Charm Learning Shard (Worm/Exalted) (COMPLETED)

You told Theo nothing but the truth. The city is in ruins, and its people are crying out for salvation. The Empire absolutely cannot afford a succession crisis right now. And because you have the ability to prevent that, you have a duty to do so.

That the end result is also going to be extremely beneficial for you personally is beside the point.

---

"Remember when I saved your life?" you ask Hookwolf.

"I remember when you came up with a plan that almost killed me."

You sigh and roll your eyes. "Remember when that plan also got rid of the only Brute in town who could beat you in a fight?"

"Assault," Hookwolf says simply. No false bravado in this one.

"You know what I mean."

Hookwolf chuckles and pats your head patronizingly. "Name your favor."

"Kaiser's dead."

"I heard."

"His son got powers. I want you to support his bid for the throne."

"Fancy yourself an empress, do you?"

"His trigger event was me breaking up with him," you admit, and Hookwolf doubles over laughing.

"Bet you regret that!" he says once he has recovered.

"I regret many things. That is not one of them."

Hookwolf gives a non-committal grunt. "Fine, I'll give the kid a chance. No promises on what happens if he fucks up. Which I bet he will."

"A bet, you say?" You give him a smile that's all teeth. "In that case I have ten grand saying he'll prove a worthy heir."

---

Purity has been crying. She must have had all sorts of complicated feelings about Kaiser, none of which are important right now.

"Theo got powers," you tell her.

"Oh no!" She looks even more distraught than before. "Poor boy."

"He's going to need a lot of help running the empire, things being as they are. He can count on you, right?"

It takes her a second to catch on - to remember that 'empire' typically implies hereditary rule. But once she does, her face sets in determination. "Of course!"

---

"That won't do at all," you say after examining the shallow dent.

"I shot it as hard as I could," Theo protests. He's standing in the classic 'Blaster pose', arm outstretched, palm facing forward. He just launched a bullet of gold from his palm - a bullet that didn't even penetrate the drywall.

"A failure of imagination. Here." You grab his hand and straighten it out to be in line with the rest of his arm, then pull up the sleeve of his T-shirt and drop the bullet on his bare shoulder. "Accelerate it all the way down your arm, and fire it from the tip of your fingers."

There's a sound like a gong being struck as the bullet tears straight through the wall and into the metal plate you set up as a backstop. At the same time, Theo yelps and sticks his hand in his mouth. The smell of burnt hair pervades the room.

"A failure of concentration," you say. "There is nothing preventing you from making the process entirely frictionless. Again."

"Yes, miss Quicksilver," Theo says submissively.

---

Alabaster shrugs. Yes, you broke him out of prison that one time, the shrug says. Who didn't? It's not as if he has much weight to throw around in a cape showdown. He'll happily sit around being immortal until the ruckus is over and the issue, decided.

Alabaster is very good at shrugging.

---

You're busy, but not too busy to stop by the boat graveyard to finally test out Ballistic's power. Perhaps that makes you a a slave to tradition, coming all the way out here - the entire city is a bit of a boat graveyard right now, there's no shortage of ruins to test powers on anywhere you go. You like to think that it makes you conscientious: People will want to rebuild those parts.

Pointless introspection aside, you grab a brick off the ground and gesture it vaguely towards a the half-collapsed wall it came from. Pew?

It does not go pew. Another recalcitrant power? Disgusted, you throw it at the wall using conventional muscles. Or not, because the throwing motion causes the power to activate, and sends the brick flying far faster than you could have thrown it yourself.

You have to take a step backwards and raise a hand to shield your face from the brick dust as it bursts apart, and the wall collapses a bit more. That's more like it. Distinctly sub-sonic, though. Another power that lost something in translation.

Further experimentation reveals the limitations you're working with. Throwing works. Pushing or kicking stationary objects doesn't. You manage to launch another brick by holding it in one hand and punching it with the other (ow), but the important bit turns out to be the 'holding' part. It has to be something you can lift and carry. Which, for a 15 year old Brute 0, does not a very impressive projectile make.

But then, your real strength has always been your mind. Mind-hands heft a chunk of concrete twice your size, and hurl it out across the bay.

Spoiler: Air-traffic-controller-o-vision

*spits coffee*

Even with your new and improved eyes, you lose sight of it before it splashes down. You have no idea how far that went. Pretty far, though.

Spoiler: Air-traffic-controller-o-vision

"Heading 77 degrees, ground speed approximately 250 miles per hour. Ballistic trajectory. Estimated impact 20 miles off the coast. No apparent target. Origin... oh. The boat graveyard."

"New cape, huh."

"Should we call it in?"

"Nah. They'll be gone before anyone can get there. Just include it in the report."

"Pretty impressive power. Hopefully they'll join the good guys for once."

"Yeah, and maybe fairies will fly out of my ass and refill the coffee pot whenever someone leaves it empty."

"I said I was sorry!"

Hm. Hmmm! The morally uncontroversial part of the experiment is over, the results are in. But you have another idea that needs testing. Animal testing, to be precise. Luckily there is no shortage of rats scurrying about the place, and your mind-hands are easily dextrous enough to nab one as it tries to skitter away from you.

"Sorry about this," you tell the panicking rodent, and send it on a one-way trip out to sea.

It works. No Manton limitation. Godspeed brave rattonaut, your sacrifice was not in vain. Forget throwing things at people, if you want to remove someone from a fight you can just do so directly - if you don't mind almost certainly killing any non-Brute you toss. Won't work on everyone, either. People who can fly would just brake in midair and turn back, and certain others - Fenja and Mush, locally - could just make themselves too big to be hefted, even with mind-hands.

It's still really, really good. A power like this needs a suitably impressive name. Horizon-hurling throw? Bit of a mouthful. Crack the sky.

But if you don't aim at the sky... You find a flattish piece of debris, then throw it across the waves at an almost flat trajectory, making sure to impart a bit of spin.

Spoiler: Air-traffic-controller-o-vision

"Another one. Trajectory- what the hell?"

It skips 37 times.

---

The succession is strictly cape business, but capes can't rebuild a city on their own. It's going to need a whole lot of grunt work, so you can't have the grunts mutiny. Thus, you're sounding out the rank and file.

"Is he someone worth supporting?" Alex asks.

You grimace. "He's someone who's going to need a lot of support." You can only grant him skills, not fix his character flaws. "But name one other candidate who would not trigger a civil war."

"A civil war is the opposite of what we need," Sven agrees. "A lot of people are going to be unhappy, though."

"No one is happy right now," you say. "Are they going to do more than complain?"

"If your boy can get them food and shelter? Probably not."

---

"No, fuck that guy," Rune says, proving herself an excellent judge of character. Can't win them all. She'll probably go along with the consensus in the end.

---

With all the running around you're doing, you could really use a flying wolf. Fuck. You could really use Fenrir being alive right now! You angrily swipe at your eyes as you walk. You need to not be a crying mess right now, you have an empire to subvert save.

There's a note in your hand. You stare at it in confusion, because it's not instructing you to do anything. It just reads 'bitch whore'.

Well, it's certainly a valid characterization, given your recent actions. Notes remain reliable.

---

"Theodore Anders will take the throne," you tell Krieg.

"Hookwolf will never stand for that," Krieg says. Yes, pronouncing the 'w's and 'th's correctly. Since you've all been unmasked, there is no longer any reason for him to pretend to be German.

"Hookwolf has already pledged his support."

"Oh?" He manages to put an entire essay's worth of questions into one syllable, none of which you answer. "Purity will as well, of course. In that case, I shall not be the one to rock the boat." He nods to himself. "I shall seek him out right now. There are matters that cannot wait until the coronation."

---

When you return to bury Fenrir, he's already gone. You stop and stare, relief warring with confusion. Did you go to the wrong place? Do ghost wolves just fade away after death? Is some other cape messing around with immaterial things?

Wait, there's something glowing in the debris. It's... well, it looks like an uneven lump of iron, maybe three inches across. But sorcerer's sight tells you it's magical.

It's not shaped like a heart, or a wolf or anything. You feel no presence from it. It's just a lump of iron. But somehow you know that you're looking at Fenrir's mortal remains. Ghost wolves don't quite fade away after death, apparently. They just condense into this... spirit iron?

You can also tell that it's not unlike orichalcum in its properties. You could forge it into a weapon. In the sense that you could also dig up your mother's grave and sharpen her bones. At the same time, if you put aside your instinctive revulsion towards the idea, is that not what he would have wanted? Would he not have been happy, to know that even in death he still serves?

You don't know. You just don't know. It's- you're going to kill an Endbringer. Don't you need every edge you can possibly eke out? To avenge- it still feels wrong. Maybe... maybe a protective amulet for your daughter?

Still undecided, you kneel down and reverently pick it up. With your regular hands. It's somehow solid and real, despite Fenrir being immaterial there at the end. You're just happy you manned up and came here before some sorcerer's sight-less scavenger picked it up and sold it as scrap metal.

---

"There you go," you say as you buckle on the last piece of Theo's armor. It's one of Kaiser's old suits, resized to fit someone considerably shorter. Theo doesn't know enough about blacksmithing to be impressed, but most smiths would have thrown up their hands and remade most pieces from scratch. You are not most smiths.

"If you do like so-" You grab his arm and stretch it out in the position you taught him. How appropriate, that he has to essentially throw a roman salute every time he wants to shoot someone. "-you'll notice the clear firing channel all the way down your arm. Can you feel the gold reserves in the pauldrons as well?"

"Yes miss."

You're once more being Quicksilver - the story is that you're acting as a go-between for reclusive Tinker Smith, from whom the remodeled armor was commissioned. You'd have preferred to minimize ties between your identities and have Quicksilver merely recommend Smith, who would then handle the rest himself. But Smith can't meet anyone in person, because his costume currently sits dematerialized inside the floor of his workshop. Where it will remain forever, because Fenrir- no, focus.

"There's just enough gold in there to let you get a feel for it right now. If you fill them up completely there'll be enough for fifty shots or so, with the projectile sizes we've been practicing." You pause, and purse your lips. "In an emergency I suppose you could scavenge the gold inlay from the rest of the armor for one last shot. But perhaps you should keep in mind that each bullet you can't recover costs a thousand dollars, and not let it come to that."

"Yes miss."

Your smile as he pays you and profusely thanks you for your service reveals nothing of your true feelings.

You told Theo nothing but the truth. There is nothing about him that does not disgust you. Really, gaining superpowers from your borderline abusive girlfriend breaking up with you? Fucking second-gen capes. And now he's going to become emperor, and everyone is going to think he's incredibly gifted, and he deserves none of it. That you personally caused all of this to happen just makes it worse.

At least you won't have to be nice to him, or pretend to like him. His soul price requested an isolated event, not an ongoing relationship. His Loyalty is still there - and even if it wasn't, emptiness endowment has built up years of karmic debt.

===

Spoiler: Mechanics corner

Crack the Sky lets you throw things (Martial Arts x 4) miles. With appropriate effects on landing, or if they impact something along the way. Taylor managed 20 miles because mind-hands use Occult in place of of Martial Arts, and she got Occult 5 (sorcerer's sight +3) as part of her 'exaltation', for obvious reasons.

Spirits can reform in their sanctum (personal extradimensional living space) some time after dying, unless killed with a 'spirit-slaying' effect. But that requires them to have a sanctum in the first place, which not all spirits do. RIP best dog.

Starmetal is one of the five magical materials just like orichalcum, and is made of dead spirits.

Spoiler: Updated status

Charms:
Taylor: All-Encompassing Sorcerer’s Sight, Terrestrial Circle Sorcery
Tattletale: Know the Soul's Price
Bitch: Spirit-Tied Pet
Aegis: Ox-Body Technique
Browbeat: Shaping the Ideal Form
Dragon: Implicit Construction Methodology
Kid Win: Industry and Forge Wisdom
Lung: By Rage Recast
Vista: Mind-Hand Manipulation
Cricket: Mantis Form
Faultline: Charm of Lesser Unmaking
Labyrinth: Hell-Walker Technique
Othala: Verdant Emptiness Endowment
Rune: Sometimes Horses Fly Approach
Shadow Stalker: Bloodless Murk Evasion
Miss Militia: Nightmare Fugue Vigilance
Circus: Graceful Crane Stance
Ballistic: Crack the Sky

 

There's a lot more people present than at the last rally you attended. Not very surprising, because a lot of people found themselves homeless and unemployed in the wake of Leviathan. Which means that they don't really have anything better to do than stand around and listen to some guy talk, and the promise of free food is a lot more enticing than it would have been a week ago.

You do ostensibly live in a first-world country, and food shipments and other humanitarian aid has been streaming into the city over the past couple of days - both from the PRT disaster relief branch as well as private foundations like the FER and the CRF. But in a curious coincidence, such shipments are being routed to every part of the city except Empire territory. Those three-letter groups sure love their little coincidences.

In response, Empire capes have been busy intercepting the shipments headed for Merchant territory. It's not as if they'll even bother to deny the accusations of racism that are no doubt already being thrown around over such a move, but you'd consider it plain meritocracy: Who could possibly be less deserving than the Merchants? It's not as if they are even depriving civilians of food: Any shipments they miss are instantly stolen by Merchant capes instead. This way it at least reaches the man in the street, just a slightly different street than the three-letter people intended.

You've heard reports of rioting in other places where food was being handed out. Not so here. Everyone is queued up in an orderly fashion and waiting their turn, and it only took a bare handful of line jumpers being hauled off and beaten by jackbooted thugs (actually a lot of the thugs are wearing shorts and sandals in the early summer heat) for people to get the message. The white race is a noble race that faces adversity with honor and decorum. Or else.

It seems the message of white solidarity has indeed been taken to heart, because you see a lot of people giving up their spots in line to children, the elderly, or just people who look really hungry but aren't pushy about it. And the next time someone tries to cut ahead without permission, volunteers from the audience converge on him before the official thugs can even react. Is... is this what being proud of your people feels like?

You force your thoughtful frown into a reassuring smile as you serve the crying woman with the newborn baby an extra-large portion. Did you prevent the civil war for the purpose of installing your puppet on the throne, or to do what you're doing now - helping these people? Are you still infiltrating, or have you joined?

"God bless you," an old lady says as you hand her the food. You rather doubt he exists will. Even if Taylor happens to be sincere in her desire to help, it's not as if you're about to give up being other, more goal-focused people.

---

You lose track of the number of people who thank and/or bless you, even though you played no part in acquiring the food you handed out (aside from, you know, ensuring that the Empire is a functional institution rather than a mess of warring factions). You can't deny that it feels good, helping good people (by giving them things taken from bad people). But before you can get too worked up about how great these people are, you are reminded that the royal line somehow produced Theodore Anders.

Theo makes his entrance on a flying stage much like his father did, but Purity has taken the place of the slain valkyrie at his side. Rune is still off in one corner making the whole thing go. She's wearing a mask, but careful study of her body language reveals that she is not at all happy with her new commander in chief. She always did have excellent taste.

Theo is still chubby - you never did finish his exercise regimen - but full plate harness hides a multitude of sins. His lack of height is made up for by a stool behind the speakers podium. Not visible to the audience, but you know by virtue of being part of the planning committee.

A listless gesture from Rune sends three brass gongs flying into the air. Theo raises his arm and fires, striking each gong in turn. A majestic entrance, and a demonstration that yes, he does have superpowers. Three lucky audience members have thousand-dollar party favors fall on their heads. There's a mild commotion as people realize that the bullets are in fact pure gold, but they are cowed/noble enough not to fight over them, and accept the luck of the draw.

"All hail the emperor: Aurelius!" Purity shouts.

"Hail!" the audience responds, a good portion of them accompanying it with the appropriate gesture. You grit your teeth. There is nothing about him that you do not loathe. You understand perfectly well why he settled on Aurelius as his cape name. He is very much a golden emperor. He just isn't fit to lick the dirt from Marcus Aurelius's sandals.

The next part is going to suck too.

"My people!" Aurelius begins. "We gather today in a broken city!"

It's the part where everyone thinks he's an enormously gifted speaker.

"The city is broken, but our spirits are not! The buildings may have fallen, but the empire will not!"

He has a microphone inside his helmet, he does not have to shout to be heard (good thing random mortal Sven survived, because apparently that's the only person in the entire empire with the audio engineering chops to make that sound not awful). Even so, with the energy he's putting into his words he must be half deaf from the echoes already. But an open-faced helmet would reveal his unfortunate chin situation.

"My predecessor, Kaiser, gave his life fighting for you! The great evil was driven off, and now it falls to us to protect and rebuild the legacy he left us!"

It would be better for his legitimacy if he had said 'my father', but Theo is in the curious position of being the only cape in the entire empire whose identity is not public knowledge. His advisors all agreed that this advantage should not be squandered lightly. People will suspect, but suspicion is a far cry from knowledge.

"It may seem a daunting task, but we will persevere! Together we will prevail! Alone we are weak, but united we are strong!"

You wonder who wrote the speech for him, because you know for a fact that you didn't make him a good writer. Probably Krieg. Certainly not Purity, and Hookwolf prefers to let his fists do the talking (where 'fists' is a euphemism for 'chainsaw-limbs').

"Think of your forefather, the yeoman farmer, that builder of nations. When he first arrived in this land, it was empty save for a few bands of stone age savages. With his humble labor, with the blood and sweat of generations, he built this wilderness into the greatest nation on Earth!"

You spot some frowns in the audience, but you admire the way Krieg has balanced them out. There are the people who came solely for the food, who've had it drilled into them their whole lives that the savage is noble and his loss, tragic... but also that America is #1 just because. Contrast this with the party members, who have rid themselves of any romantic superstitions about the stone age, but have strong objections to America's foreign and domestic policy ever since - well, in the most extreme cases, ever since old Town Destroyer first took power.

"Yes, the nation he built has been lost. Swindled away, surrendered to the merchant and the banker and perverted to their whims. But the blood of that man, who yearned for freedom in a new land, still flows in your veins! The nation that fell can be rebuilt, because yours is the blood that builds civilization! So can the city that fell be rebuilt!"

Spoiler: Mayor-Christner-o-vision

"Dodged a bullet there," Deputy Wilkins opines once the recording finishes.

"Which bullet is that?" I ask.

"The guy got powers. Imagine if he'd been able to run for election."

"That is a terrifying thought," I agree. If that speech wasn't fluke, if he could have run an entire campaign with that energy, I would've had my work cut out for me defending my seat next year.

"He's right, you know," my aide says contemplatively. "Aurelius, I mean."

I shoot him a wry look. "Never would have pegged you for a white supremacist, Johnny."

Johnny Wang Xiaochun smiles politely at my weak jest. "No, look at the crowd. Who are they?"

"Rabble," Wilkins says.

"The working class," I suggest more politely.

"Mm," Johnny says, not giving any indication which characterization he agrees with more. "But to rebuild a city, you don't need lawyers or professors. You need electricians and plumbers, truck drivers and construction workers. The people in that crowd? They are the people who build civilization."

"And they seem happy enough to build it for Aurelius," Wilkins notes. "Guess we're not condemning the city after all."

I nod glumly. I had thought such a move would make me 'the man who ran away'. No. It would make me 'the man who ceded American soil to an enemy state'. Oh, it would get sorted out in the end - such a state of affairs would be entirely unacceptable to Washington - but once the dust settled my political career would be as dead as the would-be emperor.

---

When the standing ovation dies down (everyone was already standing, you're outdoors), the stage floats to the ground. You make your way over, where you are joined by Krieg. The stage takes to the air again.

"We mourn those who are lost," Krieg says, and a hush falls over the crowd. He couldn't have pulled it off if he was still playing 'Krieg the extremely German guy', but his native British accent works well to make him the solemn and slightly sinister elder statesman to Aurelius's young firebrand.

You stand silent as he eulogizes Max Anders and Nessa Biermann. The Empire got off lightly, statistically speaking.

"There is also Taylor Hebert," Krieg says, and you step forward. "The youngest warrior among us, she fought bravely but was injured so gravely that she lost the use of her power. Though she remains with us, her watch is over, and we honor her sacrifice."

The crowd takes in your clenched fists and the tears trickling down your face as you remember what you lost. You were on the planning committee for this event. You agreed that your pain would make for excellent PR.

"I speak now to our enemies," Krieg says suddenly, his tone shifting from solemn to threatening. "To attempt to capitalize on tragedy to settle old grudges would be exceedingly unwise. The Empire protects its own. That is all." The stage sinks down once more.

It's sort of a lie. Rachel's power is sitting right there. There's an empty slot in your soul labelled 'spirit-tied pet' just waiting to be filled once more. All you need is a new dog. Hell, with your money you could afford the proverbial pony, and you'd give even odds that it would have 8 legs by the time you were done. Low Key could be back on duty tomorrow, riding Sleipnr.

All you'd have to do is replace Fenrir. To acknowledge that Fenrir could be replaced. No, let Low Key retire, another casualty of Leviathan. It's sort of the truth. Fenrir is gone, and you cannot call forth a wolf ever again.

Assuming the heroes are willing to play ball, you suddenly have a civilian identity again - if one strongly tied to a criminal gang. Whoopee. It's the least of what you would give up, to have Fenrir back again.

Krieg rests a comforting hand on your shoulder. You appreciate the gesture, even if he thinks you only lost your powers. He is, at least, bright enough not to try to say anything to cheer you up.

Rune has removed her mask and is staring at you in horror. You explained your condition to the inner circle - the emperor and the three lieutenants - but apparently the news hadn't made it down the ranks to her until now. She takes half a step forward, then stops. Her hands rise uncertainly, and fall again. You hold up a hand of your own to ward her off, to save her from her agony of indecision.

"I don't need a hug if you don't," you say, wiping at your cheeks with your other hand.

"Yes you fucking do," Rune says, and hugs you.