August 23, 2010
"That's enough."
The three teenage boys backed off the moment he spoke, and Eddie Nakamura nodded. Satisfactory. This bunch had promise. New meat were usually full of pent-up aggression, raring to go knock someone's block off, but in his line of work what you needed was...well, violence, but restrained violence. Corpses and cripples could not serve the dragon. Casually, he strolled forward and crouched to address the crumpled figure in the alleyway.
"Sorry about that, kid. Nothing personal." he said cheerfully. The boy whimpered and trembled, clutching at his right arm. "Ah, don't be a baby, it's a clean break. You'll heal up in two, three months, tops." Eddie had seen to that personally, and his trusty Louisville Slugger never went wrong. Everything else—the broken nose, the bruises and abrasions—would be good as new within two weeks. As far as gang beatings went, it was practically a love tap. "You didn't leave us much choice though. Seemed you weren't getting the message, ya know?" He rapped the kid's head with his knuckles. "I've been in the business a while. I can tell when someone's stalling. And hey, yeah, I get it, being in the ABB's not exactly a tea party. But look, I don't need to tell you what we're up against."
Eddie was old enough to remember when the Japanese gangs fought the Chinese who fought the Koreans who fought the Vietnamese and so on. Petty feuds rooted in who had invaded who long before any of the gangsters' times. Lung had knocked their heads together when he came on the scene three years ago, shown them the error of their ways, reminded them whatever they had been before they were Asians of Brockton Bay now. "We've got Nazi fucks who'll stab you just for being yellow. Thirteen capes now, and all the whites in the city to recruit from. Merchants pushing drugs to kids. Heroes who won't do jack shit for us." Lung had proven that too. He'd flexed his claws, and the Protectorate had run with their tails between their legs, abandoning the Docks for greener (whiter) pastures. "It's on us to protect our people, every one of us, because no one else will. There's no running from that. No hiding. If you're not with Lung, not with the cause, then you're our enemy. You're sixteen now, kid. Time to stand up and be counted."
The boy's eyes had taken on a vacant sheen. Hmm. They hadn't hit him on the head too hard, had they? No, he had watched carefully the entire time, and his crew had been careful. It was probably just shock. That happened sometimes, if the target was lacking in intestinal fortitude. Didn't speak well of his potential in the ABB, honestly. Maybe Lung could use him as an accountant or something.
"Choose wisely, okay? Talk to you later." Eddie honestly wasn't sure how much of his spiel had registered. Shame. He worked hard on those recruitment pitches. Ah well, he was sure the kid could figure it out on his own when he came to. Beckoning his henchmen to follow, Eddie turned and left the alley without looking back. "Okay, next stop is old man Nguyen's shop, guy's been dragging his feet on the security payment..."
The work of an ABB enforcer was never done.
[SIGNAL_RECV]
[DESERIALIZE]
[$HOST::READ_QUERY]
[VERIFICATION]
[ACKNOWLEDGEMENT]
[$HOST::WRITE_MUTATION(SRC=ANATHEMA)]
[DESTINATION]
[TRAJECTORY]
[AGREEMENT]
The thugs had called me an ambulance. At least I assumed they had, given how I'd woken up halfway to Brockton General. Perhaps it had been the work of a concerned citizen, but I didn't have that much faith in the average Brocktonite's Samaritan instincts. Only the heavens knew how many times I'd walked past an unconscious (possibly dead) body in the street without thinking twice. It was just something you got used to around here.
In other words the thugs' actions were surprisingly, nay, suspiciously decent of them. Admittedly, the hospital hadn't given me much besides painkillers, ice packs, and a sling for my arm. Given how the medical system worked in this country, I suspected even that would cost an arm and a leg. I shuddered to imagine how expensive an actual cast would be, and I wasn't exactly sure what insurance my parents had.
On second thought, maybe it wasn't decent of them at all. Maybe they planned to shanghai me into the ABB via crippling medical debt.
I'd thought I was doing reasonably well to keep them off my back, too. I was a man of the pen, not the sword. My grades were quite good, if I might be permitted to brag, and surely I would be of more use if I went to university, then got a well-paying job by which to make economic contributions to the community. The ABB kids at Winslow had seemed mollified by those impeccably rational arguments, though given their confused expressions perhaps they were simply flummoxed by the phrase 'economic contributions'.
Of course the pack that had jumped me on the way to the store provided ample evidence I wasn't doing as well as I'd thought. That was upsetting. Part of me felt I should be screaming and crying, but instead I felt oddly numb, disassociated, as if I were an alien observer peering through the eyes of a meat puppet. The painkillers could be a factor, although it wasn't the first time this had happened. It was the sort of mood that could sneak up if I was eating lunch alone, waiting for bedtime after finishing my homework, riding the bus heading from point A to point B...
Okay, so it actually happened pretty often, but just as well. I disliked screaming and crying; it was such a waste of energy.
I really didn't want to join the ABB, in case that wasn't abundantly clear. As far as I could see, it was a life of guarding clandestine warehouses and watching the sex slaves so they didn't escape, interrupted now and then by street fights. A life that would probably end messily the day I ran into an actual parahuman, whether from the Protectorate or (even worse) the Empire, assuming a rival gangster didn't do me in first. And seriously, I might not have any white friends, but I was sure that conscripting white women into brothels was very, very illegal.
Oh, and very immoral too.
Seriously, fuck Lung. At least the old ethnic gangs didn't bother you if you didn't bother them. But no, it apparently made his draconic phallus erect to draft every teenager in reach into his Greater Asian Co-Prosperity Sphere, so he could make them parade about in horrid Christmas-colored outfits and pretend 'Asian' was spelled with a Z. He was a Kyushu refugee, so I'd heard, so why did he have to come bother us halfway across the world, rather than settling in Tokyo or Osaka? Or why couldn't Leviathan have solved everything by drowning him with the rest of his island? It wasn't as if one more kill would be a big deal to an Endbringer, after all.
Or if I were to continue the hypotheticals, why did I have to be in Brockton Bay either? Maybe Mom and Dad could've done more research and settled in a civilized city like...Vancouver or something (it was the closest big city to the Birdcage, which I presumed made the local capes tread lightly). Maybe without the Yàngbǎn causing trouble behind the scenes, the Union-Imperialists would never have taken over China, my parents would've finished their degrees, and we'd be a nice middle-class family in the hometown they spoke wistfully of but that I'd never seen. Maybe Leviathan could've remained content to nap on the ocean floor, rather than get out of bed to demolish unfortunate coastal cities. And maybe if Scion had never descended from the sky, Earth Bet would still be plain old Earth, a world without monsters and capes and monstrous capes. A sane world.
As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods. Or capes, rather. They kill us for their sport. The King Lear reference was probably pretentious, but better to over-intellectualize the situation than to start freaking out about it. Life was unfair, I mused bitterly. I wasn't the sort of person who demanded much. I had no grandiose dreams of transforming the world, of seeing my name in history books. All I wanted was a quiet life, one not troubled by things like heroes and villains that would make me lose sleep at night.
"Um, Mr..." I looked up. A nurse was passing by the door of the tiny examination room. She stared at the clipboard in her hand, probably considering whether to attempt pronouncing my name, before visibly giving up. "...um, good news! Panacea just dropped by to make her rounds. Sit tight and she'll be with you shortly."
Speak of the devil. For all that Brockton Bay was the alleged cape capital of America, I'd never really interacted with one. I'd seen the occasional Protectorate member from afar when I was younger, though they were a rare sight in the Docks these days. Lung sometimes patrolled the streets to play the man of the people, but no one in their right mind would approach him for a casual chat. And that was fine by me. I didn't really want to talk to a...no, that was uncharitable. Panacea was all right, for a parahuman. All she did was heal people, and she wasn't picky about your money or skin color either. Besides, she was going to save us from an obscene medical bill if nothing else. So I took a deep breath, sat up straighter (ow, my back twinged when I did that), prepared to act polite and appropriately grateful—
—and then Panacea suddenly appeared in the doorway. Um, wow! That was a lot sooner than I'd anticipated. I didn't know how I was supposed to feel, getting my first close-up with a cape so abruptly. Awed, inspired, perhaps even intimidated? Except I felt none of that, only overwhelmingly underwhelmed at how utterly ordinary she looked. A short white girl with brown hair and freckles, no more. Her face telegraphed only boredom rather than any remotely heroic emotion, which I supposed made a certain amount of sense. Healing people probably got old after the first hundred times or so. No mask, I noted. Right, her team eschewed those for public accountability or something like that. High-minded as the reasoning might be, it certainly robbed Panacea of a certain mystique. I could've passed her on the sidewalk without a second glance, if not for the cross-patterned robe she wore. Even that made her look less larger-than-life, and more like a kid dressed up for Halloween.
Panacea paused momentarily on the threshold, before shaking her head slightly and stepping inside. "Do I have your permission to heal you?" she droned.
"Um, yeah." That seemed like a reasonable reply. Plus I wasn't confident in my ability to speak complex sentences with a broken nose. Honestly, it still astounded me she was here at all. Did she just wander into hospitals and lay hands on everyone in sight? It felt like an inefficient allocation of resources, but I wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Without further ceremony, Panacea grabbed onto my good hand, then blinked. Hard. Then blinked some more. "Uhhhhhh..."
I frowned. My arm didn't feel like it was un-breaking, though admittedly I had no idea what that felt like. "Is there a problem?"
"No?" Panacea said uncertainly. "Or maybe yes? I swear, this never happens." Letting go, she stepped back all the way to the door, before visibly relaxing. "Oh! Huh." She peered at me, sounding much more interested than when she'd walked in. "Have you, uh, had any really stressful experiences lately? Where you maybe blacked out for a bit?"
I was in the hospital with a faceful of bruises and a sling on my arm. I thought that made the answer to her first question obvious. And blacking out was pretty normal when you got beaten up by four guys at once, or at least I thought so. Not like I made a habit of it. But remembering my manners, I just said "Um, yeah." Again.
"Thought so." Panacea said with a knowing nod. "So...I'm pretty sure you've Triggered."
"Triggered what?"
"Right, you wouldn't know. We call it a Trigger Event. The worst day of your life." The worst day of my life? Surely not. My life had lasted several thousand days at this point; I would feel it if I was currently living through the single worst, wouldn't I? Though admittedly, even though there were plenty of colorless, dreary days in my memory, none of them had featured a gang beating before. It had hardly been a pleasant experience. No running. No hiding. If you're not with us, you're the enemy. Words as cold and merciless as the laws of thermodynamics. Can't win, can't break even, can't quit the game. Statistical certainty of a life nasty, brutish and short, followed by death inevitably as entropy...
"Hey, you okay?" Panacea poked at me, not sounding terribly concerned. Shaking off the reverie, I nodded and tried to look alert. "Anyways, no one understands why, but that's how capes get their powers." A pause. "What I'm saying is, you're a cape now."
"What."
"A Trump, to be exact. Power nullifier. My power even senses airborne bacteria, but when I get close to you I can't. Normally when I touch someone I see everything going on inside, but with you—" she grabbed my hand again. "—wow. It's like you're just, like, a solid lump of meat or something. Interesting." she trailed off, staring at a distant point.
I didn't share her sense of wonder. First, that sounded like what everyone else saw, second, I had powers now, what the hell, could I still get hired for a normal job like this and you know what, I was just going to compartmentalize these thoughts so I didn't make a fool of myself in front of a hero. Also, third: "You're telling me my power is making my arm stay broken?"
That actually got a laugh out of Panacea. It wasn't a happy-sounding one. "Powers can be inconvenient."
What was inconvenient about being a walking miracle cure, I couldn't tell. Sure, maybe healing got boring, but anyone who lived in the Docks knew life could be a lot worse than 'boring'. Not, of course, that I said so aloud. Manners, after all. "Wonderful." I sighed. "What am I supposed do about that?"
"Become a hero." she suggested as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
I stared at her. As advice went, it wasn't the most instructive. "Um, but I guess you could register with the PRT, for a start."
"The PRT?" I muttered. "I thought you weren't in the Wards."
Panacea shrugged. "Not the point. The PRT's in charge of dealing with all parahumans, not just their own. Helps to let them know you exist and aren't a villain. Plus they'll get you power-tested at the very least, maybe help with equipment and costume too. And if you do join up it's, well, it's okay from what I hear. Not like New Wave is hiring."
"That makes sense." It wouldn't hurt to remain on the right side of the law. I preferred not to make unnecessary enemies, particularly of the superpowered variety. "Do you, um, have any other tips?"
"I—uh, our powers are pretty different. All I do is heal people...I've never actually fought a villain, that's Vi—Glory Girl's thing." Panacea looked away. I wasn't the best at reading people, but this seemed to be a source of embarrassment for her. "It's fine. Thanks." I said regardless. Awkward silence ensued. "Uh...guess I should let you go back to hero stuff, huh?"
"Probably." she agreed. Her face had turned blank again. "Good luck." she called back, halfway out the door, and then she was ended my first but likely not last conversation with a cape. I wondered if I should find it reassuring or terrifying that they seemed as miserable as the rest of us.
Wait, I was one of 'them' now, not one of 'us'. That...would take some getting used to. Still, life-changing implications aside, it provided some solutions to the immediate problem. Trying for the Wards sounded better the more I thought about it. The ABB would certainly come for me again if I did nothing; if they realized what I was, then Lung would come for me. Maybe my power could stop him from becoming a dragon, but he was still a hardened gangster with hundreds more hardened gangsters at his command, while I was a scrawny Chinese kid. Yeah. As a Ward, on the other hand? When combined with the Protectorate, they formed the largest parahuman group in the city, or were at least equal to the Empire. If security in obscurity clearly wasn't working, then perhaps strength in numbers would.
Of course, there was one non-trivial issue with this. Being a cop was pretty much the worst job I could imagine, what with being duty-bound to confront suspicious people instead of following common sense by avoiding them, and being a hero sounded like that, except with supervillains. I consoled myself with the fact that I didn't recall any news reports about a Ward dying in Brockton Bay, so clearly they didn't just hurl children at Lung and Kaiser. This was a government organization, after all. There had to be rules. Maybe Armsmaster and Miss Militia would let me hide behind them while they did the real work, or something. And besides, Wards membership was only until age eighteen. Survive two years, and hopefully I could leave with a scholarship to somewhere far from Brockton Bay.
California sounded nice.
At this point I had to stop pondering, because enough time had elapsed for Mom to get the news, leave work, and find me in the hospital. She saw my broken arm, and immediately started asking a lot of questions at once.
How was I even going to start explaining this?
August 24, 2010
"Director, uh...Zoe Zee-Kong and his parents are here to see you."
"Send them up." Emily said, grimacing at the butchered pronunciation. Hopefully that wouldn't end up being a point of contention. It was 8:27 A.M; the boy's punctuality was a point in his favor. Between that, his prompt self-report, and the fact he'd trusted them with his real name, she was cautiously optimistic of a productive meeting. That was why she'd pulled in Armsmaster, the Tinker standing stiffly to one side of her desk. Oh, she was sure he'd rather be down in his lab, but he knew his duty. Prospective Wards didn't appear every day, and if some face time with the PRT Director and Protectorate leader prevented the gangs from acquiring a new cape, it was time well spent. Given their candidate's apparent by-the-book nature, Armsmaster's personality might even be helpful in sealing the deal, for once.
And this was a sale she was keen on closing, for two reasons. First, Trumps were uncommon, nullifier Trumps even more so. Emily had never worked personally with one in her long PRT career, and the only one most people could think of was...Hatchet Face of the Slaughterhouse Nine. Okay, so PR would have some work to do, but he could be a badly-needed equalizer in a city so infested by villains. Not that she was tempted to chuck him at Kaiser or Lung and hope for the best, certainly not. There were rules against that sort of thing.
Second, well, to put it bluntly, he was Asian. Asians accounted for fifteen percent of Brockton Bay's population, and noticeably not a single one of the local Protectorate or Wards. Emily could talk for hours about the sociopolitical factors at play, but in short the US had seen two massive waves of refugees in recent years. One when the Chinese Union-Imperial came to power in 1989, then another after the sinking of Kyushu a decade later. And with rapid demographic changes, came strenuous objections from...certain segments of society. At points the rhetoric bandied about had befit the 19th century more than the 21st. Though no Exclusion Acts had passed this time around, those years had sown the seeds of many groups like the Empire Eighty-Eight. Driven from their homes, strangers in a strange land with nothing to their name, treated with suspicion and at times outright violence—was it any surprise the Asians kept to themselves, shunning the institutions of mainstream society?
It was ridiculous to expect one underage hero to heal that rift, of course. But hey, they had to start somewhere.
Her office door opened. The parents came first: the husband was a stocky man with a weathered face, the wife thin and sharp-featured. Their son trailed a step behind. A lanky boy, clearly fresh off a growth spurt and already an inch taller than his father. Unremarkable-looking, except for the cast on his arm and the healing bruises on his face. His expression was oddly flat, betraying none of the joy or rage she'd come to expect from the newly triggered. If the eyes were windows to the soul, then his were barred shut with the lights turned off inside. Even though he'd come in civilian wear, Emily had a gnawing feeling his face was as much a mask as any costume.
"Zhōu Zhìqiáng, I presume?" she enunciated carefully, rising to greet them. Sixteen years old. Soon-to-be junior at Winslow High, she recalled from the hastily put-together dossier. Excellent grades, and absolutely zero notable incidents on public or private record. Had he deliberately tried to live life as an invisible background character, he could hardly have done a better job. Until now, that was.
"Hey, that's pretty good!" The father cracked a smile, coming forward to shake her hand. "Zhōu Yīfán. And this is my wife, Sùzhēn." His English was strongly accented, but confident and fluid. Emily nodded politely, although she'd read up on them through the dossier already. Refugees from the CUI, settling in Brockton Bay around 1990, where their son and only child was later born. Electricians by occupation. "Emily Piggot, Director, PRT ENE. And you may already recognize—"
Armsmaster practically recoiled backwards, all the way to the far wall. The Zhous looked confused. "Armsmaster?" Emily questioned, trying to keep her tone measured while conveying the sense that he'd better have a good explanation for this. She was second-guessing her decision to loop him in already. As much of a plus as his reputation and general gravitas was, his utter lack of social graces could be just as a large of a minus.
"Ah." Armsmaster seemed to come out of whatever spell had struck him, belatedly realizing how bizarre his actions must have looked. "Your claim of nullifying parahuman powers was incomplete. You appear to nullify parahuman effects as well."
Zhou Zhiqiang took a seat in front of the desk, a wince of discomfort crossing his face. "What makes you say that?"
"My armor is Tinkertech, naturally." Armsmaster said matter-of-factly. "Multiple systems deactivated instantly when you approached. It was...somewhat startling. The odds of such a large-scale, spontaneous failure is astronomical under normal circumstances, so I determined it power-related. Regular function resumed once I distanced myself, which confirms my hypothesis." He took a few steps forward, then one back. "Hm. I estimate your range at two meters."
"That's news to me." The boy leaned forward, decidedly interested all of a sudden. "Hope I didn't break anything. You say it all still works?"
"Of course. All my projects have built-in failsafes." Armsmaster's tone probably sounded bland to the visitors, but Emily could detect the touch of boastfulness within. "Though certain Tinkers tend to cut corners with volatile substances, so their tech may prove less robust." Squealer and Leet, in other words. Emily suspected their slipshod craftsmanship irritated him as much as their crimes.
"I'll keep that in mind. Though now I'm wondering—"
"We'll have time for power testing later." Emily interrupted. The range of his power was shorter than Hatchet Face's was said to be, but the versatility was far superior. With how much of their equipment was Tinkertech, she really, really didn't want it ever deployed against them. It was a good thing the elevator to her office was normal. Plenty of PRT Directors liked to install fancy Tinker ones to impress people, but Emily was hesitant to rely on a parahuman mad scientist just to make it into work every morning. Deliberately shoving the unsettling thoughts to the back of her mind, she forced herself to smile. "As I was saying, a pleasure to meet you, and I do appreciate you coming to us voluntarily." That part, she meant in all sincerity. "It was courageous of you."
Zhiqiang looked away from her for a moment, then looked back. Was that a hint of discomfort there? "I don't think it was brave." he muttered. "It was the only thing to do."
"That is untrue." Armsmaster interjected. "You could have kept your powers hidden. Or joined a gang."
Emily cringed a bit inside. "Our family respects the law, sir." Zhou Yifan said, a tad sharply. He put a hand on his son's shoulder. "He's nothing special, maybe, but he's a good kid. He wouldn't do that."
"I wasn't implying otherwise. Merely pointing out there were options. Which many capes his age take, unfortunately." By Armsmaster's standards, that was as good as an apology.
"Well, I'm not joining the ABB." Zhiqiang said firmly. "They—everything's gotten worse since they showed up. You know what I mean." Yes, the local PRT Director and Protectorate leader did have some inkling about the myriad crimes of the ABB. "Lung's not exactly a law-abiding citizen, no." Emily said drily.
"Damn right." Yifan grumbled. "The city's getting more dangerous every day, feels like. Not like when I was young. The Communists would've never stood for these bandits. Hell, even the CUI—say what you want, at least they know how to keep the capes in line!"
"Dad. No politics." Zhiqiang groaned. His mother hissed something in Chinese that sounded quite disapproving. Emily coughed lightly. "The PRT does not condone brainwashing and psychological torture of parahumans." she recited hastily, before Armsmaster could say anything undiplomatic. Then she half-smiled, to show there was no serious offense taken. "Even if it would make my job easier."
The elder Zhou laughed. She could practically hear Armsmaster's teeth grinding. Right, moving on. Not the first time a PRT Director had had to ignore a politically incorrect comment, if half the stories about Bastion in Boston were true. "Back on topic. After we received your call yesterday, I contacted Panacea, and she verified the basics of your story." That was the only reason he'd earned an immediate audience with the Director. Anyone who called the automated reporting hotline without evidence had to go through a power test first, to weed out the impostors. Trying to sneak into the Protectorate or Wards without powers was tantamount to suicide, but one could never underestimate the depths of human stupidity. "In compliance with the unwritten rules—are you familiar with the term, Mr. Zhou?"
"A little. Secret identities stay secret, basically?"
"Essentially. No attempting to uncover a cape's real name, or target them in their private life. I did not give Panacea your real name, nor will she disclose details of your civilian identity to anyone else. Now—given that you reached out to the PRT, can I assume you're considering the Wards?"
Zhiqiang nodded. "Yeah. I've been having some, uh, problems with the ABB—"
"You don't have to talk about your trigger event." Emily cut him off.
He shrugged. "It's okay. They were pressuring me to join, more or less. I thought I was holding them off, but apparently not." He pointed at his broken arm. That was curious, now that Emily thought about it. Trump triggers usually involved a cape, but there was no way he would've gotten off that easy against Lung or Oni Lee. Then again, Lung and the ABB were pretty much synonymous in the popular imagination, and maybe his subconscious was more capable of abstract thought than most. "I was hoping the PRT could protect me, now that I've got powers."
Emily cringed internally again. Hopefully he hadn't meant that as a subtle insult, not that she could honestly fault him if he had. She'd taken this job to protect normal people from capes, and look at her now. Reduced to trying to slow the bleeding as villains slowly carved chunks off her city like feudal overlords. "And we will." she promised, steering the discussion to safer ground. "The PRT will do all it can to be worthy of trust you've placed in us." With a flourish, she pushed a manila folder across the desk. "As such, I'm pleased to formally offer you a place in the Brockton Bay Wards."
"Just like that?" the mother (Suzhen, that was her name) questioned. Her English didn't seem as fluent as her husband's. "Just like that." Emily echoed. "Wards membership is open to all parahumans under eighteen with no criminal record." A criminal record wasn't always a deal-breaker either, not that the Zhous needed to know that. "That folder contains base contract terms. A trust in your name, to which we'll pay fifty thousand dollars per year, pro-rated—" the entire family perked up at hearing the sum, which she pretended not to notice. "—along with an hourly salary. Medical and dental insurance, including retroactive coverage of prior costs." she added meaningfully. "You'll be expected to spend some time each week on duty at PRT HQ, though the precise hours are negotiable."
"Will you make him fight?" Suzhen asked worriedly. An understandable question, from a mother's point of view. "Not for now." Emily reassured her. "The Wards aren't meant to be the first line of defense. Though to be blunt, given the state of the Bay, most of our Wards do end up seeing some level of combat." The parents looked grim at that, but unsurprised. They'd survived Brockton long enough to understand. "That said, Zhiqiang is untrained, unfamiliar with his powers, and also currently injured. He won't even be allowed on patrol for two months, at least. After that, we'll re-evaluate. Any rules of engagement we set would be subject to your approval. Is that to your satisfaction?"
"Honestly, not really." said Yifan with a frown. "But it's the best option. We've...accepted that."
"And my ABB problem?" Zhiqiang pressed her. "Because as is, they'll just keep trying to 'recruit' me."
"Targeting you in your civilian life would breach the unwritten rules." Armsmaster informed him. "Lung might risk it with an independent, but with a Ward, no chance. The whole Protectorate would come down him. Although," he furrowed his brow. "if he has no idea who you are then it falls apart somewhat—"
"To be clear, we're not going to out you to Lung." Emily interrupted to forestall any incipient objections.
Zhiqiang let out a breath. "Good. Didn't want to bet my life on him following the rules."
Yeah, that was just asking for PR shitstorm whether it worked or not. Especially if not. "Perhaps we can find a happy medium here. I believe you live in the Docks and attend Winslow High, correct?"
"That's right." Yifan confirmed. "No objections to moving out, if that's your suggestion. We've wanted to for a long time, actually, but the finances never worked out."
"The PRT has a discretionary budget for these cases." said Emily. "We could relocate you to an apartment complex near here, subsidising the rent difference, and transfer your son to Arcadia. Removing him from the ABB's area of...influence," like hell was she going to say 'control', even if it was more accurate. "should resolve most of the issues. And if that does lead them to suspect you've gained powerful backers, it wouldn't hurt."
"Seems that's as good as we'll get. Dad?" From Zhiqiang's tone he might as well have been discussing the weather. Cold practicality was far from the worst trait for a Ward to have, but from someone who'd supposedly triggered yesterday it felt downright eerie. Was his power nullifying his emotional reactions too somehow, or had his natural personality led to his wet blanket of a power? If she asked a cape psychologist, they'd probably say it was a chicken-and-egg problem.
"I'll cope." Yifan grunted.
Emily tried not to look too relieved. "Very well. I'll have Legal write all that up, and we'll call back when it's ready to sign. In the meantime, you can read through that folder. Call if you have any questions." There was a lot of stuff in the standard Wards contract she had glossed over, but Ellisburg would freeze over before she stooped to talking about image and merchandising rights. "One more thing. Have you thought of a cape name yet? We'll need one for the paperwork."
"Um, not really. Since I nullify powers...maybe just Null?" He frowned. "Wait, no, that's one of the Yàngbǎn, isn't it?"
"Yes." said Armsmaster. "CUI copyright law doesn't apply to the United States, though."
"Still, better not. Especially being Chinese and all." He stared at the empty spot on the first page of the contract where his name was meant to go. "Then...how about Blank?"
"Blank is available." Armsmaster said. Of course it is, Emily thought wryly. Capes, heroes or villains, tended to choose memorable names, whether inspiring, intimidating, or 'humorous' (looking at you, Dennis. She dearly hoped he lived long enough to be a 40-year-old man known as 'Clockblocker'. They'd see who was laughing then). Hardly any would embrace such a literally nondescript moniker. Then again, hardly any capes could theoretically laugh in a S-class threat's face, then die to a mugger with a switchblade. It was all entirely backwards from how powers usually worked.
"Actually, while we're here, I do have a question." the newly-christened Blank said after a pause. Oh no. She'd known this was going too smoothly. This was the part where he started making ridiculous demands, like getting to fight Lung 1v1 or having his favorite hero appointed the new PRT Director or whatever cockamamie nonsense teenage minds could come up with.
"Can I put this on my college application?"
What.
Father forgive me, for I have committed the cardinal sin of writing with an understanding of the 'verse based more on fanfic and glue than is healthy. Honestly, all I've really thought of is the power and characterization, so this tale will be very lucky to make it to Leviathan just to die an unceremonious death. It just felt fitting to take a boy who's been yanked around by incomprehensible forces his whole life and give him the power to drag them down into the muck, make them obey the same [RULES] as everyone else.
This isn't a self-insert (no cross-dimension metafictional mechanics, obviously) but I will admit it's somewhat autobiographical in nature, with the caveat that living in Brockton Bay tends to twist people's personalities a bit. But what am I saying, Blank is obviously the picture of perfect mental health! He'll fit right in with the definitely sane and functional cape scene, I'm sure!