Alteration: Cutscene - One Last Push
Richard was really getting tired of surgical detail.
His power was really shit like that, for all that it was also amazing. Focus on a skill, and quickly become highly proficient at it. Lose focus, and it left.
Surgery wasn't a single skill. Almost nothing was, really. Surgery was a suite of careful motions and fine motor control skills, plus a good amount of anatomical knowledge his power couldn't provide. It took a lot of focus to hold the skills, and a lot of focus on what he was doing with those skills. He had to keep dropping one skill here and another there, keep pausing to let proficiency flood in and make his hands sure with the new tool.
The red tape sucked too. He was a villain, and not a veteran of these fights. Heroes didn't trust him with identities, that was a given. But he was too skilled a surgeon to ignore, and Panacea was tied up working on the people the new patches were stabilizing, the ones with injuries that simply couldn't be survived, and so on. So there was always a curtain over the head, a nurse behind the curtain doing all the things that required the head like ventilation, and he worked on faceless torsos, removing shrapnel, making amputations, whatever had to be done to save lives.
There were armbands in the hospital, though they were silenced from the 'kill feed', as he'd taken to calling it. He still heard them occasionally, when he was between patients, when Movers brought in new arrivals from the battlefield. He worried, mostly for Zach, but he admitted some small amount of Grant had grown on him. Richard could tell, thanks to the occasional dip into investigative skills, that the man still had secrets, was still playing at some greater game, or at least had delusions of conspiracy. He didn't care anymore, not since he'd all but confirmed the guy couldn't lie for shit and meant no harm to them. Zach was doing a lot better, though, so Grant was important enough.
His armband started beeping midway through sawing a splintered femur. He lost focus on the skill he'd been building for how to properly package an amputated limb into a useful stump, cursing softly, but he still had his sawing skill so he continued the bloody work. Restoring the skill, he spoke. "Nurse Gentry, I've got a message; please read it," he requested.
Gentry circled the bed, stripping off his gloves and pressing a button on the device Uber had strapped to his left bicep. "It says, um. 'Message from Leet: Meta had a seizure, Orb down, retreating. Need medical advice."
Uber cursed, barely managing to hold focus on the steady hands skills as he fought the urge to grip the saw till his knuckles went white. It got easier when he heard that his best friend wasn't stupid enough to stick around, at least, but still. A seizure? That couldn't be good.
"Gentry, do you know what to do for seizures? Meta doesn't have a history of them, and I need to focus."
The man nodded. Uber's saw cleanly cut through the far side of the femur, not a single flaw in the cut. He let himself drop focus on that skill for now.
"Take the armband, help them out. I need to finish up the work on this limb."
It wasn't the solution he wanted, but he couldn't just drop everything here. It would be seen as a breach of the Truce by some, and even with the Patches they had no small share of enemies and no allies to fight that kind of heat.
Gentry left, and Uber forced himself, as always, to focus.
Three minutes later, he cursed again, because of course Armsmaster had to make an announcement on the general channel, and every armband in the hospital echoed the damn thing.
At least it sounded like the fight was going well. This might be one of the good days.
Distributing Loot…
Armsmaster knew a test when he saw one. Legend was back after a short but worrisome exit. Alexandria stood by. Chevalier and Myrddin, both entirely capable of organizing this defense, deferred to his judgment. He was being assessed, and he planned to impress.
It was a shame his combat prediction software and nanothorn prototype both were suited to single combat. If the scenario were different, he might have tried to arrange for a demonstration. The nanothorns might even be able to kill the damn abomination, but he couldn't use it in close quarters and chaos, couldn't risk the chance, however remote, that he wouldn't be able to finish the job. This was their last chance; if the Second lingered much longer, the city might not have a future, and with it would go his best shot at making a real difference.
And he could make a difference, if they survived this day. The new medical devices, in tandem with the presence of Panacea, were letting more people return to the battlefield. Each strike the monster made that wasn't immediately, irrevocably fatal, was potentially a blow that could be reversed. Supplies had already started to run low, but if this push worked, he'd be a key figure in one of the greatest victories ever pulled from this bastard's grip. Even better if he got a shot at Leviathan himself, but if it came to that it would be a sign that the battle had shifted for the worse.
Leviathan was trapped in a cage of esoteric fields and effects, frozen in time and surrounded by death. Three minutes had passed, marking the rough average time Clockblocker's effect would last. Around him, a no-man's-land of hazards, obstacles and firing lines filled the wide intersection of Downtown, the buildings laced with whatever traps could be thrown together. The only way out was through the lines, and every minute Clockblocker's power had bought them the defenses grew more impressive.
When Leviathan woke, it was to a different fight. As one, force fields cut and slowed and bought precious seconds. the air filled with Blaster fire, not as a blinding cacophony that the creature could use as cover, but in bursts, goading it in one direction, then the other, as he tore free of the initial restraints, started flooding the battlefield with water, whips and slashes and waves breaking on the defensive lines like storm surge on dolosse.
It was all going to plan. Leviathan crashed into one line, and the flying Brutes reinforced, pushed him back. Thinkers, at some point in the fight, had discovered new data on the creature's biology, weaknesses in the joints; as Leviathan stalled on the north line, his command went out, and the Blasters he'd kept in reserve struck. Narwhal pried open wounds on the right shoulder; a myriad of highly destructive beams and projectiles, those suited for cutting or matter destruction rather than brute force, converged on the gap, tearing deep into the muscle and cleaving a hole deep enough to sink a human arm into the deltoid. The limb didn't go slack, but he could tell it was being favored, and knew they'd struck a telling blow.
Armsmaster had just enough time to grin, before the first quake hit. His suit didn't have a seismometer analogue, so he couldn't accurately estimate the strength, but he'd fought Behemoth enough to know it was bad news.
"He's trying something," he barked into the comm, the message going out to the entire battlefield. "Wave protocols, now!"
The ground shuddered again, Blasters with good kinetic impact shoving the Endbringer back from the north line, and Leviathan stumbled, putting his less injured limb to the ground to steady himself. The lines bunkered down, but Armsmaster kept his eyes on the creature even as a forcefield tinted the view blue.
The ground bucked a third time, and sagged. The asphalt groaned, the nearby buildings sank, then dropped, and the earth opened to swallow them all. He saw upwelling water in the sinkhole's depths, reflecting the sky as cracks yawned underfoot, and realized the trap.
There was no time to do anything but act; he couldn't give orders quickly enough to save anyone, had to trust others could. He might be the only one with the chance to delay the massacre they were about to experience.
His grapple claw lanced down and across, guided by algorithm to intercept Leviathan on its way down, and he braced. As soon as the projectile looped a limb, he froze it all in place, his armor's servos screaming as it ate the force of his sudden stop in midair. Leviathan thrashed, the cordage cutting the right armpit almost as deeply as the gouge above, maybe leaving only whatever passed for bone; he didn't have time to do more than follow his combat program, his other halberd already in his right hand, flashing out to break up water echo attacks as the sea monster squirmed on its hook. The time lock mechanism lasted exactly ten seconds; four remained, three, two…
Alexandria slammed into the beast, barely a blur on his screens, tearing the Abomination free from the line with an almighty clap. As the hook went slack and Armsmaster fell into the rubble-studded waters below, he committed the sight to memory; his suit had been recording the data, as always, but he wanted to savor the moment Leviathan lost a limb to his work.
Shuffling Notes…
Earlier that day…
"Mr. Pitter, has Duchene given any updates on the construction of the long-term lodgings for Miss Meinhardt and the other Travelers?" he asked, as another timeline finished asking his pet the morning's questions and dissolved along with his world.
"He has, sir," came the reply. "As expected, the vault door delivery arrived in Warehouse 7 last night, and transportation to the base is waiting on your approval of delivery windows."
"Good. And the beef shortage?"
"I'm told Sarif sourced another supplier and passed it along to the quartermaster, sir," Pitter said, checking his notes. "Something about a distant relative she dredged up, I believe."
The bit of gossip was new, but the information matched his own reports from the night before. Reaching his office, he split the timelines, wincing slightly as he did so.
In one world, he commanded Pitter, "Send in the captains after arranging food for my pet, if you would." He walked into the office, closing the door behind him, and started copying over the night's unfinished management work from memory.
In the other, he invited the man in. "Mr. Pitter, I have need of your medical advice," he said, gesturing for the man to sit.
"Of course, I'm happy to provide you with whatever expertise I can, sir."
"Indeed. I have, for the past week, been suffering occasional headaches, in the course of my day-to-day. I suspect them to be related to my powers, much like my pet, but can't afford to be sedated or encumbered by side effects. The usual over-the-counter suspects won't do, however. Your thoughts?"
Mr. Pitter, to his credit, didn't even look nervous at the question, despite being smart enough to recognize how much weakness was on display. Instead, he flipped to the back of his clipboard, pulled out a pen, and started writing. "Could you describe the headaches? What medications have you tried, and in what dosages? What side effects, specifically, can you accept or not accept?"
As he answered the questions, rubbing his brow, the other office filled with his captains. The war with E88 was proceeding apace, but plans needed to be updated, inventory taken, a dozen minor tasks that consumed hours of attention.
Pitter spoke. "Well. If paracetamol isn't cutting it even at double the OTC dosage, and NSAIDS are even less effective… This may sound a bit, um, strange as a suggestion, but have you considered acupuncture?"
"Acupuncture?" Coil prompted, with a hint of incredulity.
"Yes, sir. I've never used it myself, but facial acupuncture is supposedly capable of reducing the strain of certain headaches. For obvious reasons, no studies are public about the headaches associated with parahuman power use, but it might be an option worth pursuing. There are concerns, of course; you would need to find a practitioner you could trust, since you would have to be unmasked or in civilian wear. There might be some bruising, or minor lingering discomfort, especially on the first attempts. But, no dizziness, no nausea, no inhibitions, and no chance of addiction."
"It is certainly an… out-of-the-box suggestion, Mr. Pitter, but I can see your point," he admitted. "Conduct some research while I take a tour of the new constructions, and report back to me in forty minutes with any further options; I will postpone visiting my pet for now, so your services there will not be necessary until later."
Pitter nodded, taking his leave, and the Coil in that timeline, doomed as it already was, allowed himself a moment of nothing but raw, pained shouting in the soundproofed office. It took the edge off, slightly.
One more order of business, before he checked on the constructions below. He crafted an email from one of his civilian persona's business accounts, to an unlikely address.
The gaming trio - and now that they were a proper team, he hoped they would find a less unwieldy title, for just saying those words in his head made him lose respect despite their recent change of competence - had so far rebuffed every offer of sponsorship or collaboration, but he was willing to keep trying. He needed a tinker for upcoming plans, and while Leet had been at the bottom of the list before, this new member, Meta, seemed to be much more promising. His pet hadn't said it was impossible, merely 30.7 percent chance of recruitment, but that 1 in 3 was proving elusive.
The offer sent to the new cape's inbox, he set about touring. In the timeline he planned to keep, the captains took their marching orders and set the hive buzzing with activity, and he finally went in to see his pet.
"Good morning, pet," he said, noting that she wasn't touching her food with a frown. "You didn't eat. You know you need to eat before you can have candy, yes?"
"Hurts," she moaned. "Lots of pain today. I can see myself throwing it back up, and it's making me gag."
This was concerning; an hour before this, she had been no different from usual, recalcitrant but capable. "Pet, did someone give you candy already?" he asked, careful not to ask a question that concerned the future.
"Nooo," she moaned. "No questions, please."
He sighed. "Just my usual two, and I will arrange for something easier to keep down, as well as your candy. Just this once, you understand? You know what happens if you don't do your part."
She screwed her eyes shut, groaning. "What are the questions, again?"
He sighed. "Chances of the usual problems in the next hour? Attacks from within or without, authorities moving against my holdings, medical concerns among myself or my management staff? To the first decimal point, please."
"One point three percent," she breathed.
That was almost double what it had been, but still low enough to be a minor concern at best. "And the same question, but between now and lunchtime?"
"Ten point two percent, but it.. twelve point three percent. Thirteen point one. Hurts to look at, hurts so much, need candy."
Concern turned to urgency, at that answer. An attack from outside, then, and one that would come around noon. Her numbers never lied, never changed. An enemy Thinker, changing the odds with new information? "One more question, pet," he said, mind racing.
"You promised," she moaned, covering her eyes with the crook of her elbow.
He breathed, quelling his agitation, and pressed a button to call in her caretaker. "Mr. Pitter, please arrange for something less solid to eat, and a generous portion of candy for our guest," he commanded quickly.
After the man left, he strode over, standing above his pet. "I have done as I promised; I did not say I wouldn't ask more. Answer me, pet, this is very important. What are the chances you or I will die in the next 24 hours?"
She bit her lip, letting out a sob. "Sixty-seven point five two three," she forced out, then let out a long, keening groan.
Lips pressed in a grim expression, he strode out of the room, used the intercom on his desk. "All captains, move the men to high alert and return to my office for further details. You have five minutes."
In his other timeline, he sought out Pitter, confirmed the man's research had returned no satisfactory leads, and summarily shot him in the head, then emptied the magazine into his corpse in frustration. That timeline faded, and as he sat down in his chair, he split again, already planning to issue a full evacuation in one while he bunkered down in another.
He saw stars, felt a pain akin to his head splitting like an overripe melon, and collapsed. Captain Heroux, ever the reliable hire, found him like that just two minutes later.
He was still bedridden when the sirens came.