in his, taking a complementary stance to my own. For a second, we size each other up; then with a yelled, "Sijag!" he begins circling to my left side. I circle to keep him in my front side, watching his hips.

His balance is exquisite. I barely have any warning at all as he lunges forward; I feint a reaction sidekick with my leading leg, turning the false kick into a half hop forward into a feinting round kick. The first kick doesn't draw a defense but he throws a tight outside block that my feint slips past. With a thrust and a hooking snap of my heel I barely miss my hook kick, feeling his hair on my toes as he throws his head backwards out of the way.

My distance is off; I'm too far out from him. I don't rechamber my foot fast enough, either, and his high block turns into an ankle grab. Off balance, I try to move with his twist to pull off a mule kick with my supporting foot but he gets his palm planted into the outside of my thigh and I never complete the turn, falling towards the mat. His hold on my ankle won't let me roll out of it so I throw myself into the side fall. It gives him a choice of either letting himself be pulled off balance or letting go; he chooses the latter.

I roll to the side and kip up, heart pounding and grinning. I've always loved a good spar, and I haven't gotten to do this in years. Decades, really. But before I can rejoin the fray, he snaps, "Mum cho!" and I frown, stepping back.

Still, as brief as it was, it was fun, and I clap my hands to my side. "Kahm sa hamnida," I say, repeating the bow. Thank you

After a moment, he replies, "Cheon maeneyo." You're welcome. He follows this up with a rapid string of Korean that I don't understand.

"I'm sorry, I only know a little Korean," I admit.

He sniffs a little. "Your form is sloppy. But you know your poomses. Who taught you?"

I shrug. "It was a long time ago." I don't answer the question; it's not his business and I have no idea if my instructor even exists in this version of Earth.

"You haven't practiced much."

"You offering to practice with me?" I challenge.

"I will invite you to my instructor's dojang," he says after a moment. "You are an interesting puzzle, and Sabeomnim Kim Jung would find it entertaining."

I frown. That's not really on my schedule, but it WOULD be nice to join a dojang again. "Traditional? Including Hapkido?" I ask. Hapkido WOULD be a better fit for my build than Judo, after all, and more suited to pairing with TKD anyway.

He raises an eyebrow and smiles slightly. "No art that is incomplete is worthy of being called an art. Class is in the afternoons at three, Monday through Saturday. He will want to assess you so come by at two thirty."

"I can do that," I say after a moment. "Saturdays, anyway. I have classes the rest of the week."

"Today, then, if you're actually interested," he says with a nod. "Shall we continue, then?"

I snap to attention, and take a ready stance. "Choon bi."

--

For the next hour he solidly kicks my ass around the mat. He holds back, and I'm pretty sure he's a black belt so I'm not complaining. Still, I've got a collection of bruises that are bothering me a LOT more than I like; this body is a hell of a lot more sensitive than Anthony's. After a week in this body I'm not tired of it, at all-- it's fit, conditioned, and damn good looking. But I'm starting to occasionally miss being Anthony, being a guy, especially when it comes to having to carry things, or in this case, sparring. I'm strong and fast for my size, but my old body had a lot more mass and power (even if it was a bit flabbier from age and too many carbs).

With all this in mind, I'm actually pretty sure that the power armor will pick up the shortfall and then some. If I have to throw punches in it, it'll be a lot like my old body.

But we're close to twelve thirty, now, and I'm a little winded and a lot hungry. "I don't have a car, so if I'm gonna get to that dojang by two thirty today, I need to get going," I announce after a match where I actually landed a kick on my training partner. "Thank you though. This was fun. What was your name, anyhow?"

He chuckles. "If you go to the dojang, I'll tell you."

"Fair enough. Good match, anyhow." I stretch my aching muscles, wincing as bruises voice their unasked and unwelcome opinions. "I'll see you later."

I exit the gym in high spirits.

--

My afternoon shower goes quickly; I'm slowly learning to be silent without stuffing a towel in my mouth but it's not only distracting, it's flat out unsatisfying. Even so, it takes the edge off before I change into my spare sweats and take the bus to Bulgwa Taeyong Traditional Taekwondo.

As I look out the window of the bus at the various shops and storefronts we pass, I think about what little I know of the prospective saboemnim, a title that in Korean effectively carries the same semantic connotation as sensei in Japanese, although the literal translation is 'master' rather than 'teacher'. Kim is probably the most common Korean surname in the world; by percentage of the population it's more common than 'Smith' for the English or Americans. Maybe a pseudonym? Hard to guess. The guy at the gym knew his stuff; he must have been studying since he was in grade school to be as good as he is. So Kim Jung is good at what he does.

He's also probably quite clever; 'an interesting puzzle he'd find entertaining,' wasn't that how he put it? Possibly a people person with a good instinct for character. Hopefully I measure up.

Eventually, I reach my destination: a small studio converted into a dojang with a burning sun logo, with the silhouette of a martial artist throwing a high and dramatic sidekick. It's a simple but clean looking logo, the sort of thing that's easy to paint on a window. Behind the window, I can see a twenty by twenty room with hardwood, and a wall of mirrors. Near the front, a wall partition and a seating area, and a desk to the right side, where a wiry looking man in his late forties or early fifties is speaking to my new friend from the gym. Probably the instructor; I knock on the door. The older man makes a quick beckoning gesture without looking at me, and I open the door and walk in. My new friend grins at me, and says, "Dad, this is her. I told you she'd come."

Saboemnim Kim Jung has capital 'P' Presence. I can see the family resemblance between them, the elder a finished and refined version of his son. Where his son is almost beautiful, the lines and edges defined by his age creases makes him look almost regal. His build is near flawless; having once been a middle aged man I can attest to the difficulties of keeping a trim body as the metabolism slows, the joints degrade, and time steals away the prime of youth by hair's breadths when you look away. He's got a graceful appeal to him, that only increases as he stands up and walks over to me, looking me over in a clinical fashion. "You came prepared to exercise. Seong-min tells me you've got potential, that you're rusty but knowledgeable and physically conditioned. He also tells me you understand dojang Korean but no more."

I shrug and nod. "That would be correct, sir."

"Get onto the floor, then." He nods his head towards the training area.

I give a short bow, then slip off my shoes and socks, bow to the empty room. Only then do I get onto the floor.

"You know proper respect for the dojang," he comments. "No formalities. Taeguk Il-jan. Sijag."

I almost hesitate, before I immediately take the first move. Low block, punch. About face; low block, punch. I go through the motions that were ingrained into me by my original instructor, Saboemnim Sutterland, a New Yorker woman who moved to Vegas to teachm not much taller than I am now and both one of the friendliest and most intimidating women I've ever known. Thinking about her puts a smile on my face, and I do my level best to emulate her. I complete the form with a kihap, trying to ignore my reflection in the wall to wall mirror as I turn back to face Kim Jung.

His expression is impassive. "Palgwe Il-jan. Sijag."

I comply; he offers no comment. Practicing the forms brings back memories, and I find myself adjusting into my stances. I'm far more limber as Cameron than I ever was as Anthony, and it makes everything easier as I start to actually get used to doing the forms with this in mind. When we get to Palgwe seventh form, I wince. "I never learned that," I admit.

"I see." He folds his arms and nods. "I will see about getting you a dobuk. You are a college student?" I nod back. "I expect to see you here every Saturday. I will clean up your form and stances and then we will see about taking up your training where you left off." He looks over his shoulders to the students which have gathered to watch patiently; we seem to have run a few minutes past three. Oops. I didn't even notice them there while I was doing my forms, I was so busy trying to ignore the appeal of my own reflection as I demonstrated what Kim Jung asked of me. I seem to enjoy my own reflection a bit too much, and that's really not a distraction I need right now, especially because I already find both Jung and Seong-min distracting enough as it is.

"Ah, how much are classes?" I ask.

He grunts. "We will discuss that later. For now, you will be joining the class today, if you wish to study here."

I nod, and bow. "I would be grateful to call you saboemnim."

--

My shower is completely nullified before class is even half over; he takes a very traditional approach, inclduing opening the class with obstacle running. The class retreieves rubber shod, round 'stones' which we're expected to jump onto as we run without breaking pace, turning the perimeter of the dojang into uneven footing. The other students are used to it but I've only heard about this before, a carryover from the original monastaries in the Korean mountains that the students would run around before even beginning their training. My legs are burning and a little shaky even before we finish the run, and from there we move immediately into pushups, crunches, and planks in between stretches. The stretching, even with my fatigue, is much easier than repeating the conditioning exercises a second time today, but I'd put money down that he already knows I did this routine earlier today. I can't decide if he's testing my resolve or my physical endurance, but I don't complain even when my calf cramps and I almost fall over during kicks.

I refuse to be hazed out of this. Even when free sparring begins and for the next hour, I'm paired up against every member of the class from beginners to the black belts. Nobody comments even though I'm explicitly not only the sole woman, but the sole white person here. I like to think I acquit myself well right up to the point that in my fatigue I miss a block I should have managed and I catch a round kick full on in the ribs. The wind drives out of my lungs and the shock of impact spreads through my entire torso; my legs go out from under me as I grit my teeth and try to fight a breath back into my body. But my body has well and truly failed me, and I find myself desperately wishing for the thick torso and padding of my older, male self. Being a man would be REALLY convenient right now.

"Enough. You are finished," Kim Jung announces, coming over to me. I try to roll to my hands and knees but he simply picks me up off the floor like a child and carries me out to the waiting area outside the class area.

"Just need t' catch my breath," I groan, weakly trying to get my feet under me, but Kim Jung's arms are both gentle and unmoving, and he just sits me down in a chair.

"You do not need to prove anything; do not break yourself trying." He steps back onto the floor and continues the class. I can't really say I'm THAT sorry about it all, since I only missed lasting to the end of class by about eight minutes. Kim Jung selects one of the students, who immediately runs to the back area, bring out a dust mop, and begins sweeping the floors. Everyone else walks to the edge of the floor, bows, and steps out into the waiting area. I'm ready to brush off any snide comments they make as everyone leaves, but nobody in the class comments or even looks in my direction. Ostracization, then? I'll make them see and respect me.

"Seong-min understated your determination. You wished to know what tuition here is?" I look up at Jung and nod. "Your tuition will be to be here, without fail, every Saturday at three in the afternoon. I expect you to walk through those doors and be prepared to give your all every time. Miss one day and that will be the end of it; if you expect to learn here thereafter you will pay seventy five dollars per class. Am I understood?"

Free? He's teaching me for free? "Uh... you don't want ANY money from me unless I miss a class?" I ask for clarification.

"I will excuse you from class if an Endbringer attacks, but otherwise you will be here." He smirks in a way that makes my legs weak for reasons that have nothing to do with my fatigue, and I nod my acknowledgement. "You were invited here. So long as you continue to show the same determination that you did today that invitation remains. Now go home and rest-- and I suggest some aspirin and Tiger Balm for those ribs. You probably don't have a fracture given you're already breathing easily enough but the bruising there will be rather impressive, I think."

I smile and give him a bow as I get achingly to my feet. "Kum sa hamnida, Saboemnim."

"Cheon maeneyo."

View in Thread

Last edited: Oct 19, 2022

Oct 19, 2022 ReportLike QuoteReply

17453, JohnSmithMIB, zorpman and 85 others like this.

Threadmarks: Chapter Four

View in Thread

Potato Nose

Potato Nose

No, seriously, I'm an author, stop laughing.

Things are gonna start to pick up from here on.

Chapter Four

Our room is empty when I get back; I'm grateful for it. About the only reason I didn't fall over on my way home is because it's too much effort to decide whether my left side or right side is heavier. My arms feel like lead weights. My legs feel like they're encased in cement. And the snack I ate before going to class was woefully inadequate. I need calories, and right now I don't have the energy to be fussy about what form those calories take.

With some effort I rummage through the mini-fridge in search of something, anything. I find the last bagel that I bought on Monday and forgot about. As bagels do after most of a week in a fridge, it's almost as hard as a rock, but I literally do not care. All the rest of what's in there is Caitlin's, and it takes up most of the fridge. I can tell already that I'm gonna have to throw most of these grapes out because half of them are somewhere between raisin and overripe, and it's overwhelmingly plain to me that Cait isn't going to do it. If she was here I'd ask her if she cared that I ate them so they wouldn't go bad, but she isn't.

The calendar whiteboard says she's on another date with her boytoy. I'm betting she gets laid tonight given she was already in the heavy petting region last time. Meaning I have the room to myself.

Cruel, cruel universe, that I have the time and the privacy to make up for my hurried and lackluster orgasm in the shower earlier today, but I'm quite certain that if I tried right now my arms would fall off. Plus with my luck, I'm sure Cait would get back just when I'm in the middle, or worse, just when I'm finishing, and that's an awkwardness I don't have the energy to deal with tonight.

I need to bite the bullet and buy myself a sex toy. I'm not sure what type, maybe a vibrator of some kind? Despite the occasional fantasy over the last couple days, I'm not quite mentally ready to try an actual dildo yet, in part because this body is still a virgin, and my own fingers are already a bit of a stretch from what little I've dared. As a result, in my current condition, I'm just going to lay here and wait for the aspirin to kick in.

Dammit, I forgot to buy Tiger Balm on the way home.

--

Waking up on Sunday is a reminder to me that I'm not in my mid forties, now, but still in my teens. Almost no muscle aches to speak of despite running myself to failure yesterday, or close enough at any rate. My bruises are another story; I will swear on my life that I'm more sensitive to EVERYTHING, be it pain, pleasure, itchiness, irritation, whatever. I power through it, though, doing my stretches and making sure that the limberness I currently have, I'll keep and possibly improve. I'm wearing just a sports bra and shorts, mostly because the less cloth I have in contact with my bruises the better, at least while I'm stretching.

Half way through my stretches, Caitlin sits up in her bed and rubs her eyes. I check the clock; almost eleven. Understandable, given she wasn't even back until three last night. I texted her around midnight, but she texted me back almost immediately, letting me know that she was 'busy' and she'd text to let me know when she was headed back (she didn't).

Caitlin gets out of bed and pops her back, then looks at me a moment before her eyes widen. "Holy crap, did you bang a gorilla last night?!"

"No, I took on a whole group of guys one after the other," I deadpan, continuing to stretch out my sides, legs in full side splits. "In taekwondo, before you ask. Getting back into it; I realized I missed it, and I ran into a guy at the college gym who told me about the place."

"... You sure they're not ABB?" Caitlin asks.

I give her a flat look. "Look, just because someone's ancestors came from somewhere in or off the coast of Asia doesn't mean they're in the ABB," I say with a touch more annoyance than I intended.

"Oh, honey, how recently did you move to Brockton Bay?" she replies, and I find myself losing just a little bit of respect for her over it. "Even if they're not active, they ALL have ties."

"That's like saying everyone who's white has Empire ties," I counter. "I'm not Empire and unless you're hiding some tattoos in really interesting places I haven't caught a glimpse of yet, I doubt you are either."

She rolls her eyes. "Well, yeah, but ABB is different. They don't let people say 'no' to joining up."

I shrug. "Lung can't be everywhere, and Oni Lee can't either. If they had more capes, maybe they'd control more territory, but they physically CAN'T control enough territory to conscript everyone of any kind of Asian descent in the city. We're not that close to any ABB areas, and the dojang isn't surrounded by a bevy of gang tags, so I'm pretty sure they're okay."

"Dojang?" she asks, looking confused.

"Basically a school of martial arts. Korean word."

"Oh." She narrows her eyes, looking me over. "Say, that bruise on your side looks pretty bad. Did you get it checked out?"

"It's a bruise," I answer, moving my boob to the side to get a better look at it. That kick wasn't full force, but it DID leave a purple blotch stretching across most of my ribs that's wider than my hand. "My ribs aren't broken or even cracked, and bruises heal."

"You climbed every tree when you were a kid, didn't you?" Caitlin comments wryly.

"I climbed a few," I admit. That it was Anthony, not Cameron, who did the climbing doesn't really matter.

"I don't understand how you have no scars at all. Do you just heal perfectly or were you ridiculously lucky?"

I shrug. "Bit of both? Honestly, it looks worse than it is. It wasn't a much harder than a tap, I was just too tired and missed a block."

"That looks like it was a lot harder than a tap. That bruise is huge!" She walks over to me and stops just short of touching it.

From as close as she is, I can feel her body warmth on my skin, and it gives me goosebumps. I'm enjoying her proximity, and I'm not a hundred percent certain that's a good idea. "Something I can do for you?" I ask, trying to not let on that I'm REALLY vibing on her right now.

"Actually, I was gonna ask if you wanted me to put some, I dunno, ointment or something on it. Like Karate Kid?"

I haven't seen that movie since it was in movie theaters. "You're too cute to be Professor Miyagi," I comment.

"Mister Miyagi," she corrects me. "And I'd think the first thing you'd consider a disqualifier is that I'm too female."

"I'm equal opportunity on the people I let touch me," I quip, the comment coming out less flippantly and more sensually than I intended.

There's a brief moment where the both of us are intensely aware of how close we are; she has two inches on me, and it puts the juncture of her jaw and throat right at eye level for me. It's a tempting sight, and for a fleeting moment I find myself wondering what her skin tastes like.

Caitlin swallows hard, and looks away, breaking the moment to my mixed disappointment and relief. "You know, it's not fair of you, ambushing me like this as soon as I get up."

"Sorry," I respond, and mean it. "I swear I'm not trying to seduce you or anything."

"Come right out and say it, why don't you?" Caitlin grumbles, folding her arms. The move accents the cleavage peeking through her nightshirt, a football jersey from a team that's not familiar to me. "You don't even have to be trying to make me start asking myself questions."

I almost tell her to be a Legend- but right now, I seriously don't think throwing her words back at her would be taken in the spirit intended. Right now, I honestly don't even know WHAT that spirit would actually be. I step back from her, walking over to my clothes basket. I wasn't quite finished stretching but I'm thinking discretion is the better part of chastity, or something like that. "I gotta... go do laundry. I'll see you later, okay?"

"Yeah, sure. See you."

I get dressed, collect my dirty laundry, and carry my basket downstairs to the laundry room.

--

By the following Wednesday, it's pretty clear that for whatever reason Professor Clayton has decided I have a target on me. The first two assignments I handed in have received mediocre marks, along with a few condescending comments in the margins about needing to work on reading comprehension or missing the point of the questions. I get the feeling he's perving on me more than a little, given I caught him staring at my ass as I sat down today, and I'd swear he spends more time looking in my direction during lectures.

I decide to nip this one in the bud. After class is over, I walk up to his desk unprompted. It raises his eyebrows. "May I help you, Miss Cartwright?"

"Yes. I'm going to withdraw from this class while I can still get a partial refund and not have it held against my grades," I answer, looking him dead in the eye. "I can see that... sociology may be a problem for me this semester."

His expression becomes cautious, as he answers, "I'm sorry to hear that, but if you can't even muster the energy to stick to your course even when it turns out to be more difficult than you-"

"Oh, I'm not intimidated by the course work," I say flatly, interrupting him. He looks annoyed but he can suck it up. "It just happens that I'm having a bit of a personality clash with someone in the classroom and rather than risk things escalating or becoming actively problematic for anyone, I'll just take the course again in the fall."

"If someone is harassing you in my class, I can speak to them." he says quickly, almost eagerly. "It'd be a shame to have you leave my class based on one person's bad behavior."

Does he really have no self awareness at all? "No, it's fine. I'll just drop the class and prepare for it better for the fall semester."

He sits back in his chair, looking vaguely unhappy. "Please. Give it one more week; I'll make sure you're not disturbed by anyone. If you'd like, I can even arrange for tutoring on the class, make things a little easier. You can email me any time after five."

Slimy son of a bitch. "No, I definitely think dropping the class is for the best. For everyone. Before anything bad actually happens that nobody can take back."

There's a moment of something ugly in his expression, a clench of his jaw that gives him a sinister cast, before he collects his composure and nods. "If you think that's for the best, then I can accept that. I hope to see you in class in the fall."

It'll be a cold day in hell first, you manipulative sack of shit, I think to myself. "If scheduling permits." And assuming the city is even here post May. The thought brings a twitch to the corner of my mouth that isn't quite a smile, but seems to masquerade as one. I can only guess how many other girls he's pulled this stunt on; naive ones who were taken advantage of, and part of me really, REALLY wants to dig a bit and see if I can collect a group of his victims for redress.

Except... what if I'm wrong? What if I'm overreacting? Earth Bet is a shithole but that runs both ways, and to be fair, the sociology I studied back home might have completely different particulars and nuances from a world that's had thirty odd years of parahumans. Am I being overly sensitive? My instincts say he's a scumbag of the highest order, yet I'm not a hundred percent sure.

But the most damning thing is this: Can I afford to sidetrack with an investigation that could potentially take weeks, months, possibly even years? If nothing changes I have almost exactly four months until Leviathan hits Brockton Bay. And only about six weeks until the Simurgh attacks Canberra. Six weeks to figure out how to pilot my armor, build weapons, or find a way to transport my medical facilities to the combat site. Something to make some kind of material difference.

I don't have time for distractions.

I fill out my class withdrawal paperwork and submit it.

--

With my class load reduced to two classes, four days a week, I can actually sleep past six thirty, something I indulge in happily. My nights are mostly sleeping in blocks from thirty minutes to two hours at a time, interspersed with learning to use my power armor. My days are packed heavily, as Seong-min and I begin to practice sparring on Monday and Wednesday nights, with me practicing my Poomses and Taegeuks the rest of the week, focusing on keeping my form tight, clean and smooth. Don't be quick, be clean and smooth. Being clean and smooth becomes quick, and that properly applied quickness is power and efficiency.

Caitlin and I slip into a slightly awkward routine, one that's at times flirtatious and at other times standoffish. Her fling with Julian Riggs only lasts about two weeks, leaving her single and me very much uncertain how to deal with her hot and cold flirtations. My hair grows, and then I realize that I'm going to have to deal with something Anthony never did: menstruation.

Cameron's memories tell me it's not a particularly bad one, this month. It still sucks. I run short of pads and I'm introduced to the comaraderie of women; as I curse softly to myself in the toilet rummaging through my purse, hoping I have one hiding in a pocket that I somehow missed, when I hear a voice from the next stall over. "You okay over there?"

I hesitate. "... No," I admit. "I'm out of pads."

There's no pause. Immediately I hear her going through her bag, and then a hand holding a Tampax is poking under the stall partition. "I don't have any pads, but I have a tampon," she says. I accept it gratefully, before I realize I have literally no idea how to actually use this thing. Cameron had never gotten tampons before, and as Anthony the most I ever did was occasionally buy a box for my wife when she was out.

"Thank you. Seriously, thank you," I say, examining the wrapper, giving a wry half chuckle at the attempt at an inspirational quote: 'Go with your gut!'

I know that tampons have a string to retrieve them with, and an applicator, although I'm not positive about how that precisely works at first.

"Having trouble?" my stall neighbor asks. "Only ever used pads before?"

"Yeah. What do I, ah..."

She talks me through the process, a distressingly invasive (at least, to my naive experience) procedure that I conduct with as much professionalism as circumstances permit. Eventually I'm left holding the applicator, and feeling vaguely irritable that the first thing I've had in me isn't anything fun, just a sanitation product that's a little uncomfortable. I'm conscious of its presence in a 'not cool' way but I'm not going to ruin my clothes and for that I can be nothing but grateful.

I dispose of the old pad in the hygiene bin, and start washing my hands when my neighbor finally leaves her stall, and I'm a little surprised-- it's the curvy afternoon girl from the showers three weeks ago. "Oh! Didn't I see you in the showers like, the first week of the semester?" I ask tactlessly.

She blushes, and laughs a little. "Uh, yeah, I... guess so. It's always abandoned during the mid afternoon, it's not so..." she trails off. I notice that she tries very hard not to look in the mirror, and she has next to no makeup on.

Personal image problems, got it. I can handle this. "Yeah, I kinda like to not be seen in the showers too," I reply. "It's... peaceful."

"You?" she blurts out, disbelieving. "Why would you be..."

"Hmm?" I ask, tilting my head and doing my best to be as openly approachable as possible. "Why what?"

"... Why would you be, uh... I mean, you're so pretty..." She winces, and begins washing her hands quickly.

"Pretty? I guess," I say, trying to play it off, but this only seems to shut her down. Dammit. Take a new approach. "Okay, yeah. I'm pretty. And I have an unfairly nice body. But you, you just helped a stranger in the bathroom who was getting ready to stuff a handful of toilet paper wrapped in a paper seat cover in hopes of getting to the store and back before disaster struck... this isn't even remotely helping, is it?"

She gapes at me wordlessly, before she tries and fails to stifle a giggle. It's a nice giggle, and her smile shows some rather fetching dimples in her cheeks. "Uh, it's just... you know, the unspoken rules. If a girl needs a tampon or a pad, even if she's your worst enemy, if you have one, you give it to her. How do you... not know this?"

I wince. "Well... not many friends. Actually, next to none at all. Plus, I try to be obsessively prepared, I just somehow ran out and didn't realize it today." Something I will NOT allow to happen in the future, if I can help it. I can not only feel the presence of the tampon, but the string as well, and it bothers me. "This feels weird," I admit after a moment.

"It did for me at first, too," she admits. "You get used to it. And you don't typically have trouble with it slipping like a pad, even with the sticky part."

That WOULD make practicing martial arts easier and less nerve wracking. "Makes sense. So, what's your name?"

"Doris. Or just Dora." Dora dries her hands, looking like she's considering whether or not to make a hasty exit. I can actually see the decision to take a risk, take my friendliness at face value. I have a suspicion that high school treated her very badly. "You?"

"Cameron Cartwright." I grin at her. "What are you studying?"

Dora begins walking towards the bathroom door, but waits for me to follow, which I do. Is this why women go to the bathroom in groups? Conversation? She answers, "I'm trying to get the basics out of the way before I pick a major. Kinda leaning towards agricultural sciences. Something in hydroponics or aeroponics, maybe. You?"

"Well, this is only my second semester, but I'm planning on a journalism degree. Hoping to get any shared credits done here while I work on getting a transfer to Emerson." I content myself with walking alongside her, trying to make her as comfortable as possible around me. "Not sure how many credits I'll lose in the transfer, but hopefully not TOO many."

"Always some, though," Dora commiserates. "If I can't think of a better major, I'm probably just gonna get my bachelors here and move out to the midwest, see if I can do an internship at a nutritional research lab while I pursue my masters."

"Sounds like a solid plan," I remark. "How about more immediate plans, though? Like, are you hungry?"

She blinks at me, and her hand seems to subconsciously go to her stomach. "I'm trying to diet," she says. "But if you're hungry, don't let me hold you up! I'm okay by myself, I promise."

"Dieting?" I ask, feigning obliviousness. "Why?"

She gives me a flat, almost unfriendly look, and asks pointedly, "Are you making fun of me?"

"No, I'm not. Seriously. Why diet?"

"Because I'm fat. Don't patronize me." She looks upset now; this is a thing I definitely need to nip in the bud.

"I wouldn't call you fat. You're not skinny, true, but you're definitely not fat. I've seen fat before, and you're not even close. All false flattery aside, I'm guessing you weigh... what, one fifty?"

She flushes, and looks away. "... Yeah, about that. One fifty two."

"That's not particularly heavy, you know. You're at least four inches taller than me, and you have broad hips and good curves. You don't really want to be my weight, you'd look like a skeleton."

"I'm flabby. Gross. And I don't need your pity."

Dora starts to speed up, but I keep pace with her. "Okay, hold up. Time out. I don't know who did this to you, but you're not flabby or gross. In fact, you look like you'd be an awesome hugger and cuddler."

"Is that a nice way of calling me pillowy?" she demands irritably.

"No, it's a statement of honest fact. You literally tick ninety percent of my turn ons."

That might have been a mistake. She turns to face me fully, stopping dead in the hallway. "Wait, you're a lesbian?" she asks nervously.

"Well, bi, really," I answer. "Although I'm not really available because I have WAY too much going on in my life but... yeah. I'm absolutely batting for both teams." And standing out here in the hallway of the dorm is making me uncomfortable. This is not the sort of conversation I'm thrilled to be having in an open space with so many doors nearby.

"Oh. That's... cool," she says after a brief moment, then slowly starts walking again. "So when you asked me if I wanted to eat, then-"

"Unrelated. I just wanted an excuse to hang out a bit more; I don't exactly have a lot of socializing with people other than my roommate. I barely know any of my classmates and I just dropped one of my classes because I was getting seriously creepy vibes from the professor, but I'm not really... sure about it. It was just easier to drop the class early before I could get a failing grade that'd damage my GPA."

"What class?" Dora asks, and I can see I've got her full attention.

"Sociology."

"Professor Clayton?"

I raise an eyebrow at her. "Yeah. You know him?"

"I took his class last semester. He's... I don't get a good feeling off him either. He seemed really focused on one of the girls in class." She pauses. "A redhead. Like you."

Son of a bitch, I knew it. No, don't get sidetracked. "Well, he didn't actually... DO anything. But he did seem really focused on me. I'm not sure if he was grading me harshly or if I just wasn't getting the points he was trying to emphasize, but I figured I'd just see if I could take it under another professor in the fall."

"Better safe than sorry," Dora agrees.

Suddenly I realize she's managed to distract me off the topic of food and dieting. "So. Back to the diet. And why dieting is a bad idea if you're trying to make body changes, or at least why it's a bad idea without the consultation of a dietition. Did you talk to a dietition?"

She fidgets a bit as we get onto the elevator together, and I poke the button for the ground floor. "Well, no... but I was reading Cosmo and it's actually really highly recommended."

"Oh, no. Oh no no no." I hate those magazines. I've read their kind before, each one of them claiming to know the secrets of love, of men, of personal fulfillment. They don't know shit about men and the sex advice they give is god awful, the sort of counter productive or nonsensical shit that would prompt a hard nope from any guy without an active fetish for pain. "You know that magazines like Cosmo and Vogue all prey on their readers, right? They're written by people who have a vested interest in getting you to read next month. If you want to know how to please a boyfriend, just ask the boyfriend. I don't mean ask just any man, ask that specific man you're trying to please, don't just follow a fashion magazine's one weird trick. And if you want to get your body to its best possible health, ask a dietition."

She starts to say something, then stops, looking at me from the corner of her eye. The elevator door opens to the bottom floor of the dorm and we get out. "Is that how you got to look..."

"I'm trying very hard to be my best possible me. But look, we don't have the same body structure, you and I, and trying to look like me is only going to make you feel worse when you shoud really be aiming for the best possible you instead. I'm guessing you're trying to lose weight, right?" She nods at me. "The very first thing you should do is feed it for top performance, not a stereotypical body type you see in a magazine or a movie poster. For instance, your boobs are fantastic. I'm kind of straddling the line between B and C but you actually have that fullness to them that draws the eye. If you start starving yourself, your body's gonna start there for removing weight. It won't narrow your shoulders or your hip structure but it will make you weak, tired, and irritable. Does any of what I'm saying make sense at all?"

Dora shrugs, and looks so insecure all I want to do is hug her. "I... guess so," she says softly.

"You know, I remember reading somewhere that Marilyn Monroe was something like a size sixteen," I comment. "Not sure how true it was, but she was a hell of a lot curvier than I am..."

Slowly, I go about the process of trying to do some damage control on Dora's self image. She doesn't actually go to lunch with me, but she DOES agree to hang out again at a later date.

--

As usual it's dark by the time I get back to the dorm. The bus schedule is off because of a fight between the Empire and the PRT, leaving a couple of the main Boulevards unusable until the mess is cleaned up. It's a pretty boring trip. I can't even fall back on old habits, given the state of apps for a non smartphone in 2011 Earth Bet is pretty anemic compared to what I'm used to. Sitting on the bus trying to get from point A to point B is not a great way to spend a Friday night,

I bring back my groceries to the room and divide up food and non food into their appropriate locations (including restocking my purse with tampons, a choice I made on the spur of the moment at the store given they're smaller than pads and, once I got used to it, feel much less like I'm wearing a diaper).

Cait's out, it seems, although she didn't leave anything on the calendar. That's not exactly unusual for her; she's terrible at organization of building habits. I shoot her a fast text jokingly asking if she's still alive, and if she's found a new boytoy to replace Julian.

Twenty minutes later, I'm worried. Caitlin hasn't texted me back.

View in Thread

Oct 21, 2022 ReportLike QuoteReply

17453, JohnSmithMIB, zorpman and 81 others like this.

Threadmarks: Chapter Five

View in Thread

Potato Nose

Potato Nose

No, seriously, I'm an author, stop laughing.

More sequentially arrayed words of hopefully aesthetically appealing qualities. Hope you all enjoy it.

Chapter Five

It's a bit of a breach of her privacy, but I carefully go through the messy stack of papers on Caitlin's desk. Near the bottom, untouched since the first week of classes, is her schedule. I copy it down in my notebook, replace everything on her desk, and check her Friday schedule.

She has only two classes on Fridays, Beginner Guitar and Personal Finance. Guitar is eleven fifteen, Finance at three thirty. I visit both classrooms; the Finance professor is already gone for the day but to my surprise the guitar instructor is still on campus, albeit preparing to go home. I intercept him, a lanky guy in his mid thirties with shaggy, dirty blond hair, wearing a hawaiian shirt. "Professor Drake?"

"Yeah, that's me. What can I do?" His voice is almost painfully California surfer. It's a nostalgic accent to me, something I heard a lot growing up.

"My roommate is in your morning class at eleven fifteen. She's not back at the dorm room, and when I texted her a half hour ago, I got no response. Not leaving me a note is one thing, but she's never failed to text me back before."

He hums and nods. "So you're worried about her, yeah? What's her name?"

"Caitlin Guntermann," I answer. "She's about five six, brunette, she was wearing a-"

"Yeah, I know Caitlin. She was in class today." He shrugs, the motion making the guitar slung over his shoulder swing a little. "You checked her other classes?"

"I tried to see the Finance professor but he's already gone for the day." I grimace.

"Huh. Well, I can probably make a few phonecalls, yeah. Gimme a minute, I'll walk with you to the Admin building."

I fidget impatiently as he finishes locking up the room. He's surprisingly empathetic; he makes an effort to hurry to the admin building. I appreciate that he's taking me seriously, despite the fact that right now I'm not even sure there's actually anything wrong, just following my gut feeling.

"What's the name of her instructor in her next class?" Professor Drake asks, picking up the directory at the desk.

"M. Owen," I answer.

He grunts, paging through the directory, before dialing a number on the desk phone.

I don't know how many rings it goes-- at least three, by my guess-- before someone picks up. "Hey, is this Melissa?" Pause. "Yeah, this is Joey Drake, from the college- Yeah, I'm a guitar instructor." Pause. "Well, actually, it's about one of your students in your afternoon- One sec." The professor looks at me. "What time did you say her class was?"

"Three thirty," I reply.

"Your three thirty finances class. Do you remember if any of your students was missing?" Moderately long pause. "Well, we're trying to figure out exactly when she went missing." Pause. "You wouldn't happen to remember the name, would you?" Pause. "It wouldn't be Caitlin Guntermann, would it?" Pause. "Alright, we at least have a window. Thanks, Melissa."

He hangs up. "Okay, so she does remember her, and she said Caitlin wasn't in class today. So we know it was between one forty five and three thirty." He looks thoughtful. "I know I've seen her go across the street for fast food after my class, although I wasn't paying that close of attention today, I'm ashamed to say. I'm thinking we may want to call the police at this point."

That pretty much seals it for me. She wouldn't have gone to one class and not the other. I nod. "Yeah... yeah, we should."

--

Contrary to popular belief, police do take missing persons seriously on the first day. They take my statement, call up her parents and her most recent ex boyfriend Julian, although I don't know how any of that turns out. 'Go home, we'll let you know' isn't comforting on any level.

I am not, however, out of options. My mind goes to the power armor hidden on the roof of the dorm.

I feel like I've been wasting too much time. It's not really rational, of course. I acted within a half hour to let people know something was wrong; I approached it as reasonably and as organized as I could, to try and pin down a time of disappearance and track down people who might have seen her.

None of this helps because it's almost ten at night now. Calling her phone again just gets me her voicemail after six rings; if it was three or less I could assume the phone was out of battery but after six, it's probably ringing and just not being picked up.

I step into the saddle of the suit and close it up, the motions relatively smooth after the practice I've gotten in over the last few weeks. Almost as soon as it finishes closing up, Violet-- the name I designated for the Virtual Intelligence-- begins speaking. "Voice recognition suite activated. Primary user Lorg Mor in control. Blood chemoanalysis anomalous readings detected. Suit full readiness in thirty seconds." I didn't even need to activate the VRS but I can only guess that's an artifact of its heuristic learning algorithms.

"Violet, can the integrated cellular device locate a specific cell phone on the network?"

"Yes."

"Locate the cell phone belonging to the following number..."

--

I'm keenly aware of the fact that other than the suit itself, I'm unarmed. The idea seems rather obscene to me; to me power armor is an augmentation of whoever wears it, like a space marine, or Iron Man, or a mecha. A defensive measure, to accompany a ranged attack form of some kind, because the entirety of human history and even prehistory has demonstrated that range is king in a conflict. From the thrown spear to the launched arrow to the fired bullet, range is better than melee, and faster, farther range is better than shorter, slower range. I've spent weeks learning the power armor, but I've all but neglected the lab itself, and literally everything else in it. Was it wise to decide to become competent at one thing at a time rather than bad at using everything all at once? Undoubtedly, but I'm regretting now not having cobbled together SOME kind of ranged weapon. Or at least I should have spent some time trying to salvage what I could from the corrupted sectors of the fabricator memory.

Immediately, I chastise myself. I have no way of knowing what kind of alien, absurd computer architecture the computers in that lab use. I'm lucky that the suit is so user friendly and easy to learn, because even exoframe training requires relearning how to move in almost every way.

Whoever the hell Amaranthe is, she (I'm assuming because of the suit configuration and certain feminine specific options for plumbing) knew her stuff. Tinkertech is supposed to look clunky, or have weird quirks, maintenance issues, complications. The suit doesn't just look like a finished creation but a meticulously refined and modularized one. Everything about the power armor seems to be aimed at granting the benefits of power armor without the deleterious expected side effects of wrapping oneself in metal that's supposed to both protect and amplify one's body.

But really, I'm not looking to fight anyone. I want to locate Caitlin, and rescue her if she needs rescuing. I have a stealth field and flight; I shouldn't have to fight anybody. But if I do, I don't like the idea of being outranged by them.

"Triangulation finished."

"Set a navigation marker to my suit HUD." I need the practice flying anyway.

The marker shows up on my overlay, almost three thousand meters away, and moving slowly. I lift off and flick my flight module to top speed.

--

"Violet, can you access network records for cell phone pings?" I ask while we're in flight.

"Attempting to gain access...Attempt failed. Those records are not accessible through the cellular network."

So much for tracking where she was actually picked up by whoever. Well, I suppose the police can probably manage that by themselves anyway. First priority, find Caitlin. The cellphone's stopped moving about ten seconds before I arrive, in an alley between two buildings with prominent red and green grafiti tags proclaiming this to be ABB territory. I touch down lightly next to a dumpster; a man is walking away from it while dusting his hands off. Heart pounding, I carefully open the lid of the dumpster and find a black plastic bag still settling.

The bag is full of clothes and more than a couple of purses, purses which look like they've been hastily ransacked. I recognize the fur boots Caitlin was wearing this morning along with the skinny jeans and her jacket, but there's clothes from a lot more women than just Cait in here.

I take to the air, pursuing the man, which I should have done from the start but I wasn't thinking clearly. There was only the one man, and since he wasn't built like a linebacker he wouldn't have been dispatched to dump a body somewhere by himself.

He gets into a Chevy so old it has manual locks, starting up the engine. He calmly buckles his seatbelt, checks his mirrors, and pulls out into the street. He's so meticulously cognizant of traffic laws I can't help but wonder how many warrants he has out. He doesn't go far; only about half a mile or so, before pulling into a parking lot on the outer edge of the warehouse district in the southern docks.

The parking lot is sparsely occupied, but one notable vehicle aside from the bag-guy's Chevy is a large box van that looks like nothing so much as a U-haul rental that's been repainted; the logo of Tanner's Seafoods has been painted by hand on the side. It's a good enough paint job to pass casual examination, at least at night. The women being carried into the cargo box, however, tell the tale well enough. To my surprise, rather than Mandarin, Cantonese, Japanese, Korean, or Thai like I would have expected for ABB sex traffickers, the hushed voices are speaking clipped German.

It occurs to me that from what I remember of Worm, Gesellschaft had operations that included kidnapping and brainwashing capes, as well as relatively reliable methods to cause trigger events. Night and Fog were two examples of the ruined shells of people left as a result of Gesellschaft triggering and conditioning them; if these girls are being taken for this purpose, then that example was possibly the best they could hope for. There's probably a cape on duty here and now but they're already loading the captives into the truck so they almost certainly don't have enough time to wait for the Protectorate to get here. "Violet, hook into the cellular network with an anonymous ID. Send a call to the PRT hotline."

"Connecting..." There's a moment of silence. "Call connected."

"Parahuman Response Teams ENE, how may I direct your call?"

"I'm Lorg Mor, independent hero. I've stumbled onto a human smuggling operation in progress and the women are already being loaded into a van. I suspect there's villain parahumans on site but if I don't act now you'll get here too late. I'm at the warehouse district in the South docks, Parthenon Avenue and Industrial. Engaging now, send help! I'm gonna try to disable the truck."

I focus my eyes on the phone icon on my HUD and blink twice; Violet terminates the call. I take a deep breath. "Here goes nothing. Violet, disengage stealth field and ramp force field output to full."

I fly up, gaining altitude, then drop, relying on the suit and force field to protect me as I drive both feet dropkick style into the driver's side of the truck cab. The roof of the cab is in no way designed to hold up to the forces involved in three hundred fifty pounds of woman-in-power-armor landing on it from fifty feet up. Part of the metal body crumples down, but a lot of it tears. The impact is jolting, and in particular I feel the combination of shattering steering column and dash board through the soles of my feet all the way up my legs despite the protective measures in the suit. The vehicle is almost certainly not driveable, and that possibly buys some time, but I now have a complication; the impact bounces the whole truck on its suspension, and for a moment I fear I might have hit it hard enough to knock it over sideways.

At the first landing from the bounce, there's a crunch from underneath the body, and the front end slumps a bit as it settles. But now I have one leg stuck in the seat all the way up to the knee, and I can't get good enough leverage to untangle my foot from whatever part of the seat mounting that I'm caught on.

This is a terrible way to make a cape debut. But a large portion of the metal around me is partially torn, so I take a gamble that the suit is strong enough to finish the job and either give me enough space or enough leverage to free myself.

Shouts are coming from behind the van, and I'm almost unstuck when I hear a man's voice in a heavy, guttural German accent. "I do not know who you are, madschen, but you have made the most significant mistake of your degenerate life."

Now would be a good time for some kind of witty rejoinder but I neither have the quick wittedness nor the opportunity to do so as I and my power armor are suddenly tumbling end over end across the parking lot. I feel my elbow plow into and through something, and my HUD flashes a warning light indicating that my shield emitters are overheating. After a second the tumble stops, leaving me with the sense that I'm on my shoulders with my legs over my head. Part of me wants to make an obscene joke about it not being Saturday yet and through my impulsive laugh I consider the possibility that I'm concussed and didn't notice yet. But no, the disorientation fades and I get to my feet.

"Dude my fucking car!" someone yells out. A quick look at the vehicle I hit tells me that yes, in fact, it was the Chevy. Serves him right for being an accomplice to this kind of shit.

The man walking towards me ignores the commentary from the observers, cracking his knuckles obnoxiously. His hair is pale in the wash of the solitary parking lot lamp post, a sharp contrast to his dark clothes, and a metal mask like a billowing cloud covers his face from just above his mouth to his hairline. "Nothing to say, Kinder?" he asks, pronouncing the word like the first half of 'kindergarten.' "No snappy words? Nothing clever to say?"

"Violet, external speakers for one sentence. Ich chatte nicht mit Nazi-Arschleckern."

The look on his face is priceless; my grandmother taught me to speak German all the way back in third grade and despite only occasional use I never really lost it. I take the opportunity afforded by his discomfiture to circle around to an angle that doesn't include the box van, before I grab the bumper of the Chevy, which is already pretty totaled at this point anyway. I already know it's not going to make a great weapon, but I yank on the fender anyway. It takes two tries, but I pull it free, hefting it. It's got to be at least seventy pounds, and even with my augmented strength I get a myomere warning. Still, the guy looks cautious now, and that's good, because I don't have to beat him here, just stall for time until the Protectorate arrives. The more cautious he is, the less likely-

My thoughts come to a jarring halt as I go flying again. My HUD announces that my shield emitters are offline, and there's a crack in the screen at about nose level. "Suit integrity compromised," Violet announces unhelpfully.

"Yep, I did notice, thank you Violet," I groan, collecting my wits and standing back up. It takes me a second to realize that I unconsciously imitated Tony Stark's banter with Jarvis; tonight has progressed with a linear descent from bad into ever worse and with no sign of stopping.

"Shield emitters at critical heat levels."

Lovely. I catch sight of the mangled car bumper. Where I'd grabbed it, the metal is scorched and buckled, more severely than the rest. I consider this a moment, looking towards the cab of the box van, and there too where my hands had made contact with the frame as I tried to pry myself free, there's scorching and deformation.

A contact based explosive power? Probably subject to the Manton effect. I'd think he'd have used it on my suit directly otherwise. Either that, or he's just trying to bat me around instead of kill me.

As I look at both the bumper and the truck cab, though, I notice an odd discoloration that doesn't seem to be an artifact of the explosion itself. "Violet, enhance that coloration." I don't need to elaborate; the eye tracking software already knows what I'm looking at. Within a second, all instances of that color on my display are enhanced-- and suddenly, I see that the ground around me is littered with splotches of it. "Okay, then."

I run towards him, noting the smile on his face sort of melt off as I make a blatant hop over the splotch between us. Another starts to form where I would be landing from my hop but I engage my suit's flight module and swoop over it, grabbing him by his shirt and the waistband of his pants, before flying straight up. "Violet, activate-"

The shirt explodes in my hands, and I feel the heat from the blast begin radiating through the front of my suit. "Carpal fractures detected. Warning: thermal ablation failure," Violet recites. "Engaging thermal flush." A moment later, I land on my back, the wind knocked out of me from the impact and the inside of the helmet smacking me in the forehead. The crack in the screen widens, and there's a spot of blood on it now. My HUD flickers. "Power junction failure. Shield emitters failure. Autopilot recall advised."

As the words 'carpal fractures' starts to register in my brain, an ache begins in my left hand, replacing a mild numbness I'd barely had time to make sense of. As my attention focuses on the pain, it blossoms into searing, stabbing agony. Ahh. Broken hand bones, haven't felt that in a couple decades. "Violet, can the suit immobilize my hand? Or at least give me, I dunno, pain killers?"

"That functionality is not incorporated into this scout armor." Is it my imagination, or did Violet just emphasize the word 'scout'?

Well, what else can I do? Down one hand, explosive shaker cape on the battlefield, if I try to retreat, is he going to pursue? Might not be terrible, except for the part where that would leave me alone with the cape while reinforcements gather here for the girls. Not a great option for me. "Violet, shield status?"

"Shield emitters undergoing repairs. Estimated time to full functionality: two hours."

Wow. "Can the shield emitters be reactivated at reduced capacity?"

"Reactivating shield emitters during a repair cycle is not advised. Further damage to emitters without a full repair cycle will require removal and fabrication of new emitters."

Would that really be so terrible? It could buy me time by giving me one more solid hit I can soak, hopefully. "Override repair cycle. Reactivate shield emitters."

"Acknowledged." There's a beat, then- "Shield emitter failure: power junction failure. Autopilot recall advised."

My first time out and I've already broken my beautiful power armor suit. I groan and unsteadily get to my feet to take a look around me.

While the cape may not be affected by his own explosions, the twenty foot drop from when he blew us both up is a different matter. He's curled up on the ground, groaning and clutching what looks to be a telescoping fracture of his right leg. Shoulda flexed those knees on landing, buddy. You still probably would've broke something, but at least you'd have had a decent chance of eventually walking again in whatever prison you wound up in.

This does, however, leave me with a group of guys who've gathered up guns and, now that their cape is out of the line of fire, open fire on me. I feel the rattling impact of the bullets against my armor before I hear their gunfire, but it doesn't seem to be doing much; I begin walking towards them while evading the color patches on the ground. I could REALLY use a ranged weapon, because they might not be doing damage to me but I don't think I could round them all up if they scatter, especially not while picking my way through a parahuman-made minefield.

Then there's a rapid blur of red, zipping between each of the thugs firing at me. I flick my eyes to the voice activation icon on my hud. "Velocity, watch out! The ground is littered with some kind of parahuman power! Stay out of the parking lot if you can't see them!"

"Got it!" he answers, corraling the men as they try to break for it.

The German parahuman is already half unconscious; I wouldn't be surprised if he's bleeding internally. That leg is looking really bad. "Violet, dial emergency services."

"Dialing..."

Within two rings, a woman's voice answers. "Nine one one, what is the address of your emergency?"

"This is independent hero Lorg Mor, I'm at the warehouse on the corner of Industrial and Parthenon. I have a parahuman criminal with a femoral telescoping fracture and possible internal bleeding. The parking lot is littered with a parahuman created explosive hazard so I'm going to have to bring him out to the street."

"Alright, understood. Contacting the PRT-"

"I called them earlier, they should already be on their way, but now there's an injury and-"

"Then there's not much more I can do for you here, ma'am. Parahuman emergencies have to go through the PRT for the safety of police and EMTs."

Right. Of course they are. "Thank you for your time."

--

Armsmaster arrives two minutes before the PRT gets here, and maybe two minutes after the end of the fighting. Velocity has all the non capes cuffed and waiting for the police but if I have anything to say about things this is going to either the FBI or CIA, depending which agency handles international kidnapping and trafficking in Earth Bet. DHS handles it back home but I don't even think it was established in Earth Bet; it was only established back home after nine eleven, which was prevented by Scion on Bet.

I'm still busy trying to keep the cape guy alive when Armsmaster shows up; the villain's barely responsive and his pulse is fast and thready. With difficulty, due to my hand, I've applied a tourniquet just below the hip level but that's the extent of what I can do to slow the bleeding which has his right leg swelling up similar to severe edema. "Armsmaster, I hope you have something in your gear to keep this guy alive long enough to reach trial, because I've got broken carpals and I'm not a surgeon anyway."

Armsmaster seems somewhat put off by my offhand means of addressing him, but responds, "I have some supplies. What happened?"

"He blew both of us up, is what happened," I bite out irritably. The pain from my hand is coming in waves and it's affecting my mood pretty severely. "Except he did it while we were about twenty feet in the air, and landed with a straight right leg."

As I talk, Armsmaster is already using a utility knife to cut the cape's pants leg open, revealing a badly swollen and purplish thigh. "He needs immediate surgery and transfusion. Why were you in the air?"

"He's some kind of shaker class cape," I explain. "He was leaving explosive blotches on solid objects but not directly on me, so I tried to remove the both of us from solid objects he could use for his power. I hadn't counted on him being able to apply one to his own clothing, though. I'd expected the Manton effect would prevent it, but all it did was prevent damage from the blast to his clothes or himself."

"You're well versed in parahuman research," he grunts at me, as he bares the cape's forearm and injects him with something. "His name is Minensucher, and he's a known member of Gesellschaft."

"Minensucher?" I yelp, disbelieving and mildly infuriated. "He named himself, 'Minesweeper?' No, that's not important right now. He and the group of normals over there were loading women into the back of that box van," I gesture gingerly with my broken hand in the direction of the truck, which looks a little scorched in places but the cargo van itself is almost untouched. "The van got rocked a bit but I literally haven't had a moment to check on them and someone REALLY needs to do that, preferably someone who doesn't have a broken hand right now."

He angles his visor in my direction briefly. "You seem to have come out well, all told. Your armor is good."

I shrug. "My armor is damaged. And I'm gonna have to replace the force field emitters because they're a bit burned out right now."

He raises an eyebrow. "A small chassis to mount a forcefield on. What did you say your name was again?"

"Lorg Mor."

"Interesting name. You have a local accent, it's rather impressive. Are you with Interpol?"

"Interpol?" I scoff. "I saw one of those guys-" I gesture at the normals "-driving that car, which was intact until this jerk blasted me into it all the way from the cab of the box van. I'm fine, by the way, thank you for asking. I'll need to get down to my lab and get my hand fixed as well as my armor. And if you think you can make sure this guy doesn't go anywhere or do anything he shouldn't, I'll be leaving, because this armor has no painkillers and I'm feeling faintly ill."

There's a moment where Armsmaster's lips tighten, before he nods. "I can understand your wish to seek medical attention. We can take it from here."

I take a brief moment to check the back of the truck. Seven girls, a mix ranging from mid teens to early twenties, all naked, tied, and looks like drugged up. Caitlin's there, flopped on her side, and seeing her violated like this makes me want to go and kick in the heads of every one of the bastards involved in doing this. Losing my temper won't help anybody, though, and all the girls are breathing, even if none of them so much as twitch. Nothing more I can do for them now and Cait is safe in the heroes' hands, so I turn and fly off, heading North.

With my shield inoperable, so is my stealth field. As a result, I'm gonna have to find a low population area before I go into the water and make my way back to the base, and hope that nobody can track me. The alternative, of course, being I wait until however long it takes for my suit to repair its power coupling, then the shield emitter, and THEN return to the lab, but that's probably a good two hours wait.

Armsmaster wasn't as much of a raging asshole as I'd been led to expect, but then, he wasn't really much of an asshole to Taylor on her first night out either, so who knows. Taylor was notoriously judgmental, had a hefty (if understandable) persecution complex, and regularly performed mental gymnastics to justify her own impulses, so I'll have to see for myself how much of his characterization holds up to the real thing.

Well past the trainyard and the boat graveyard, just outside city limits, I dip closer to the shoreline, wishing I'd brought my aquatic module with me after all. I end up having to fly low aross the water, doing my best to remain out of clear line of sight to the Protectorate Rig as I approach the container ship, until it's blocking line of sight to the PRT headquarters and the city alike.

The path through the container ship's interior appears to be undisturbed since the last time I was here. The lab lights up in the depths of the ship as I enter, step up onto the deployment bay platform, and open the suit.

I am bruised, battered, and-- joy of all god damn joys, the tampon is soaked through and my underwear is now bloodstained. Fan fucking tastic. I didn't bring my purse along on this excursion, which... was an oversight, because it's going to complicate any alibi I attempt if I'm discovered missing with it still at the dorm. Well, whatever. I'll deal with it after I get out of the body and fender.

I lay myself down on the table, watching the pair of medical drones as they immediately hover over me. After a brief scan, they appear to have decided on a course of action. One of them injects me with something. I have the pleasant experience of my hand's pulsing ache and stabbing pains diminishing to something barely even there, and then I'm out like a light.

View in Thread

Last edited: Oct 23, 2022

Oct 23, 2022 ReportLike QuoteReply

17453, JohnSmithMIB, zorpman and 94 others like this.

Threadmarks: Interlude A

View in Thread

Potato Nose

Potato Nose

No, seriously, I'm an author, stop laughing.

A small interlude for everyone while Cameron sleeps off her first night out as a hero. Unfortunately for her, people are paying attention.

Interlude A

"Called in on your day off, huh? Busy night," Assault commented from the doorway.

Colin grunted, pulling his helmet off and plunking it down on his workbench. "I wasn't busy."

"You're ALWAYS busy," Assault countered. "You need a girlfriend."

"I have plenty of associates who are women," Colin evaded.

"The fact that you can say that with a straight face says SO much about you. Come on, you need a break. Have a few beers. Flirt with a stranger in a bar."

Colin aimed an unfriendly stare at the clownish man. He didn't want to permanently damage him; that would be bad for his career and his image. Still, a short dose of depression wouldn't be too bad for the PR department would it? He found himself wondering if he could build a device to reduce the neuorological seratonin receptivity of someone else for just a half hour. "I don't have time for that."

"You HAVE time for a personal life, man. You just won't TAKE the time. Do you even have an off base apartment? If so, how thick is the dust there?"

"Don't you have anything better to be doing right now, Ethan?" Colin snapped peevishly.

"Huh. Must've been a really bad night. It usually takes me at least ten more minutes to get under your skin." Assault tilted his head to the side, and Colin felt a spike in his irritation. "What happened, anyway?"

Colin grunted again, staring at his navy blue helmet for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts. For once, Assault seemed willing to not add anything to the encounter. For a moment, Colin entertained the idea of just not responding-- except the straightforward question was something of a novelty from Assault and Colin figured it was probably worth encouraging. "While you were already out dealing with the Empire rally in the business district, there was a call from a new independent hero asking for assistance in stopping a human trafficking operation. When we arrived, she'd already subdued the cape on site and was preparing to deal with the non parahuman assets."

"Huh. Sounds not terrible, to be honest." Assault kept a neutral tone to his voice.

"The cape was remanded to PRT medic teams; he was severely injured, although evidence on site and from the independent's testimony indicates it wasn't intentional. She worked to keep him alive-- despite her having a broken hand-- until medical assistance came- which I rendered."

"Huh. Fairly decent of her." Colin rolled his eyes, but Assault continued. "Better than Shadow Stalker while she was an independent, at any rate."

Colin continued, "The new hero is a tinker, calls herself Lorg Mor."

"Sounds Gaelic," Assault commented, to Colin's mild surprise.

"It is. It's the weapon associated with the god Dagda in Celtic mythology. Fairly sophisticated and refined power armor, high durability, refined components, good materials. Had a force field generator that she said needed repairs, along with needing to attend to her own injuries. Thematically appropriate," Colin mused, "if she's capable of medical technology in addition to her power armor."

"How so?"

"The Lorg Mor was reputed to be a massive warclub, one end of which was capable of killing nine men in a single blow, while the other was empowered to restore life."

"A bit melodramatic, even if she can heal people." Assault laughed. "And as an expert in melodrama I should know."

Colin privately agreed with this, but had other things to talk about right now. "She fought Minensucher in close quarters and took multiple hits from his explosive traps. From what I could glean, her suit took moderate but not incapacitating damage, and was still flight capable."

"She has flying power armor?" Assault looked startled by this. "I thought you said the power storage-"

"Apparently, it's more viable than I believed," Colin ground out between his teeth. "I would have thought it to be prohibitively expensive and the power storage too limited, but she has found a way to make it work without a suit comparable in size to the ones Dragon manufactures."

"Do you suppose it IS Dragon, under a different alias?" Assault asked thoughtfully. "I mean, she IS pretty distinctive. Maybe she just wanted to operate anonymously in your city."

"If so, then her aesthetic and building styles are completely new." Colin felt a little bit mollified by the question; Dragon was the one tinker he didn't mind being second place to, considering their long association and mutual respect. "But I don't think so. While Lorg Mor seemed familiar with the concept of the Manton limit and identified Minensucher as a shaker, she didn't know who he was. Dragon is even better versed in villains worldwide than I am."

"I don't know who Minion Suturer is."

"I'm not surprised," Colin sniped, rolling his eyes at the (probably deliberate) mangling of the name. "He's a shaker 6 associated with Gesellschaft. He can rapidly deploy explosive contact traps on surfaces with an estimated range of up to one hundred twenty feet, traps to which he is immune. His exact capabilities aren't precisely known but forensic examination of sites he's affected show both heat and concentrated overpressure damage. He has demonstrated an armor piercing capacity around ninety milimeters of rolled homogenous armor, and the damage to the parking lot-- and the vehicles therein where they fought-- suggests that Lorg Mor took at least three direct strikes."

Assault was quiet for a moment. "Could your armor-"

Colin didn't let Assault finish the question. "No. But I have other measures to counter Minensucher's abilities."

Assault was the one to grunt, this time. "Did you make a Protectorate pitch?"

"There wasn't time. I had to take over to keep Minensucher alive; if I hadn't intervened he would have gone into shock. As it was, I was forced to use my suit AED."

Assault tilted his head. "You have an AED built into your- wait, what am I saying? Of course you do."

"It's fortunate that I did," Colin commented. "I've had it in my suit for almost two years, and I've never had to use it until today. I actually had plans to remove it to make space for more computing power, but I changed my mind. It might have only been a Nazi affiliate today, but some civilian out there or even another hero might be the one who needs it next."

Assault suddenly grinned at Colin, and he braced himself for some kind of annoying comment or verbal jab. Instead, Assault said, "The Swiss Army Tinker, always has the perfect tool for the job, and saves lives doing it."

Colin found himself feeling strangely flattered. "Don't call me that," he protested a little weakly.

"Eh, I think it suits you better than Armsmaster, personally. There's more to you than just fighting."

Colin stared at Assault for several seconds. For a moment, he wrestled with how to respond to that statement. He really was terrible at the 'people' thing, and he knew it. Finally, he decided that absent any other reasonable course of action, he'd take it at face value. "Thank you."

Assault seemed more thrown off by the response than any amount of ire or protest Colin had ever shown in the past. Assault looked away, coughing a little, before saying, "Hey, now, don't get all mushy here. You'll ruin that stoic badass vibe you have going on."

And the mood was ruined. Colin shook his head. "I'm going to get back to working on my equipment."

"Alright," Assault said, and slapped Colin companionably on the shoulder, an action that made Colin grit his teeth irritably. Assault continued, "You do your thing, man. But next weekend we're going out for a beer and you're gonna make time for it. I'll tell Dragon to enforce it."

"Please don't."

"We're going for drinks and for one night this year you're gonna relax!"

"Ethan, no!"

"ETHAN, YES!"

--

Caitlin woke up shivering. She felt sluggish, and weak. What was the last thing she did? Where was she? She looked around herself at the room that was vaguely blurry, and tried to make sense of her surroundings. She was wrapped in a blanket, and from the feel of things, the blanket was the only thing covering her. The knowledge gave her an intense feeling of wrongness, a frisson of anxiety that shot adrenaline through her veins and made her scramble to unsteady feet, looking for a door.

"Hello? Where am I?" Caitlin called out hoarsely.

A woman's voice answered her. "Miss Guntermann? That's your name, yes?"

"I- yes. I'm Caitlin Guntermann. What happened?"

"Please calm down. You're safe. Your captors are all in police or PRT custody. Please try to relax."

Caitlin tried to blink away the blurriness, and found it seemed to help. She still felt very weak and wobbly, though. "I... don't feel right," she said.

"You were drugged. Do you remember how and where you were abducted?"

Caitlin wracked her brain, trying to find something. "I... don't remember. I think... I was at class, and then..."

"Can you tell us anything about it?"

"I can't..." There was a brief blur of memory, a smell that had nothing to do with the tacos she'd been eating, dizziness. "I... I remember tacos, and... I think I was at Taco Bell."

"Would that be the Taco Bell on Sherman and Mercer Avenue?"

"I... maybe?" Caitlin answered, rubbing her forehead with her free hand while the other preserved what little modesty and warmth she had left. "That's the one by... Yeah. That's the one I usually go to between classes."

"Thank you. It will help us immensely to narrow our search and find anyone we missed." There was a pause. "You're shivering. Are you cold?"

Caitlin nodded, rubbing her eyes. "Yeah. Freezing." Her mind was already starting to clear, the spike of adrenaline chasing away the fuzziness around the edges. "Where are my clothes?"

"We're sending for some clothing you can wear home. The medical staff have already established that aside from being drugged, nothign else was... done to you. Regarding your clothes, though... We don't know," the woman's voice admitted after a moment. "You were recovered with six other women from the back of a stolen moving van. An independent hero spotted them and called the Protectorate; the kidnappers were brought in by Armsmaster and Velocity."

The room was finally resolving into something resembling coherency. Caitlin cleared her throat. "Uh... did the other hero leave a name?"

"A new hero to the area, or so I'm given to understand. A woman, named Lorg Mor."

Caitlin blinked, and sat back down on the bed. She'd long had a habit of retreating into absurdity when things got to be too much. And now, she fell back on old habits. "Lorg Mor. Sounds like something out of Star Trek." Caitlin gave a semi hysterical giggle. "Lorg Mor starship on sensors, Captain Kirk!"

"Gaelic, actually, according to Armsmaster." The woman's voice sounded somewhat annoyed. "But it's good that you're feeling a little better."

By this point, it was pretty apparent that she wasn't in a hospital room. "So where am I? This doesn't look like Brockton General to me. And I don't think they have personalized intercoms there for the patients. What gives?"

"Unfortunately, due to the inability to verify how you were rendered unconscious during your abduction, and the cape who was involved in it is a known associate of a Master type villain, the PRT Director has ordered that for your own safety you be kept under observation for twenty-four hours, here at the PRT headquarters."

"Excuse me?" Caitlin said, barely able to believe she'd just heard correctly.

"We do apologize for the necessity," the woman's voice continued, "but human controlling Masters can have harmful effects on people they control, and even without things like addiction or withdrawal, there have been cases of human controlling Masters leaving subconscious commands in victims to return to the Masters if they should escape. For your safety and others, you'll be under observation until tomorrow morning. Your family has been notified of your whereabouts and if you wish, we can bring them to visit you, or we can have them pick you up once we've verified your safety from whatever was done to you."

For the next few hours, the woman kept checking in with Caitlin periodically, but the door didn't open. Within a few minutes, clothes arrived for her, and were slipped in via a panel next to the door, and a few hours later, at her request, food as well. As hotels went, Caitlin decided, the Protectorate headquarters was no better than three stars, but she has to admit it was better then whatever the kidnappers had had planned.

She was willing to bet Cameron was probably losing her shit right now, though. The girl was REALLY high strung and serious; more than anything Cait was willing to bet Cameron was a virgin. Even if she could talk nasty with the best of them, Cammie was just too hung up on being safe and responsible. All talk, no action.

Caitlin found herself missing her roommate. "Hey, can you do me a favor?"

There was a brief wait, then the woman's voice came over the speaker. "What can we do?"

"Can you get my roommate down here? Her name's Cameron, Cameron Cartwright. We're in room twenty one at the number four dormitory."

"... It says here yesterday evening, your roommate was the first person to report you missing. Even tracked down the approximate time you were abducted. Her quick action was actually how we managed to identify you so quickly." Because of course she did, Caitlin thought with a weak smile. Probably figured out the guy's license plate by midnight. The voice went on, "When you were identified, we attempted to contact Miss Cartwright to let her know you'd been found and safe, but nobody's been able to find her since last night. I promise you that we're looking for her, and if the same group that abducted you took her as well, we'll find her."

Caitlin was sure of what must have happened: Cammie went out looking for her. Because she was fearless. Because she's a tiny badass who wouldn't be stopped by common sense or personal danger. "You have to find her."

"We will, I prom-"

"No, you don't understand! Cammie- Cameron, she's-- she doesn't-"

"Please, calm down. I promise you she'll be fine."

"No! You don't GET it! Cameron doesn't have support, she doesn't have a circle of friends like I do, she's alone! I don't think she's called her folks in the whole time I've known her. She doesn't have ANYONE. And it's like, she doesn't even seem to realize how vulnerable she is. She's fearless. And she gets hurt. And she doesn't even think twice about it." Caitlin paused, trying to articulate her thoughts. "Cameron went out a few weeks ago to a dojo recommended by a guy who just started fighting with her in the gym when she was practicing. She came back with all kinds of bad bruises and she didn't even think twice about it. She's gone there every week, and she practice fights with the guy at the gym like every other night. It's like she doesn't care that she can get hurt, because it's not real to her or something. She's not safe out there because she doesn't know the limits of what's actually dangerous to her or not. You HAVE to find her."

There was a brief moment's pause, before another voice came on the intercom. "Miss Guntermann, do you believe your roommate is a parahuman?"

"Her?" Caitlin scoffed. "Not a chance. I've seen where she sleeps, and she wouldn't have the time. She's always doing something. But she'd be safer if she was."

"Are you sure she's not a cape? She seemed to know you were missing before anyone else did."

"She's probably the most anally organized person I've ever met," Caitlin answered, rolling her eyes. "She calls or texts me any time I do something I don't tell her about or put up on our calendar. And I don't think she's ever deviated from anything she put on that schedule, now that I think of it. So if she didn't have something listed on it, then I can practically guarantee you she's in trouble."

"We'll look into it, I promise you," the man's voice reassured her.

"What are your names, anyhow?" Caitlin asked. "Seems kinda impersonal to just keep calling you guys 'you' all the time."

The woman interjected here. "I'm Corporal Madelaine Eelie, PRT. Nice to meet you."

"And I'm Thomas Calvert, a civilian contractor with the PRT," the man responded when the Corporal was finished talking. "Let us know if you happen to need anything, and we'll take care of it."

"Just find my roommate, okay? She's more vulnerable than she thinks."

"Don't worry, Miss Guntermann," Mister Calvert reassured her. "I promise you I'll take care of her personally if I have to."

View in Thread

Oct 24, 2022 ReportLike QuoteReply

17453, Nico360, JohnSmithMIB and 96 others like this.

Threadmarks: Chapter Six (NSFW-ish)

View in Thread

Potato Nose

Potato Nose

No, seriously, I'm an author, stop laughing.

I present to you all, sequentially arrayed words.

Chapter Six

Waking up is a sudden thing. I have a vague sense of familiarity at the memory of what it was like to be under, the calm lack of anything, no up or down, no hot or cold. Then, I'm awake, feeling stiff, and surrounding by glass. As I tap the glass, it opens, bringing in cold air across my clammy skin. It's prettyuncomfortable. Next to the pod, the two medical robots are waiting in standby mode; I'm guessing they decided I needed one of the more intensive pods?

I step out of the pod, walking over to the main terminal to check the time, and discover to my unpleasant surprise that it's almost eleven am. That's... concerning. Admittedly, I feel great. My hand functions perfectly, with no trace of the broken bones I arrived at the lab with. In fact... I seem to be missing fillings in my molars? My eyesight is crystal clear, the assortment of bruises I was carrying from this week's practices with Seong-min are healed, the annoying click in my left ankle, subtle as it was, is entirely gone, and in general, I can't find a thing wrong with me. Literally nothing.

I even feel completely rested. Admittedly, I haven't been sleeping quite enough. I hadn't really noticed it over the last few weeks as I added little things here and there, but between work, power armor practice, martial arts, exercise regimens, and the little nickel and dime tasks of daily self maintenance, I don't have much time to myself. I've been cheating myself in small ways, usually sleep, and now that I'm at what I'm guessing is a hundred percent, I can feel just how big the difference is.

This does leave me with a problem, though: I really want the documentation for this stuff, but I don't know just when I'm going to actually read it all, much less make use of any of the information therein. I'd skip it, except for the almost certainty that I'm going to need to learn how to use it in a matter of a few weeks in Canberra. I want to believe I can make a difference there, despite knowing what happens in canon.

And I really need to get back to the college. And think of a cover story in case anybody noticed I was gone. I left my purse and my phone there. Can I say I was out all night asking aroun for people who'd seen Caitlin? Probably not. Too easy for them to check on that sort of thing.

Maybe I'm overthinking things. I know like, four people on a name basis at the college, and the only ones I can expect to run into today are Caitlin and Seong-min.

... Yeah, I better get my story straight.

My suit is ready to go, thankfully, although checking the repair logs tells me that it took most of the night to repair the damage to my shield generator and there's still cosmetic stuff that Violet assures me can be handled by the auto repair functions. I find myself wondering how viable it would be to pack on a backup force field emitter that could give the primaries time to cool off between hits. But that would require more power conduits, probably, and more power storage, which is probably heavy, even with this level of technology. More stuff to look up.

I'm mid flight back to the dorm when something occurs to me: the suit was scanning for a primary base the first time Iactivated it. "Violet, can you remotely access the auxiliary base terminal?"

"Auxiliary base terminal access is possible out to two point seven million kilometers," Violet responds. It takes me a moment to really register what she says.

"Violet, confirm remote access range limitations?"

"Auxiliary base terminal access is possible out to two point seven million kilometers," she repeats.

That's more than ten times the distance to lunar orbit. Fast mental math, three hundred thousand kilometers per second for light speed, that's nine light seconds. That's an appallingly long range. Why would the suit need that kind of reach? Who was Amaranthe?

I have a hundred questions, but with the last twenty-four hours being what they are, I can't afford to be bogged down here. Especially because Seong-min's going to be expecting me at the college gym in about a half hour, and I still need to check in on Caitlin, because I can't imagine she's not at least a little rattled still from yesterday and she's going to need some emotional support.

I do, however, take a moment to examine the aquatic module, and am pleased to discover that both it and the flight module can be attached at the same time. Which also irritates me, because that means I didn't need to choose between them. Still, it's not really my fault that I didn't know; there's months worth of documentation to read and my time is limited. Hopefully I'll have read up on everything by the time Scion goes critical.

After installing the aquatic module in place, I saddle up, activate my stealth module, and return to the city and the dorms.

--

By the time I've landed on the roof of the dorm, I've decided on my story: I was on the rooftop, and fell asleep. This is going to take a bit of effort to be convincing, so I take time to get roof gravel marks on my arms and a red spot on my forehead so it looks like I was asleep up there. I have the jacket I wore last night and left on the roof (thankfully it didn't get blown away anywhere, as tough as that would have been from between the roof top air units), so it's not too unbelievable but hopefully nobody asks too many questions.

And when I get down to my floor, it's practically crawling with police. Our room is open and POLICE ARE GOING THROUGH ALL OUR SHIT.

"WHAT THE FUCK?!"

--

Apparently I was reported missing. Which... seems ironic, somehow. Still, I should have expected something like this, because this is Earth Bet and this universe loves to screw people over. And now I'm applying personality traits to the universe, which is kind of dumb.

The police, of course, want a statement from me. Where I was ("I went up to the roof to look at the city because I couldn't think of anything I could do to help"), why I didn't take my phone with me ("I don't know! I just needed time to calm down") and was I aware how many people they had looking for me especially since I'd led to the discovery of a long term human trafficking operation (something I actually had no answer for since I don't remember anything like this being a thing in canon; human sex trafficking was supposed to be an ABB thing).

I finally managed to convince everyone to get out of our room, learned that Caitlin's still at the PRT building but wanted to see me, and that Seong-min had gone out looking for me when he'd heard I was missing. I call him on his phone.

"Seong-min ibnida," he answers after two rings.

"Seong-min, it's me."

"Cameron?" He sounds relieved. "You're okay? Where are you? I'll come get you, don't go anywhere-"

"I was on the roof and fell asleep, I didn't have my phone with me. I'm safe and at the college and just woke up like forty five minutes ago and had to shoo a bunch of cops out of my dorm room. The place is a mess and I found out that Caitlin is still being held at the PRT in case of parahuman rabies or something. I'm going to visit her and make sure she's okay." I briefly pause, then continue, "Can you tell Sabeomnim that I might be late to class? I'll understand if that voids our deal."

"Uh... yeah. Yeah, I'll tell him. Do you need a lift down there?"

"That'd be great."

--

I'd expected Seong-min to drive a car of some kind, as level headed as he is. Instead, I learn that he drives a motorcycle, a Peugot Loup-Garou, a make and model I've never heard of even in passing. He wears a helmet, of course, and has a spare for me, which I put on immediately. Having never owned a motorcycle as Anthony, I knew it would be loud, but I didn't consider the thrumming of the engine literally vibrates the entire body.

"You ready?" Seong-min asks, his voice still surprisingly audible despite both of our faces being covered by the helmets.

"Not sure," I reply honestly, my hands on his shoulders. I'm acutely aware that seated where I am, the insides of my thighs are pressed against the outside of his. I can feel heat building in my belly despite the chill of the air. "I've never done this before."

"Well, for starters, wrap your hands around in front of my stomach," he comments. "Just hands on my shoulders isn't very secure."

I think back to all the times I've seen people double up on a motorcycle, and I have to admit, that DOES seem to be the way they all ride. But it feels more... intimate. Then I shake my head at myself in annoyance. I'm WAY too old for this waffling bullshit. Thus resolved, I do as instructed, wrapping my arms around his midriff and lacing my fingers together.

This pulls me close to him, and I discover that part of the nice scent he always has is his motorcycle leathers. It's a delicious blend with his scent, and I feel a thrill that makes my breathing catch just a little. I turn my head away to cough as a cover for it, before I turn my head back forward. "Sorry. Uh, I guess I'm ready."

The motorcycle grunts; there's no other words for it. The grunt is followed by a deep, unsteady thrumming, one that vibrates up through my legs-- and other parts. Oh. Oh, I hadn't counted on this. Because that vibration hits EVERYTHING down there. My toes curl slightly. Then, he guns the engine, and the unsteadiness smooths out to a powerful growl. "Hold on tight, alright?" he yells.

Not much danger of me letting go right now, I think to myself, as I feel my nipples firm up. The appeal of getting a vibrator has about doubled just from this short experience on the back of this bike. I nod, and pull tighter against him. My imagination is a traitor, showing me images of this very scenario but without clothes. I don't need this distraction right now, it's... undignified. Of all the times I've compared being female favorably to my experience as a man, this is certainly one of the best, because if I was a guy feeling like this right now I'd NEVER be able to conceal it. Then Seong-min kicks it into gear, and suddenly we're moving.

There's a thrill somewhere between terror and ecstacy from moving at vehicle speeds with no seatbelt, no shell of metal, the chill wind whipping through what hair sticks out the bottom of my borrowed helmet. It only intensifies the hyper awareness I have of him, how damn GOOD he smells right now, and I find myself panting softly. I can feel each successive change in gear through my most intimate parts, as we speed up or slow down, the vibration setting my blood on fire and my skin to tingling everywhere from head to toes. I'd swear I can feel that delicious buzzing in my scalp.

As we take a turn, I pull tighter against him, worried that my fingers will betray me, and I clench them tighter as we accelerate again. My toes curl again, and I feel the buildup of something like a coil in my belly, tightening like an overwound clockspring, almost molten hot. I wore a tampon this morning but I get the distinct impression that it's not going to do me much good because I'm soaking right now. This is intensely distracting, and isn't putting me in a good state of mind for the purpose of visiting Caitlin. Unless it's a conjugal- NO! Bad brain!

The ride is a sweet torture. I bite my lip, I focus on the road and the very real danger of me falling off the back of the bike if I let myself climax out here in the middle of traffic. I fight it, every step of the way. My every effort is focused on stopping what's quickly seeming to be inevitable, to the point that I'm breathing raggedly, I've completely lost track of where we are, and my thoughts, my fantasies, are becoming increasingly lewd. My mind shifts between Seong-min and Caitlin, even Dora and Jung, as I try and fail to meditate through the experience.

Then suddenly, we're pulling into a parking lot, and I realize that somehow, SOMEHOW, I made it. I can't tell if I regret it or am grateful for it. The engine mutters and grunts to a halt, and I find myself shaking slightly. So... damn... CLOSE. But the sensation is denied me now and I fight to make sure I don't make any sounds of aggravation or enjoyment.

"Ah... Cameron? You can let go now." Oh. Right. I slowly unclench my fingers from each other, and sit back, looking at my chilled hands with their very visible imprints from my fingers. Seong-min gets off his bike, and I can't help but stare at his ass, which is absolutely mouth watering right now, and I'm grateful for the helmet which hides the direction of my gaze.

Seong-min pulls off his helmet, and smiles. "So, what'd you thi-" He stops as his eyes flick down to my hands and he sees those imprints too. "Oh... Sorry. I'm not used to having a rider, I didn't think I was driving that badly," he says sheepishly.

"It's, uh, it's fine," I answer, not liking just how shaky my breath is. "It's really good for adrenaline, though, huh?"

"Yeah, it is that," he agrees. "You get used to it. Like sparring."

I pull off my own helmet, and I can feel how flushed my face is right now. I feel like I could melt snow. "Let's go inside," I say as neutrally as I can manage, walking with as much strut and as little knee shaking as I can muster.

--

If anyone notices my personal disarray, they're tactful enough to pretend they don't. I make haste to a restroom at the earliest opportunity to get myself cleaned up a bit, but to my relief there's no blood leakage in my clothing. I take care of business, using a scented hand sanitizer in sensitive places just to make sure there's no betraying aroma of my ride (ordeal?) on the way here, before introducing myself at the desk and replaying the voicemail on my cell phone.

I'm escorted down past the usual tourist spots; down into the lowest levels of the Rig, where the holding cells are. All the women I rescued last night are here, as far as I can tell. We arrive at a control room of sorts, with a lot of security type equipment, a server, a wall of monitors, and a switchboard.

"This is her," my escort announces, then glances at Seong-min, who I insisted join us, largely because I had no intentions of leaving him alone after he went and drove me craz- drove me down here on his motorcycle. And presumably a return trip that a traitorous part of me is looking forward to, a lot.

"Miss Cartwright, welcome." The woman is wearing a standard dress uniform for PRT, navy blue skirt with a tan top, rank insignia on the shoulders. "Your, ah-"

"His name's Seong-min," I answer. "He's a good friend of mine, and a fellow student at the Tae Kwon Do dojang I train at. Also, he gave me a lift up here to see Caitlin and I'm not gonna make him wait around upstairs."

I can see the reservation in her eyes, but she has at least enough decency to not suggest 'ABB' or make a fuss. I'm starting to think that everyone in this city is circumstantially racist-- and it makes the power and influence that the Empire has make a depressing amount of sense. She gestures to the microphone at the console, while calling up one of the video feeds to full screen and pressing a button. "Miss Guntermann? You have a visitor."

"Caitlin?" I say, watching the screen.

Caitlin sits up from the bed, looking up towards the ceiling. "Cammie?" she says, sounding surprised. She's never called me that before. "Oh my god after I woke up they told me nobody could find you and I was worried you went looking for me-"

"Whoa, whoa! Relax, Cait, breathe! I'm fine. I went up on the roof of the dorm after they told me to go home and wait, and I fell asleep up there. I didn't have my phone and I left my purse in the room." Which reminds me what I came home TO this morning. "Oh my god, the room is a mess, when I was declared missing and you'd been kidnapped, they decided they needed to search the room to look for... Well, hell if I know. Apparently a police search through our underwear is the logical response to us being missing or something."

Caitlin giggles a little. "Well, at least SOMEBODY is finally getting a look at your-"

"CAIT!" I yell, interrupting her, as the PRT officer bites her lip and Seong-min does his best to not look me in the eye. Oh my god this is NOT how I expected this to go. "You know, now's as good a time as any. You know that guy I always spar with? He's here. Say hi to my roommate, Seong-min."

"Ah, hi there," Seong-min says, sounding thoroughly embarassed.

Caitlin is practically speechless-- for all of two seconds. "So is this your way of bringing your boyfriend home to meet your folks? Except you never talk to your folks, so-"

"OH MY GOD CAIT."

--

Cait calms down, of course. We talk about yesterday, I talk about gravel rash from the roof, she talks about Taco Bell and how she never got to finish her lunch; apparently she was snatched while she was waiting for her order and went to the bathroom. This happening so close to the college makes me feel a little anxious, given the fact that I tend to walk a LOT farther from the college than that particular Taco Bell, and after dark to boot. We commiserate on this shared anxiety, Cait teases Seong-min a little, then declares him to be conditionally acceptable but still on probation.

I feel a tiny pang of jealousy, actual jealousy, as I find myself wondering if he would like Caitlin more than me. I'm already pretty sure that Caitlin would like him more than me, given she's stated with no ambiguity that she's straight. And I'm not crass or insensitive enough to make the spaghetti joke. And... okay, if they decide to hook up, who am I to get in the way of that?Besides. I don't have TIME for stuff like that. Not with the specter of the Endbringers and Scion hanging over me.

Not with Gold Morning only two years away.

Thinking of it galvanizes me, renews my sense of purpose. If I'm lucky, if THEY'RE lucky, maybe I can keep them alive through it all. And if I live through it all, I go back to my son and my wife...

It's at this point the thought occurs to me: then what? I go back to my wife, but she married a man. Not really much of one, mostly a mediocre writer tht barely brought in money, failed at business ownership, never amounted to much in the work force... And now, not even a man at all. I genuinely love my wife; she's far more, far better, than a waste like me deserves. And now, I realize, I've traded away everything, EVERYTHING, that I had left, for a chance at helping my son. An impulse decision. Except if I hadn't taken the deal... would I have just been dead? Is that really any better? After fifteen years without her, what would be left of me that she'd recognize? Would my memories of her have any meaningful similarities to who she is? Only a month away so far and I'm already getting flustered and interested in other people. Is this just teenage hormones or am I really that shallow and empty a human being?

This all weighs so heavily on my mind I barely even notice the motorcycle ride, back to the dorm to pick up my dobuk before we take the bike back to the dojang and take classes. I throw my all into it with the fervor of a man who knows he will fight or die against overwhelming odds in some indeterminate soon.

--

"Cait! I'm headed to the Randall's. You need anything?"

Caitlin pulls her earbuds out and gives me a blank look that tells me she has no idea what I said. "What?"

I roll my eyes. "I said, I'm going to the Randall's. If I don't do it tonight, I'm not gonna have lunch tomorrow. Or breakfast. Did you want anything?"

"Oh. Yeah, pick up some tangerines for me? And a pack of Nature Valley bars." She sticks her earbuds back in, and begins rooting through her purse, then pulls out her wallet and retrieves a five and two dollar coins, which she hands to me.

"Alright. Back in a few," I announce, heading out the door with my own purse. I've got my brand new black skirt, mid thigh, with striped thigh high socks and a pair of low heels, giving me about an inch of zettai ryouiki-- just because I can't get involved with anyone here doesn't mean I'm not gonna enjoy the hell out of what I can, and cute/hot clothes are the absolute chef's kiss. On a whim, this morning I did my hair up in pigtails, so I've got a real 'Japanese schoolgirl' look going on, especially coupled with my blazer. I definitely need to make a stop at the lab soon, and see about fabricating myself a baton or something, not that I remember a whole lot about escrima. Still, something is better than nothing.

The walk to the bus stop is pretty lazy for a Sunday afternoon. Not a lot of people on the road; just a handful of vehicles. I smile to myself as a guy in an '07 Volvo drives by and does a bit of a double take; I have just enough sway in my hips to be eye catching without being skanky or off balance. But then, the sound of tires approaching in a slowing vehicle draws my ear, and the hairs on the back of my neck raise in warning. I'm already moving when the van door opens.

Three men in tactical gear; slung weapons, rope, cloth, gags, and zip ties all register in the mental snapshot I take as they jump out of the van at me. The last time I had to fight three on one I was in high school. Bigger, stronger than me, if this goes to a grapple I'm done for- and I'm regretting wearing impractical shoes for fighting. Center mass is a no go; they'll barely notice anything I can do through a tactical vest.

I'm no cape, but I am an experienced martial artist with a collective total of some twelve years of off again on again training, and I was a fighter and a biter in my youth. So when they lunge for me I side step hard left, feeling one of my heels pop off my shoe as I skid on the sidewalk. No time to think about that now; the move puts the left most merc partially in the way of his two buddies and I'm past his cone of control to boot. I pivit on my broken shoe, driving a well chambered heel kick into the side of his knee. My shoe heel concentrates the force of the kick onto an area a half inch across, and I feel as much as hear both the pant leg and the skin of his knee tear the split second before his knee gives out with a gristly noise.

The second one stumbles over his falling comrade; the strap of my purse isn't a nylon rope but as the guy flails I slip my purse off my shoulder and bind his wrist up in the strap, using my better leverage and angle to drag him across his friend's body, turning his stumble into a faceplant. The strap is too tangled to recover, and I drop the purse rather than let him pull me down to the ground.

The third one is ready for me, though, and he hops over the other two in a surprisingly dextrous leap. "Son of a bitch! I'll fucking cut your tits off you-" I don't hear the rest of guy one's imprecations, though, as I'm too busy trying to not get hit by the third guy, who decides to toss aside his rope and go for me with his bare hands. I get a good elbow strike on his forearm, and curse as the point of my elbow rams into some kind of armor plating. I dodge his first two swipes, but then a hand clamps on my ankle, and down I go, with guy three on top of me. People are looking on in shock, now, from across the street, but then guy two wraps three's rope around my throat and I suddenly can't breathe.

Guy one is struggling his way to his feet but I'm too busy clawing at the rope around my throat to take much more notice. A cloth rag, smelling and tasting of gun oil, is rammed viciously into my open mouth, and a heavy blow to my stomach curls me up, on the verge of puking into my gagged mouth. Then I'm roughly hauled into the van, blindfolded, and tied quite thoroughly.

Then, something stinking is shoved into my nose, and I start to feel dizzy.

Hope someone

can track

phone

...