An Everdistant Horizon
Seed 1.1
It was the same dream as every time before: a world on fire...
Seed 1.1
It was the same dream as every time before: a world on fire...
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Germination 2..7.5
AlSmash
Making the rounds.
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So, label this as crap I forgot to do, despite promising to do so. so, here it is, a sidestory provided by @Tigers-Tall-Tails on SpaceBattles. It's done so well, that I've worked to integrate it into the story overall.
Germinate 2.7.5
START
"Maybe I should thank you then. After all, I got a pretty useful power, and all it took was not being one of your charity cases."
Amy bit her lip. The red scarf that covered her face would keep anyone from commenting on it. One of the few times that her costume as Panacea worked in her favour. She was back at the hospital, after the disaster that was her day at Arcadia. Vicky was fuming, out and about somewhere in town. Amy wanted to be there for her sister, to let her vent. But she wasn't comfortable putting off her work at the hospital, so it would have to wait.
"Jean? Who're we working on today?" Easier to lose myself in the work then remember the spite and hurt in that voice.
Jean was probably Amy's favourite person in the hospital. A nurse for over twenty years, the older women had dealt every kind of patient, injury, sickness, or ailment imaginable. And her 'seen it all' attitude helped her interact with patients in way that Amy wasn't able to.
"We have one case of three shattered bones, one with liver failure, another with a collapsed lung, two people with…" Amy let the chatter roll over her. It didn't really matter what the injuries were, she'd seen them before. Time and time again, she came in, healed, and left. If she was lucky, she never saw the patient again. But this was Brockton Bay, so she wasn't lucky.
The first three cases went by in a blur. The fourth was clearly a gang member, with tattoos and a shattered arm, shoulder, and hand. Someone had lost a fight, or angered the boss, or who knows what. Amy set about her task; extending her hand and saying her lines. "Do I have your permission to heal you?" The man snapped back. "Yes! Damn it I'm in pain here, fix me!"
Panacea touched his skin, and she could see his form unravel itself in her mind. Skin, muscles, tendons, bones, arteries, veins, capillaries, organs… down to the very cells that made up each greater whole. Like soft clay laid out before her, waiting for her hands to shape. Amy bit her lip again. There are limits. She had limits. Panacea had to have limits. Only Villain have no limits. And Amy wouldn't be a Villain.
Her will reached out, and the body responded. Soothing inflammation, deadening nerves, then shifting and repairing muscles to maneuver bone shards into place. Once they mostly alined, she fused the bone whole again, making sure to anchor the ligaments properly. She did another quick check before pulling her awareness back to her body. The whole thing took eight minutes. The patient still wasn't happy. "Took you long enough to get here. Next time, don't waste your time with the rest of the trash."
Amy didn't smack him. She didn't reach out and make his heart pump stomach-acid. She didn't twist his nerves so that every breath would cause a wave of agony to flood through him. She just… walked away. She left Jean to handle it.
~~~~~
The older women found Panacea later, hunched over on her phone in the break room. Her white robe, a recognizable element of her hero costume, was tossed on a nearby chair, leaving Amy in jeans and a t-shirt. Nurse Jean took a seat as the girl continued browsing her phone, ignoring the world. "Hey Amy… We've got a few more people on the list for today. You up for it, or should we break for lunch and pick up after?"
The healer signed, "Can't be worse than the last idiot we fixed up."
"You know why we have to take them." Jean gave a tired smile that said far too much.
"Neutrality" Amy almost spat the word out. Neither spoke as she got up and assembled her outfit. Hooded robe, long sleeves, red scarf to cover her lower face. It wasn't anything fancy, but everyone knew the 'look' of Panacea.
In a city divided between three major gangs, with a crime rate that was several points higher then the average, the Brockton Bay Hospital didn't take sides. They walked a thin line between turning a blind eye to some injuries, and reporting others to police if things were too messy to ignore. This neutrality kept fights from breaking out in the waiting room, kept drug shipments from being intercepted. This neutrality extended to Panacea as well, who healed regardless of who was under her hands. If only someone had bothered to ask my opinion beforehand.
Her irritation at being pushed to heal and to be 'neutral' gave her the nudge she needed. Asking the question that had been bothering her ever since the confrontation at Arcadia. As the two exited the room, Panacea asked."So how does the List work? I've never really asked." It hadn't seemed important until now. She went to the hospital, she did her tasks, and then she tried to forget it all until she was called on again.
Jean hummed as they stepped aside, letting a group exit the elevator before entering. She punched a button before answering. "Well first, the patients would need to have coverage for parahuman healing. If they agree to it, their doctor will make the application request to be placed on your healing list. Priority is given to more urgent cases, but for the most part there's not much of a backlog. You do quick work!"
Amy nodded along. It was interesting, and unfortunately it tied into the accusations that had been thrown in her face the days before. What Jean said next sent Amy's stomach to the floor.
"Of course, things are a little different for the charity cases."
"The what?" She said numbly. She clenched her hands, thankful that her long sleeves hid the motion.
Jean hummed slightly. "Charity cases are tricky. People who could greatly benefit from care, but don't have the insurance. So their problem could be treated, or staved off with medical care, but we're not going to be able resolve the problem. Not like you can."
"Two doctors are needed, one to make the application, and one to co-sign. There's this whole evaluation based on standards of living with or without intervention, questions of physical and mental wellbeing, things like that. It takes a fair bit, I've helped a few doctors write them. There's maybe a dozen written each month? Once the request is ready, it's sent off for approval."
"And the approval? Who does that? The hospital?"
Jean glanced at Amy oddly, "No, that comes from your mother. It was stated quite clearly in your contract that she would oversee things."
Amy felt cold settling in her gut as the implications set in. She clenched her hands. "What contract?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Amy gained her powers, things were… tense in the Dallon household. She had saved Victoria's life. That was good. Then the family learnt more about her abilities, about what she was capable of. Then things were bad. Aunt Sarah and Uncle Neil had come over, and there were lots of talks between the adults. Vicky was elated that her sister could be a superhero just like herself. Amy was terrified she would be thrown out of the house. Mark tried to act like a father on the good days. Vicky loved her like a sister. Carol watched her. Evaluated her. Carol was never Mother, nor Mom. Amy was the outsider of the family, and felt it keenly.
Amy didn't believe in God. But she prayed that day when she was called to the living room. She prayed that she wouldn't be separated from her sister.
Aunt Sarah did most of the talking about how Amy could now be part of New Wave, could be part of the effort to keep capes honest. She explained that Amy could make a difference by helping people. Carol spoke about healing, about having limits, and about the expectations of a Hero. About working with the hospital to show how much of a hero Amy was. The adults discussed around Amy, about costumes and introductions.
Amy just remembered agreeing to everything. She wouldn't be separated from her sister.
Days later, she found herself being greeted at the hospital. She followed instructions, she healed and put humans back together again. She repaired damaged cells, erased malignant tumours, stimulated blood production and bone growth. She said her lines; "Do I have your permission to heal you?"
Again
And again
And again…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Samuel Monk was an aging administrator for the Hospital. Amy had met him only once before when she first started working. He had a heavy set frame and greying hair. Adjusting his glasses after ushering her to sit exclaiming, "Panacea! Good to see you. I hope everything is going well? No trouble I hope?"
Amy tried to remember how Vicky did it. How she presented herself and talked to people with confidence. She sat up straight, but couldn't resist her fingers playing with the ends of her sleeves. "Yes, well… no. I mean yes! There's no problem. I was just…"
This was stupid. But I'm angry.
She took a breath. Tried to smile. Its good that she took the hood off, even if she wanted it on. Even if she wanted to hide. "There was a school discussion you see, talking about careers, and what we can expect once we graduate. A few of my classmates asked about the hospital, and I said I would show them my work contract."" A lie. Not the first she's told, but certainly first big one. Is this how it starts? The road to damnation and condemnation?
Mr. Monk smiled. His goodness conjured guilt inside Amy for taking advantage of him "Well I'm afraid that your contract is a little unique. Your classmates aren't going to get anything like it."
"Oh? Then can you go over it with me, because then I can explain it to them."
"Not a problem. Give me a moment." He huffed as he stood, moving over to the filing cabinets in the corner. With a metallic rattle, the drawer extended. He slowly ran a thumb over the hundreds of folders, pulling one out with a muttered exclamation of success.
"Here we are." He sat, flipped open the folder and glanced over each page before laying them out on the desk. Amy leaned forward trying to absorb the wall of text laid out in front of her.
"Your contract is not like the rest, most notably because of your young age when you joined us. Your mother was insistent that we accept a consultation agreement that listed you as 'Parahuman Healing Specialist'." He tapped a few sections as he spoke. Amy nodded along, reading as quickly as she could.
"Of course, Carol wouldn't be Carol if she didn't have a few requirements of her own. There was already a precedent you see, for Parahuman Healing, and insurance agencies had started implementing their own fees. Carol made sure that some 'charity cases' would be added to your rotation."
"Do I know you?"
An angry, bitter smile on a ruined face.
"No. You wouldn't. Insurance saw to that."
Amy swallowed, twisting the fabric in her hands. "And who approves the Charity Requests?"
"Hmm? Oh, your mother reviews every case, and approves most of them. Not all, certainly, but generally she approves. Only a few cases are denied. Very cautious women, your mother." Monk smiled conspiratorially. Certain it was meant a joke, she smiled back, or at least she tried. She wasn't sure if she succeeded.
"Right. Here we have…" he poked at another section titled Remuneration. "The money! The important bit, some would say." He chuckled slightly. "You and your mother were very generous, I must say. The insurance payouts allow us to keep the lights on! Among other things, of course."
"Of course" she numbly parroted back. "And… then our portion goes where?" Because I've never seen any of it.
"Deposited directly into the New Wave Fund."
The Dallon Family wasn't poor. Even with Mark being a 'house husband' and two girls in school, the question of money never game up. Both Victoria and Amy got a steady allowance from their mother, who controlled the household finances like she controlled everything else. Amy had assumed that Carol's salary as a lawyer kept the books balanced. Was that the lie? Was it all on me? How am I supposed to feel about that?
Mr.Monk kept talking but Amy was deft to it as she tried to process her feelings. His words flowed through the office; stipulations for conduct, assistance expectations, priorities for care, workplace standards.
"And here we have it. Employment duration, and the signatures, of course." Amy pulled the paper up, reading carefully at the bottom of the page. Carol had signed twice. Power of Attorney. Parental Consent.
The section of Consultant's Signature My section was left blank.
"I'd like a copy of this." She looked over the desk to Mr.Monk. "Please"
"Well, certainly. I'll…" Amy stood, gathered the pages before the older man could, marched to the printer and set it to photocopy each page. She wished she could pull her hood up. She needed the quiet. But she needed answers more.
"Can you tell me about the last few Charity requests? I'd like to see if I remember them. The patients, they go by so quickly sometimes."
Monk began clicking away at his desktop computer, "yes.. just a moment."
Vrrrrr… Vrrrr…Vrrrr went the printer. Amy wished it could go faster. She needed to leave. She needed to think.
"Here we are, hmm… Flavianna Belmon, Larain Messina, Nelson Britton, Taylor Hebert, Sara O'Gorman. Out of all of those, Ms. Hebert was the only one to be denied. Sad case, I tried to get Carol to reconsider but she wouldn't hear of it." The older man sighed. "But she does have the authority to reject cases on her own discretion." It shouldn't be Carol's choice. It should be mine!
Amy took a deep breath in, then out. Her hands clenched and relaxed again.
The printer finished it's job. She snatched the pages up, returning the originals to the desk. "Thank you, you've been very helpful"
"I hope you can explain everything to your classmates, we're always looking for new help." For a moment, Amy had no idea what he was talking about. Then she remembered the lie. "I hope so too."
She left. Pulling up her hood, she fumbling with her scarf as she moved down the halls. It was hard to do with one hand, but she was also clutching the pages to her chest.. There was no way she'd let them go."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Amy hurried to her room when she arrived home. Vicky had been moody the whole way back from the hospital, apparently Carol had texted to say she wanted to see Victoria as soon as she returned home. After the events of the day, neither sister was in the mood to talk."
Dropping her costume on the floor, she then spread the contract paper over her small desk, reading over them again. The words jumped out at her: consultant, insurance payments, charity patients, remuneration, waiving of fees, New Wave Fund, right of refusal, employment duration, signatures.
Amy straightened, a restless energy running through her. She paced the room, picked up her costume, hung it up, returned to the desk, stacked the papers, walked to the window, breathed.
In
Out
Hands clench
Hands unclench
Amy didn't have a plan. She didn't have a goal. But she did want answers. She wanted…
Walking down the hallways, stopping at the office door at the end. Could hear Carol speaking, "…your room. You're grounded, young lady. We'll discuss how long that should be over dinner."
"Mom!" Vicky's voice rose.
"Ignoring your aura, which we will be having a discussion about, you nearly assaulted someone with your powers, Victoria. You could have seriously hurt her, and I didn't raise you to act like this. So you will take your punishment, and you will improve! Do I make myself clear, young lady?"
Clench, unclench. Vicky had gotten in trouble. Not Amy. Vicky. Amy hadn't done anything wrong. But didn't I do wrong by being blind? Isn't that my fault?
Heart hammering, she watched the door open. Saw the anger and hurt in her sister's face as she passed.
She had a say something. The restless energy inside her demanded release.
"Carol, we need to talk about my work at the hospital."
The women sat at behind her desk, one hand rubbingt her forehead. "This is not the time Amy. I have other concerns right now." For a moment, Amy considered just dropping it.
"No. We need to talk now." Amy had always said yes. She said yes when she was told to heal. She said yes when the Protectorat called for help, when her family said that Panacea would attend the Endbringer fights, when Vicky needed help because she went too far.
Carol straightened in her chair, her eyes hard and scowled. Amy refused to look away, that energy churning inside filled her veins and demanded she not back down.
"Sit."
Amy walked over, put her hands on the back of the chair, and stayed standing.
Carol's frown deepened.
Where to start?
"I read my contract today. The one you signed for me."
"What of it?" Carol the Lawyer answered back. Cool, calm, collected, neutral.
Amy wanted more. She would prefer anger, or sorrow. Any kind of reaction.
"You didn't even tell me that one existed! I was told that I would be helping the hospital. Helping people! They gave me patients and I healed every single one of them! And now I learnt that I'm only helping those who pay?!" Amy didn't want to shout. Carol had taught her that. "The first one to raise their voice to win an argument has already lost". But she put every inch of force that she could into her words.
"What happened to, "a hero should act for what's right, not for money"? You taught us that!"
Carol stared back quietly, waiting. The silence stretched. Amy wanted to scream, but this was another lesson Carol had taught.
She finally sat.
When Carol spoke, it was in clear even tones. "Yes. I signed a contract. It protects you, and it protects the hospital. The payments are necessary. You bill the hospital, so the hospital bills the insurance agency. The hospital then collects the insurance payment.
"And then we get our cut?" Amy spit out the last words like a curse.
"Yes. The money goes to the New Wave Fund, which we use for donations to support other causes." Amy's mind raced. What causes had the team supported recently?
"The Mayor's election campaign" said Amy, remembering distant days when she would watch Carol and Mark on TV with Vicky chattering happily next to her.
Carol nodded, "Yes, among other things. We don't give out money lightly. There is significant amount of vetting before we agree to support any cause." But what about me? I don't get a say?
Silence fell between them. Amy hoped for more, but it was clear that Carol was done talking.
"And the charity list? The people who can't pay?"
Carol leaned back in her chair, her face still hard. "We are heroes. You are a hero. It's natural to support people less fortunate."
"But you don't approve everyone, do you?" It was an accusation. Open defiance, and Carol leaned forward to fire back.
"Amy, every doctor someday comes to realize that they can't help everyone. There aren't enough hands, there aren't enough hours in the day. You are no different. Yes. I review every charity case presented to me. I read the justifications and listen to the doctor's advice."
"It should be me who decides. It's my power!"
*Slam* Carol's hand impacted the desk. Amy jolted.
"What did I tell you to do if someone asks for healing in the street?"
Amy responded by rout, from memory. "I don't take personal requests for healing."
Carol nodded. "Yes. Panacea does not take personal requests. Everyone knows this. It's what keeps you from getting swarmed on the streets. It keeps this house from being picketed. And!"
The older women sighed and relaxed back into her chair. "… and it keeps you from having to chose who lives and who dies." Amy was stunned, Carol's words hitting unexpectedly.
She took the silence to keep going. "You were fourteen when you started healing. Too young for that kind of responsibility."
Amy felt small for a moment, like a child being scolded for something she didn't understand. Half angry, half thoughtful. "But we're heroes. We're meant to help everyone."
"No." Carol responded instantly. "We don't help everyone. We don't help villains. We put our efforts into helping the most deserving." I helped a gang member today, because he could pay. And a girl who couldn't pay was left blind.
"Is that why you denied treatment for Taylor Hebert?" Another accusation.
"This conversation is over."
*Bang* Amy slammed her hands down on the desk, leaping to her feet. "A fifteen year old girl was left blind! What's the justification for that!?"
Carol frowned and for a moment Amy thought she could see light coalesce around the women's fists. "When the incident happened, there was a lot of back and forth about who the guilty party was. It was better to stay out of it."
"And since then?"
"Since then, she's only proven that she's a villain by another name. She's caused havoc with the PRT, provoked tensions in the government, undermined the mayor, and has shamelessly profited instead of helping the public. She's surrounded herself with people with bad intentions, and shows no sign of stopping."
Carol was standing now, staring down at Amy. "The fact that you would support this girl is concerning." Her face was cold, implacable. The hero Brandish condemning the criminal. "You. Are. A hero. Hold yourself to a higher standard." Her gaze worked over Amy's tense form, searching for… something.
Amy ducked her head. She hated when Carol looked at her like that, like she was looking for weakness, like she was a witness on the stand, and Carol the Lawyer was about to tear her apart with words. Or like Brandish the Hero might strike her down with energy blades
"I understand."
"Good." Carol sat, returning to the papers on her desk. "This discussion is over, understand? You will go to the hospital. You will heal who you're told. No more talk about Zero Dawn or Taylor Hebert. She's caused enough problems for this family."
Amy left the office, a cold sweat breaking out across her skin. The energy that once filled her was gone, leaving her hollow. Exhausted she flopped onto her bed, her thoughts circling around everything that she learnt and said.
It was hours later that Vicky woke her up with a plate of food. Amy had missed dinner. With a quiet thank-you, she closed the door before her sister could say a word. Sitting on her bed, Amy ate. Thinking about the future.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(T-Minus 15 Days)
Amy clenched her hands.
This was stupid. There were a million reasons why this was stupid. She shouldn't be here, on the bus, heading deeper into the Docks area. She shouldn't be focusing on what that girl said. She should just be leaving everything alone.
She was stupid.
She unclenched her hands. She got off the bus.
The Docks were more of a concept to her than a real place. She would hear about them in news reports, often accompanied by words like "violence, murder, drug arrests" and other fun nouns. New Wave would discuss the Docks and reference police reports, patrol routes, and cape sightings or cape fights. Victoria would patrol the area and come back with stories of criminals that she swooped down on, the fights that she took part in, and the crimes she witnessed.
Walking along the cracked sidewalks, seeing the overgrown green spaces and boarded up windows on houses and shops… it made the Docks real to her. Amy could feel the abandonment, okay, maybe not. But she could certainly see it. And hear it. Walking through the city made one familiar to the noise. Cars going by, sirens in the distance, people moving around, conversation in the air. Very little of that existed out here.
Amy clenched her hands. This was stupid. She rubbed her hands against her pants; they kept sweating.
It hadn't taken a lot to find the address of Zero Dawn Technologies. The news and discussion forums were diving into anything the company was doing. But even without an exact address, Amy probably could have found it on her own. You could hear it in the distance. Trucks and cars moving around, the sound of tools on metal.
The place didn't look like much. A refurbished fence around refurbished buildings. Only the sign at the front shone with new paint.
Amy unclenched her hands.
She walked up to the gate guard, "My name is Amy Dallon. Panacea. I'd like to speak with Taylor Hebert."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was an awkward few minutes before she was let through security, being met by a harried employee who didn't introduce themselves. No attempt at small talk was made; Amy was grateful for the absence. Even if it meant she was stuck with only her thoughts for company; she had always been aggravated by 'light conversation'.
Amy clenched her hands.
Her mind was busy enough as it was, filled to the brim with how this conversation would go with the fiery inventor whose mere existence had caused so much chaos.
Amy wasn't supposed to be here. Carol made that absolutely clear. She was supposed to leave all of this alone. But I don't want to. I can't.
Amy unclenched her hands.
Amy clenched her hands.
The healer was told to wait in a quiet room off to the side in one of the buildings. Coffee maker, fridge, a few chairs. This was obviously a break room for the staff. Amy sat wishing she could have more coffee, but not wanting to impose on what would already be a complicated conversation.
She tried not to watch the door. She watched the clock.
Amy unclenched her hands.
The door opened and Amy looked up. Taylor stood frozen in the doorway. On her temple, a glowing triangle device projected a segmented circle in the air. Its slow rotation was the only movement in the room. Large black sunglasses covered everything around her eyes.
"Panacea. I'm formally letting you know that this conversation is being recorded. If you do not consent to be recorded, you are free to leave the premises. I'll have one of my employees show you the door."
"It's Amy. And yes, fine. Whatever you want."
Taylor marching over to the coffee machine. Amy watched the willowy brunette's back as she placed her glasses on the counter and began to expertly prepare a mug. It was hard to remember sometimes that this girl was blind given how adeptly she maneuvered around the world. Taylor spoke, her tone dry. "I have a lot of work to do, and not enough time to do it. What do you want Amy? I've already extended my apologies for my words towards your sister."
"I…" Amy pinched the long sleeves of her jacket. "I wanted to say sorry? I didn't know about you, in the hospital I mean. They didn't give your file to me." She looked down at the table, not wanting to see those blind eyes as Taylor turned around. "I didn't know"
Silence
"If you didn't know, then why are you apologizing? If you had no hand in things, then it's pointless to say 'sorry' on someone else's behalf."
Amy clenched her hands.
What was better… letting the matter go, or telling the truth? Amy didn't know. But she had failed. She didn't even know how many patients she had let down. But she could apologize to this one.
"There… there's a list. A charity list. The doctors had put you on it." Amy felt the disgust twist her insides. "You weren't approved." Every word felt like stones passing through her teeth. But I am a hero. I have to be better.
Her knuckles hurt. Nails dug into skin. Amy couldn't let go.
Steps walking towards her. The chair across the table pulled out, Taylor took a seat.
Amy waited for the shouts. Waited for the mug to bash her skull in. Waited for the cutting rage that she had seen once before at Arcadia.
I deserve it.
"And who does the approving?"
"Carol. My mother. I didn't know."
"Oh."
Silence. The hum of the lights. Sounds of breathing.
Amy peeked up. Taylor stared down down at the table. Her hand clasping her coffee mug with white knuckles. Her jaw clenched as she…
"I am just trying to fucking fix things!" Taylor seethed. Her voice wet, filled with the tears that she refused to shed.
Taylor breathed.
"So… you apologizing. That on her behalf? Or because 'you didn't know'."
"Just me." Amy understood the anger towards Carol. She felt it too. The anger at taking her own choices away. At making her an unwitting part of this mess.
Just a little, Amy unclenched her hands. The muscles strained, sore from tension.
"You said… before at Arcadia, you said you're going to change the world. What did you mean?"
Taylor's breathing slowed, and if she rubbed at her eyes, Amy pretended to not notice.
"This?" She tapped the triangle attached to her temple. "I have three versions ready for market. The money I make from selling them is all going back into the company, so I can build more things. Communication infrastructure. Computer components. Hell, I've got blueprints for a hologram system that is going to make movies a whole lot more interesting."
Amy giggled in frank amusement. "You are going to piss off so many people."
"That's the thing about changing the world. You can't always wait around asking for permission." The blind inventor took a pull from her coffee, scowling and muttering that it went cold.
Amy had an idea then. It was stupid. It was against everything that Carol had told her. But being brave is what heroes do. I ruined her life. Time to balance the scales.
"Can I… show you something?"
"Hmm?" Taylor tilted her head as Amy reached forward, plucking an apple from the bowl on the table.
It was so easy. She could feel the composition of everything that made the apple what it was. And she ordered it to change. The apple sagged as it collapsed in on itself, then from the resulting slurry a new shape emerged. A bulb formed, then the green shoot pushed itself up, broad leaves stretched out, and a vibrant pink bloom unfolded. In seconds, Amy help a tulip in her hands. It was… a rush. To see the material changing in her mind, to finally just… do something with her powers that wasn't healing the same systems again and again.
"You… you can." Taylor spoke in hushed tones, blind eyes fixed on Amy's hands. "Bio-manipulation. No, wait. Healing, touch based. You're a bio-kinetic."
Amy shrank down, preferring to look at the flower in her hands instead of the girl sitting across from her.
"And they have you healing in a hospital?!?" Amy didn't expect Taylor to be so aghast. She met Taylor's incredulous stare. Amy felt her cheeks flush, this wasn't going as she expected.
"It…there… it was safer?"
"Ha! Safer for who? For you or the world?"
"Both…"
"Ooohhh… Optics, right. The only thing New Wave cares about. Can't have the healer be a big scary bio-tinker. Jesus…"
Taylor seemed to see Amy properly for the first time. Her fingers twitched, and her eyes darted back and forth for a moment.
"I've deleted the records of this conversation. I know why you wanted to keep this hidden. I don't agree with it, I think it's the stupidest thing I've heard in a long while… but you want it hidden." She shrugged.
Something inside Amy uncoiled and she could breath a little easier.
"Why stupid?" Amy looked around, wondering what to do with the flower in her hands.
"Amy… you are the walking answer to world hunger. You can create crops to survive in any environment. You can develop vaccines and cures for things that thousands of people suffer from. You could break this whole medical industry over your knee and make sure that millions of people live better lives… and instead? You're patching up gangbangers in the ER."
Taylor continued, "you could be a real hero… to so many. A hero greater than your sister ever could be. A hero who'll change the world. Instead…" Taylor was blind. Amy knew this, but she felt the weight and disappointment in the younger woman's eyes. Hard to imagine that this girl was fifteen. She felt more a disappointed teacher.
Amy's cheeks flushed. She fumbled as she murmured. "You sound like you're trying to recruit me."
"Sure, if you want, I would hire you in a heartbeat. You're not even a tinker! Biology is biology. The building blocks are all the same. It's just a question of assembling as you want. Which you can do." Taylor shrugged. She stood, dumping the last of her cold coffee in the sink, then came back with the mug. Tentatively, she placed the flower in it, running her fingers over the shape of the petals. A rare smile spread across her face. "Tulips…"
"I…" Amy dusted her hands off. This was stupid. But it was her decision. And it felt good. "I might be willing."
Taylor blinked. A slow smile spread across her face. "Ok… I might have to temper expectations. I am too busy right now. The Endbringer window opens in fifteen days. After… well, after. Once my machines prove themselves, I'll have more freedom. If you're still interested then… we can make something happen."
Amy's stomach sank, thinking about the next time she would be on the battlefield with one of those beasts. Focusing on the possibilities of after was much more appealing. "If I bring something impressive, don't suppose you'll give me a sign on bonus?" She giggled, thinking on everything she could make.
Taylor leaned back, tilting her head up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "You've got more experience then me, what does a hospital always need more of?"
"The three B's. Beds, blood, and bandages." The long hours working with nurses and doctors had given Amy an insiders view of the hospital.
"There you go." Taylor shrugged. "Blood. Synthetic, or real, something to replace the constant demand for blood drives. For any patient regardless of blood type. Maybe loaded with anti-bodies or something to promote healing?"
"Hmm… I think I could make that work. I'll have to test it.." Her thoughts drifted and she smiled she imagined how to go about making it.
"Well. I look forward to seeing what you can do. I'm going back to work, I'll send someone to show you out." Taylor stood, and Amy leaped to her feet.
"Wait! Um…" Amy pulled what remained of her courage together. "Do… do you want me to heal you?"
Taylor breathing hitched. The healer held her position, hand stretched out. She didn't know what she was hoping to do with this. Fix her mistakes? Make up for things? But it felt like the right thing to do.
"No."
The words hit Amy like a fist to the gut. Oh course she wouldn't trust me. She's scared of me. Of what I can do. Even if our talk was fun, and she offered me a place here.
"No… I'm going to keep these scars. So that the girls who did this to me can see that they didn't stop me."
That was… so incredibly petty and brave at the same time. Left unsaid was that the scars would also remind Amy of her own blindness, of the times that she let others dictate her own actions. Amy dropped her hand. Maybe Taylor didn't mean it that way. But still, It was worth remembering.
"But… I appreciate the offer." Taylor stepped forward. She offered a handshake. Amy grasped for it, feeling foolish for dropping hers just a moment ago.
Biology unfurled before her mind's eye. Scarred cornea, damaged sclera, scarred conjunctiva. Discolouration of the skin across the face and neck. Elevated heart rate, high amounts of caffein in the system. Signs of stress and lack of sleep in the brain chemistry. Slightly underweight for body type. No sign of pain from injuries, nerves not damaged.
Amy kept an iron grip on her powers. She had limits.
The two girls shook. This felt like the start of something. Not a friendship, it was too soon for that, too much recent baggage. But Amy felt happy. It was rare she felt that way.
"Alright, I'll see you… after." After the next city was condemned. After Amy tried again to keep capes alive so they could return to fight a relentless being that they had no hope against. After the bodies had been counted, the memorials erected, and the tears shed.
"After."
With a final shake, Taylor walked out the door. Leaving the tulip sitting in a coffee mug, alone on the break room table.
An employee arrived moments later, and escorted Amy out of the building. Back in the evening air, she returned to the Docks. Out from the complex world of Taylor Hebert and all the conflicting feelings she brought with her.
Things weren't fixed. Not by a long shot. But Amy felt… lighter. Breathed easier. She had a plan, it was her's. And that felt good enough for now.
She breathed in.
Breathed out.
And unclenched her hands.
END
Germinate 2.7.5
START
"Maybe I should thank you then. After all, I got a pretty useful power, and all it took was not being one of your charity cases."
Amy bit her lip. The red scarf that covered her face would keep anyone from commenting on it. One of the few times that her costume as Panacea worked in her favour. She was back at the hospital, after the disaster that was her day at Arcadia. Vicky was fuming, out and about somewhere in town. Amy wanted to be there for her sister, to let her vent. But she wasn't comfortable putting off her work at the hospital, so it would have to wait.
"Jean? Who're we working on today?" Easier to lose myself in the work then remember the spite and hurt in that voice.
Jean was probably Amy's favourite person in the hospital. A nurse for over twenty years, the older women had dealt every kind of patient, injury, sickness, or ailment imaginable. And her 'seen it all' attitude helped her interact with patients in way that Amy wasn't able to.
"We have one case of three shattered bones, one with liver failure, another with a collapsed lung, two people with…" Amy let the chatter roll over her. It didn't really matter what the injuries were, she'd seen them before. Time and time again, she came in, healed, and left. If she was lucky, she never saw the patient again. But this was Brockton Bay, so she wasn't lucky.
The first three cases went by in a blur. The fourth was clearly a gang member, with tattoos and a shattered arm, shoulder, and hand. Someone had lost a fight, or angered the boss, or who knows what. Amy set about her task; extending her hand and saying her lines. "Do I have your permission to heal you?" The man snapped back. "Yes! Damn it I'm in pain here, fix me!"
Panacea touched his skin, and she could see his form unravel itself in her mind. Skin, muscles, tendons, bones, arteries, veins, capillaries, organs… down to the very cells that made up each greater whole. Like soft clay laid out before her, waiting for her hands to shape. Amy bit her lip again. There are limits. She had limits. Panacea had to have limits. Only Villain have no limits. And Amy wouldn't be a Villain.
Her will reached out, and the body responded. Soothing inflammation, deadening nerves, then shifting and repairing muscles to maneuver bone shards into place. Once they mostly alined, she fused the bone whole again, making sure to anchor the ligaments properly. She did another quick check before pulling her awareness back to her body. The whole thing took eight minutes. The patient still wasn't happy. "Took you long enough to get here. Next time, don't waste your time with the rest of the trash."
Amy didn't smack him. She didn't reach out and make his heart pump stomach-acid. She didn't twist his nerves so that every breath would cause a wave of agony to flood through him. She just… walked away. She left Jean to handle it.
~~~~~
The older women found Panacea later, hunched over on her phone in the break room. Her white robe, a recognizable element of her hero costume, was tossed on a nearby chair, leaving Amy in jeans and a t-shirt. Nurse Jean took a seat as the girl continued browsing her phone, ignoring the world. "Hey Amy… We've got a few more people on the list for today. You up for it, or should we break for lunch and pick up after?"
The healer signed, "Can't be worse than the last idiot we fixed up."
"You know why we have to take them." Jean gave a tired smile that said far too much.
"Neutrality" Amy almost spat the word out. Neither spoke as she got up and assembled her outfit. Hooded robe, long sleeves, red scarf to cover her lower face. It wasn't anything fancy, but everyone knew the 'look' of Panacea.
In a city divided between three major gangs, with a crime rate that was several points higher then the average, the Brockton Bay Hospital didn't take sides. They walked a thin line between turning a blind eye to some injuries, and reporting others to police if things were too messy to ignore. This neutrality kept fights from breaking out in the waiting room, kept drug shipments from being intercepted. This neutrality extended to Panacea as well, who healed regardless of who was under her hands. If only someone had bothered to ask my opinion beforehand.
Her irritation at being pushed to heal and to be 'neutral' gave her the nudge she needed. Asking the question that had been bothering her ever since the confrontation at Arcadia. As the two exited the room, Panacea asked."So how does the List work? I've never really asked." It hadn't seemed important until now. She went to the hospital, she did her tasks, and then she tried to forget it all until she was called on again.
Jean hummed as they stepped aside, letting a group exit the elevator before entering. She punched a button before answering. "Well first, the patients would need to have coverage for parahuman healing. If they agree to it, their doctor will make the application request to be placed on your healing list. Priority is given to more urgent cases, but for the most part there's not much of a backlog. You do quick work!"
Amy nodded along. It was interesting, and unfortunately it tied into the accusations that had been thrown in her face the days before. What Jean said next sent Amy's stomach to the floor.
"Of course, things are a little different for the charity cases."
"The what?" She said numbly. She clenched her hands, thankful that her long sleeves hid the motion.
Jean hummed slightly. "Charity cases are tricky. People who could greatly benefit from care, but don't have the insurance. So their problem could be treated, or staved off with medical care, but we're not going to be able resolve the problem. Not like you can."
"Two doctors are needed, one to make the application, and one to co-sign. There's this whole evaluation based on standards of living with or without intervention, questions of physical and mental wellbeing, things like that. It takes a fair bit, I've helped a few doctors write them. There's maybe a dozen written each month? Once the request is ready, it's sent off for approval."
"And the approval? Who does that? The hospital?"
Jean glanced at Amy oddly, "No, that comes from your mother. It was stated quite clearly in your contract that she would oversee things."
Amy felt cold settling in her gut as the implications set in. She clenched her hands. "What contract?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When Amy gained her powers, things were… tense in the Dallon household. She had saved Victoria's life. That was good. Then the family learnt more about her abilities, about what she was capable of. Then things were bad. Aunt Sarah and Uncle Neil had come over, and there were lots of talks between the adults. Vicky was elated that her sister could be a superhero just like herself. Amy was terrified she would be thrown out of the house. Mark tried to act like a father on the good days. Vicky loved her like a sister. Carol watched her. Evaluated her. Carol was never Mother, nor Mom. Amy was the outsider of the family, and felt it keenly.
Amy didn't believe in God. But she prayed that day when she was called to the living room. She prayed that she wouldn't be separated from her sister.
Aunt Sarah did most of the talking about how Amy could now be part of New Wave, could be part of the effort to keep capes honest. She explained that Amy could make a difference by helping people. Carol spoke about healing, about having limits, and about the expectations of a Hero. About working with the hospital to show how much of a hero Amy was. The adults discussed around Amy, about costumes and introductions.
Amy just remembered agreeing to everything. She wouldn't be separated from her sister.
Days later, she found herself being greeted at the hospital. She followed instructions, she healed and put humans back together again. She repaired damaged cells, erased malignant tumours, stimulated blood production and bone growth. She said her lines; "Do I have your permission to heal you?"
Again
And again
And again…
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Samuel Monk was an aging administrator for the Hospital. Amy had met him only once before when she first started working. He had a heavy set frame and greying hair. Adjusting his glasses after ushering her to sit exclaiming, "Panacea! Good to see you. I hope everything is going well? No trouble I hope?"
Amy tried to remember how Vicky did it. How she presented herself and talked to people with confidence. She sat up straight, but couldn't resist her fingers playing with the ends of her sleeves. "Yes, well… no. I mean yes! There's no problem. I was just…"
This was stupid. But I'm angry.
She took a breath. Tried to smile. Its good that she took the hood off, even if she wanted it on. Even if she wanted to hide. "There was a school discussion you see, talking about careers, and what we can expect once we graduate. A few of my classmates asked about the hospital, and I said I would show them my work contract."" A lie. Not the first she's told, but certainly first big one. Is this how it starts? The road to damnation and condemnation?
Mr. Monk smiled. His goodness conjured guilt inside Amy for taking advantage of him "Well I'm afraid that your contract is a little unique. Your classmates aren't going to get anything like it."
"Oh? Then can you go over it with me, because then I can explain it to them."
"Not a problem. Give me a moment." He huffed as he stood, moving over to the filing cabinets in the corner. With a metallic rattle, the drawer extended. He slowly ran a thumb over the hundreds of folders, pulling one out with a muttered exclamation of success.
"Here we are." He sat, flipped open the folder and glanced over each page before laying them out on the desk. Amy leaned forward trying to absorb the wall of text laid out in front of her.
"Your contract is not like the rest, most notably because of your young age when you joined us. Your mother was insistent that we accept a consultation agreement that listed you as 'Parahuman Healing Specialist'." He tapped a few sections as he spoke. Amy nodded along, reading as quickly as she could.
"Of course, Carol wouldn't be Carol if she didn't have a few requirements of her own. There was already a precedent you see, for Parahuman Healing, and insurance agencies had started implementing their own fees. Carol made sure that some 'charity cases' would be added to your rotation."
"Do I know you?"
An angry, bitter smile on a ruined face.
"No. You wouldn't. Insurance saw to that."
Amy swallowed, twisting the fabric in her hands. "And who approves the Charity Requests?"
"Hmm? Oh, your mother reviews every case, and approves most of them. Not all, certainly, but generally she approves. Only a few cases are denied. Very cautious women, your mother." Monk smiled conspiratorially. Certain it was meant a joke, she smiled back, or at least she tried. She wasn't sure if she succeeded.
"Right. Here we have…" he poked at another section titled Remuneration. "The money! The important bit, some would say." He chuckled slightly. "You and your mother were very generous, I must say. The insurance payouts allow us to keep the lights on! Among other things, of course."
"Of course" she numbly parroted back. "And… then our portion goes where?" Because I've never seen any of it.
"Deposited directly into the New Wave Fund."
The Dallon Family wasn't poor. Even with Mark being a 'house husband' and two girls in school, the question of money never game up. Both Victoria and Amy got a steady allowance from their mother, who controlled the household finances like she controlled everything else. Amy had assumed that Carol's salary as a lawyer kept the books balanced. Was that the lie? Was it all on me? How am I supposed to feel about that?
Mr.Monk kept talking but Amy was deft to it as she tried to process her feelings. His words flowed through the office; stipulations for conduct, assistance expectations, priorities for care, workplace standards.
"And here we have it. Employment duration, and the signatures, of course." Amy pulled the paper up, reading carefully at the bottom of the page. Carol had signed twice. Power of Attorney. Parental Consent.
The section of Consultant's Signature My section was left blank.
"I'd like a copy of this." She looked over the desk to Mr.Monk. "Please"
"Well, certainly. I'll…" Amy stood, gathered the pages before the older man could, marched to the printer and set it to photocopy each page. She wished she could pull her hood up. She needed the quiet. But she needed answers more.
"Can you tell me about the last few Charity requests? I'd like to see if I remember them. The patients, they go by so quickly sometimes."
Monk began clicking away at his desktop computer, "yes.. just a moment."
Vrrrrr… Vrrrr…Vrrrr went the printer. Amy wished it could go faster. She needed to leave. She needed to think.
"Here we are, hmm… Flavianna Belmon, Larain Messina, Nelson Britton, Taylor Hebert, Sara O'Gorman. Out of all of those, Ms. Hebert was the only one to be denied. Sad case, I tried to get Carol to reconsider but she wouldn't hear of it." The older man sighed. "But she does have the authority to reject cases on her own discretion." It shouldn't be Carol's choice. It should be mine!
Amy took a deep breath in, then out. Her hands clenched and relaxed again.
The printer finished it's job. She snatched the pages up, returning the originals to the desk. "Thank you, you've been very helpful"
"I hope you can explain everything to your classmates, we're always looking for new help." For a moment, Amy had no idea what he was talking about. Then she remembered the lie. "I hope so too."
She left. Pulling up her hood, she fumbling with her scarf as she moved down the halls. It was hard to do with one hand, but she was also clutching the pages to her chest.. There was no way she'd let them go."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Amy hurried to her room when she arrived home. Vicky had been moody the whole way back from the hospital, apparently Carol had texted to say she wanted to see Victoria as soon as she returned home. After the events of the day, neither sister was in the mood to talk."
Dropping her costume on the floor, she then spread the contract paper over her small desk, reading over them again. The words jumped out at her: consultant, insurance payments, charity patients, remuneration, waiving of fees, New Wave Fund, right of refusal, employment duration, signatures.
Amy straightened, a restless energy running through her. She paced the room, picked up her costume, hung it up, returned to the desk, stacked the papers, walked to the window, breathed.
In
Out
Hands clench
Hands unclench
Amy didn't have a plan. She didn't have a goal. But she did want answers. She wanted…
Walking down the hallways, stopping at the office door at the end. Could hear Carol speaking, "…your room. You're grounded, young lady. We'll discuss how long that should be over dinner."
"Mom!" Vicky's voice rose.
"Ignoring your aura, which we will be having a discussion about, you nearly assaulted someone with your powers, Victoria. You could have seriously hurt her, and I didn't raise you to act like this. So you will take your punishment, and you will improve! Do I make myself clear, young lady?"
Clench, unclench. Vicky had gotten in trouble. Not Amy. Vicky. Amy hadn't done anything wrong. But didn't I do wrong by being blind? Isn't that my fault?
Heart hammering, she watched the door open. Saw the anger and hurt in her sister's face as she passed.
She had a say something. The restless energy inside her demanded release.
"Carol, we need to talk about my work at the hospital."
The women sat at behind her desk, one hand rubbingt her forehead. "This is not the time Amy. I have other concerns right now." For a moment, Amy considered just dropping it.
"No. We need to talk now." Amy had always said yes. She said yes when she was told to heal. She said yes when the Protectorat called for help, when her family said that Panacea would attend the Endbringer fights, when Vicky needed help because she went too far.
Carol straightened in her chair, her eyes hard and scowled. Amy refused to look away, that energy churning inside filled her veins and demanded she not back down.
"Sit."
Amy walked over, put her hands on the back of the chair, and stayed standing.
Carol's frown deepened.
Where to start?
"I read my contract today. The one you signed for me."
"What of it?" Carol the Lawyer answered back. Cool, calm, collected, neutral.
Amy wanted more. She would prefer anger, or sorrow. Any kind of reaction.
"You didn't even tell me that one existed! I was told that I would be helping the hospital. Helping people! They gave me patients and I healed every single one of them! And now I learnt that I'm only helping those who pay?!" Amy didn't want to shout. Carol had taught her that. "The first one to raise their voice to win an argument has already lost". But she put every inch of force that she could into her words.
"What happened to, "a hero should act for what's right, not for money"? You taught us that!"
Carol stared back quietly, waiting. The silence stretched. Amy wanted to scream, but this was another lesson Carol had taught.
She finally sat.
When Carol spoke, it was in clear even tones. "Yes. I signed a contract. It protects you, and it protects the hospital. The payments are necessary. You bill the hospital, so the hospital bills the insurance agency. The hospital then collects the insurance payment.
"And then we get our cut?" Amy spit out the last words like a curse.
"Yes. The money goes to the New Wave Fund, which we use for donations to support other causes." Amy's mind raced. What causes had the team supported recently?
"The Mayor's election campaign" said Amy, remembering distant days when she would watch Carol and Mark on TV with Vicky chattering happily next to her.
Carol nodded, "Yes, among other things. We don't give out money lightly. There is significant amount of vetting before we agree to support any cause." But what about me? I don't get a say?
Silence fell between them. Amy hoped for more, but it was clear that Carol was done talking.
"And the charity list? The people who can't pay?"
Carol leaned back in her chair, her face still hard. "We are heroes. You are a hero. It's natural to support people less fortunate."
"But you don't approve everyone, do you?" It was an accusation. Open defiance, and Carol leaned forward to fire back.
"Amy, every doctor someday comes to realize that they can't help everyone. There aren't enough hands, there aren't enough hours in the day. You are no different. Yes. I review every charity case presented to me. I read the justifications and listen to the doctor's advice."
"It should be me who decides. It's my power!"
*Slam* Carol's hand impacted the desk. Amy jolted.
"What did I tell you to do if someone asks for healing in the street?"
Amy responded by rout, from memory. "I don't take personal requests for healing."
Carol nodded. "Yes. Panacea does not take personal requests. Everyone knows this. It's what keeps you from getting swarmed on the streets. It keeps this house from being picketed. And!"
The older women sighed and relaxed back into her chair. "… and it keeps you from having to chose who lives and who dies." Amy was stunned, Carol's words hitting unexpectedly.
She took the silence to keep going. "You were fourteen when you started healing. Too young for that kind of responsibility."
Amy felt small for a moment, like a child being scolded for something she didn't understand. Half angry, half thoughtful. "But we're heroes. We're meant to help everyone."
"No." Carol responded instantly. "We don't help everyone. We don't help villains. We put our efforts into helping the most deserving." I helped a gang member today, because he could pay. And a girl who couldn't pay was left blind.
"Is that why you denied treatment for Taylor Hebert?" Another accusation.
"This conversation is over."
*Bang* Amy slammed her hands down on the desk, leaping to her feet. "A fifteen year old girl was left blind! What's the justification for that!?"
Carol frowned and for a moment Amy thought she could see light coalesce around the women's fists. "When the incident happened, there was a lot of back and forth about who the guilty party was. It was better to stay out of it."
"And since then?"
"Since then, she's only proven that she's a villain by another name. She's caused havoc with the PRT, provoked tensions in the government, undermined the mayor, and has shamelessly profited instead of helping the public. She's surrounded herself with people with bad intentions, and shows no sign of stopping."
Carol was standing now, staring down at Amy. "The fact that you would support this girl is concerning." Her face was cold, implacable. The hero Brandish condemning the criminal. "You. Are. A hero. Hold yourself to a higher standard." Her gaze worked over Amy's tense form, searching for… something.
Amy ducked her head. She hated when Carol looked at her like that, like she was looking for weakness, like she was a witness on the stand, and Carol the Lawyer was about to tear her apart with words. Or like Brandish the Hero might strike her down with energy blades
"I understand."
"Good." Carol sat, returning to the papers on her desk. "This discussion is over, understand? You will go to the hospital. You will heal who you're told. No more talk about Zero Dawn or Taylor Hebert. She's caused enough problems for this family."
Amy left the office, a cold sweat breaking out across her skin. The energy that once filled her was gone, leaving her hollow. Exhausted she flopped onto her bed, her thoughts circling around everything that she learnt and said.
It was hours later that Vicky woke her up with a plate of food. Amy had missed dinner. With a quiet thank-you, she closed the door before her sister could say a word. Sitting on her bed, Amy ate. Thinking about the future.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(T-Minus 15 Days)
Amy clenched her hands.
This was stupid. There were a million reasons why this was stupid. She shouldn't be here, on the bus, heading deeper into the Docks area. She shouldn't be focusing on what that girl said. She should just be leaving everything alone.
She was stupid.
She unclenched her hands. She got off the bus.
The Docks were more of a concept to her than a real place. She would hear about them in news reports, often accompanied by words like "violence, murder, drug arrests" and other fun nouns. New Wave would discuss the Docks and reference police reports, patrol routes, and cape sightings or cape fights. Victoria would patrol the area and come back with stories of criminals that she swooped down on, the fights that she took part in, and the crimes she witnessed.
Walking along the cracked sidewalks, seeing the overgrown green spaces and boarded up windows on houses and shops… it made the Docks real to her. Amy could feel the abandonment, okay, maybe not. But she could certainly see it. And hear it. Walking through the city made one familiar to the noise. Cars going by, sirens in the distance, people moving around, conversation in the air. Very little of that existed out here.
Amy clenched her hands. This was stupid. She rubbed her hands against her pants; they kept sweating.
It hadn't taken a lot to find the address of Zero Dawn Technologies. The news and discussion forums were diving into anything the company was doing. But even without an exact address, Amy probably could have found it on her own. You could hear it in the distance. Trucks and cars moving around, the sound of tools on metal.
The place didn't look like much. A refurbished fence around refurbished buildings. Only the sign at the front shone with new paint.
Amy unclenched her hands.
She walked up to the gate guard, "My name is Amy Dallon. Panacea. I'd like to speak with Taylor Hebert."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was an awkward few minutes before she was let through security, being met by a harried employee who didn't introduce themselves. No attempt at small talk was made; Amy was grateful for the absence. Even if it meant she was stuck with only her thoughts for company; she had always been aggravated by 'light conversation'.
Amy clenched her hands.
Her mind was busy enough as it was, filled to the brim with how this conversation would go with the fiery inventor whose mere existence had caused so much chaos.
Amy wasn't supposed to be here. Carol made that absolutely clear. She was supposed to leave all of this alone. But I don't want to. I can't.
Amy unclenched her hands.
Amy clenched her hands.
The healer was told to wait in a quiet room off to the side in one of the buildings. Coffee maker, fridge, a few chairs. This was obviously a break room for the staff. Amy sat wishing she could have more coffee, but not wanting to impose on what would already be a complicated conversation.
She tried not to watch the door. She watched the clock.
Amy unclenched her hands.
The door opened and Amy looked up. Taylor stood frozen in the doorway. On her temple, a glowing triangle device projected a segmented circle in the air. Its slow rotation was the only movement in the room. Large black sunglasses covered everything around her eyes.
"Panacea. I'm formally letting you know that this conversation is being recorded. If you do not consent to be recorded, you are free to leave the premises. I'll have one of my employees show you the door."
"It's Amy. And yes, fine. Whatever you want."
Taylor marching over to the coffee machine. Amy watched the willowy brunette's back as she placed her glasses on the counter and began to expertly prepare a mug. It was hard to remember sometimes that this girl was blind given how adeptly she maneuvered around the world. Taylor spoke, her tone dry. "I have a lot of work to do, and not enough time to do it. What do you want Amy? I've already extended my apologies for my words towards your sister."
"I…" Amy pinched the long sleeves of her jacket. "I wanted to say sorry? I didn't know about you, in the hospital I mean. They didn't give your file to me." She looked down at the table, not wanting to see those blind eyes as Taylor turned around. "I didn't know"
Silence
"If you didn't know, then why are you apologizing? If you had no hand in things, then it's pointless to say 'sorry' on someone else's behalf."
Amy clenched her hands.
What was better… letting the matter go, or telling the truth? Amy didn't know. But she had failed. She didn't even know how many patients she had let down. But she could apologize to this one.
"There… there's a list. A charity list. The doctors had put you on it." Amy felt the disgust twist her insides. "You weren't approved." Every word felt like stones passing through her teeth. But I am a hero. I have to be better.
Her knuckles hurt. Nails dug into skin. Amy couldn't let go.
Steps walking towards her. The chair across the table pulled out, Taylor took a seat.
Amy waited for the shouts. Waited for the mug to bash her skull in. Waited for the cutting rage that she had seen once before at Arcadia.
I deserve it.
"And who does the approving?"
"Carol. My mother. I didn't know."
"Oh."
Silence. The hum of the lights. Sounds of breathing.
Amy peeked up. Taylor stared down down at the table. Her hand clasping her coffee mug with white knuckles. Her jaw clenched as she…
"I am just trying to fucking fix things!" Taylor seethed. Her voice wet, filled with the tears that she refused to shed.
Taylor breathed.
"So… you apologizing. That on her behalf? Or because 'you didn't know'."
"Just me." Amy understood the anger towards Carol. She felt it too. The anger at taking her own choices away. At making her an unwitting part of this mess.
Just a little, Amy unclenched her hands. The muscles strained, sore from tension.
"You said… before at Arcadia, you said you're going to change the world. What did you mean?"
Taylor's breathing slowed, and if she rubbed at her eyes, Amy pretended to not notice.
"This?" She tapped the triangle attached to her temple. "I have three versions ready for market. The money I make from selling them is all going back into the company, so I can build more things. Communication infrastructure. Computer components. Hell, I've got blueprints for a hologram system that is going to make movies a whole lot more interesting."
Amy giggled in frank amusement. "You are going to piss off so many people."
"That's the thing about changing the world. You can't always wait around asking for permission." The blind inventor took a pull from her coffee, scowling and muttering that it went cold.
Amy had an idea then. It was stupid. It was against everything that Carol had told her. But being brave is what heroes do. I ruined her life. Time to balance the scales.
"Can I… show you something?"
"Hmm?" Taylor tilted her head as Amy reached forward, plucking an apple from the bowl on the table.
It was so easy. She could feel the composition of everything that made the apple what it was. And she ordered it to change. The apple sagged as it collapsed in on itself, then from the resulting slurry a new shape emerged. A bulb formed, then the green shoot pushed itself up, broad leaves stretched out, and a vibrant pink bloom unfolded. In seconds, Amy help a tulip in her hands. It was… a rush. To see the material changing in her mind, to finally just… do something with her powers that wasn't healing the same systems again and again.
"You… you can." Taylor spoke in hushed tones, blind eyes fixed on Amy's hands. "Bio-manipulation. No, wait. Healing, touch based. You're a bio-kinetic."
Amy shrank down, preferring to look at the flower in her hands instead of the girl sitting across from her.
"And they have you healing in a hospital?!?" Amy didn't expect Taylor to be so aghast. She met Taylor's incredulous stare. Amy felt her cheeks flush, this wasn't going as she expected.
"It…there… it was safer?"
"Ha! Safer for who? For you or the world?"
"Both…"
"Ooohhh… Optics, right. The only thing New Wave cares about. Can't have the healer be a big scary bio-tinker. Jesus…"
Taylor seemed to see Amy properly for the first time. Her fingers twitched, and her eyes darted back and forth for a moment.
"I've deleted the records of this conversation. I know why you wanted to keep this hidden. I don't agree with it, I think it's the stupidest thing I've heard in a long while… but you want it hidden." She shrugged.
Something inside Amy uncoiled and she could breath a little easier.
"Why stupid?" Amy looked around, wondering what to do with the flower in her hands.
"Amy… you are the walking answer to world hunger. You can create crops to survive in any environment. You can develop vaccines and cures for things that thousands of people suffer from. You could break this whole medical industry over your knee and make sure that millions of people live better lives… and instead? You're patching up gangbangers in the ER."
Taylor continued, "you could be a real hero… to so many. A hero greater than your sister ever could be. A hero who'll change the world. Instead…" Taylor was blind. Amy knew this, but she felt the weight and disappointment in the younger woman's eyes. Hard to imagine that this girl was fifteen. She felt more a disappointed teacher.
Amy's cheeks flushed. She fumbled as she murmured. "You sound like you're trying to recruit me."
"Sure, if you want, I would hire you in a heartbeat. You're not even a tinker! Biology is biology. The building blocks are all the same. It's just a question of assembling as you want. Which you can do." Taylor shrugged. She stood, dumping the last of her cold coffee in the sink, then came back with the mug. Tentatively, she placed the flower in it, running her fingers over the shape of the petals. A rare smile spread across her face. "Tulips…"
"I…" Amy dusted her hands off. This was stupid. But it was her decision. And it felt good. "I might be willing."
Taylor blinked. A slow smile spread across her face. "Ok… I might have to temper expectations. I am too busy right now. The Endbringer window opens in fifteen days. After… well, after. Once my machines prove themselves, I'll have more freedom. If you're still interested then… we can make something happen."
Amy's stomach sank, thinking about the next time she would be on the battlefield with one of those beasts. Focusing on the possibilities of after was much more appealing. "If I bring something impressive, don't suppose you'll give me a sign on bonus?" She giggled, thinking on everything she could make.
Taylor leaned back, tilting her head up at the ceiling thoughtfully. "You've got more experience then me, what does a hospital always need more of?"
"The three B's. Beds, blood, and bandages." The long hours working with nurses and doctors had given Amy an insiders view of the hospital.
"There you go." Taylor shrugged. "Blood. Synthetic, or real, something to replace the constant demand for blood drives. For any patient regardless of blood type. Maybe loaded with anti-bodies or something to promote healing?"
"Hmm… I think I could make that work. I'll have to test it.." Her thoughts drifted and she smiled she imagined how to go about making it.
"Well. I look forward to seeing what you can do. I'm going back to work, I'll send someone to show you out." Taylor stood, and Amy leaped to her feet.
"Wait! Um…" Amy pulled what remained of her courage together. "Do… do you want me to heal you?"
Taylor breathing hitched. The healer held her position, hand stretched out. She didn't know what she was hoping to do with this. Fix her mistakes? Make up for things? But it felt like the right thing to do.
"No."
The words hit Amy like a fist to the gut. Oh course she wouldn't trust me. She's scared of me. Of what I can do. Even if our talk was fun, and she offered me a place here.
"No… I'm going to keep these scars. So that the girls who did this to me can see that they didn't stop me."
That was… so incredibly petty and brave at the same time. Left unsaid was that the scars would also remind Amy of her own blindness, of the times that she let others dictate her own actions. Amy dropped her hand. Maybe Taylor didn't mean it that way. But still, It was worth remembering.
"But… I appreciate the offer." Taylor stepped forward. She offered a handshake. Amy grasped for it, feeling foolish for dropping hers just a moment ago.
Biology unfurled before her mind's eye. Scarred cornea, damaged sclera, scarred conjunctiva. Discolouration of the skin across the face and neck. Elevated heart rate, high amounts of caffein in the system. Signs of stress and lack of sleep in the brain chemistry. Slightly underweight for body type. No sign of pain from injuries, nerves not damaged.
Amy kept an iron grip on her powers. She had limits.
The two girls shook. This felt like the start of something. Not a friendship, it was too soon for that, too much recent baggage. But Amy felt happy. It was rare she felt that way.
"Alright, I'll see you… after." After the next city was condemned. After Amy tried again to keep capes alive so they could return to fight a relentless being that they had no hope against. After the bodies had been counted, the memorials erected, and the tears shed.
"After."
With a final shake, Taylor walked out the door. Leaving the tulip sitting in a coffee mug, alone on the break room table.
An employee arrived moments later, and escorted Amy out of the building. Back in the evening air, she returned to the Docks. Out from the complex world of Taylor Hebert and all the conflicting feelings she brought with her.
Things weren't fixed. Not by a long shot. But Amy felt… lighter. Breathed easier. She had a plan, it was her's. And that felt good enough for now.
She breathed in.
Breathed out.
And unclenched her hands.
END
It's Always Sunny in Brockton Bay
AlSmash
Making the rounds.
- Joined
- May 26, 2018
- Messages
- 37
- Likes received
- 1,765
So, I realized that I haven't posted these sidestories that will play into the overarching story like Germination 2.7.5
This was done with the assistance of BigBadBen at Spacebattles.
Disclaimer: This takes place between T-18 and T-5 Days before the opening of Leviathan's attack window.
It's Always Sunny in Brockton Bay
Greg Vader was a loser. He knew that. The world knew that. His parents knew that. But if there was one source of comfort for him, it was being the hero in the MMO game Words of Lorgar.
He got to be something worthwhile as he saved the world. One quest at a time. Whether it was playing politics, building armies, or bringing peace through force to all of those who refused his generous offers, each action was a step to the fulfillment of that dream.
His trusty little computer was chugging along. He cleaned it at least once a month. Dusted it completely out, even. Made sure that the drivers were up to date. All in order to make sure that he could maximize the performance from it. He was hoping to save enough money for an upgrade soon though. She was old, and it lagged horribly when it did anything intensive like updating the world map.
Which, of course, was when disaster struck. He had just defeated the Ulamar Empire and annexed it, when the game had frozen for longer than was typical. Almost immediately thereafter it had been joined by the scent of burnt wires and a suddenly dead monitor. The power safety had tripped and saved most of his pc, but the damage had already been done.
He had cursed and cried at his misfortune. He had been planning an upgrade, but it was still months away from fruition.
Maybe it could be salvaged.
Xxxx
It had only taken a shake of the head by the computer repair tech who had immediately told him that any hope of saving his old PC was pointless. The man had been apologetic, but he told him he was better off just replacing the entire thing, as the repair costs would be more than the rig was worth.
When he had offered to sell what was left to the tech, the technician had laughed. He didn't need to say anything more as he knew that it had been a long shot, but he had hoped that maybe he could get something out of it.
So it was with a heavy heart that he took his old pc out of the shop and packed it back on his bike.
It was as he was pedaling home that he had an epiphany: Taylor was working at a technology firm, right? One that dealt with computers. Obviously she would help him if he asked nicely. They were good friends like that.
Xxxx
Sitting in her chair, staring at the innocuous-looking computer tower, she wished that she had blaster powers for just a moment. Because what she had encountered could not be unencountered.
Taking a deep breath, she then let it out, trying to cleanse the imagery of horrors that she had been subjected to, all the while cursing Greg Veder and his awkward social ineptitude.
She really shouldn't be doing any of this. But Dad had been adamant that she find a hobby, or something to destress on, because she was working herself to the bone on getting the Light Rescue Lance operational. When Greg had showed up at her door, looking like a kicked puppy and asking if she could help him with his computer, he had immediately suggested that as an idea.
She wondered exactly how he would react if he knew that she now knew what Greg Veder's fetishes were. It wasn't her fault, who in the literal fuck put a folder labeled PORN right on their desktop. She had thought it was a smokescreen for something far more dubious, considering the vibe that was Greg Veder, and had investigated.
Releasing a shudder at the horrors that resided within, she flicked the muscle in her eyes, activating a command in the Focus which brought up a menu.
Yeah, she wasn't even going to try and salvage this computer. Even if the parts were in supply, this computer was fucking obsolete back in 1999. It would be a cold day in hell before she sullied herself with such primitive trash.
For a moment, she considered handing it off to Sobek. This was the type of thing for machine learning, but then she discarded that. The last thing she needed was for Sobek to be exposed to such…filth at such a stage.
No, she would build Greg Veder a new computer, one that was her own make. And then she would wash her hands of the boy. He was a ghost of the past, and she was moving forward. If she ever met him again, especially after having been illuminated upon his tastes, it would be too damn soon.
Honestly, it wouldn't take much effort, a few custom parts, a little rework modifying existing internal pieces, and she could probably have it done over a couple of days. Sobek could handle the core programming and processes. Along with crafting the necessary peripherals.
"I'm really doing this," she muttered, before making a decision, getting to her feet she walked towards the tower, taking care to remove the jack that allowed her to access the damn thing in the first place and be exposed the horrors hidden inside, and then, with a thrown elbow, knocked it into the trash barrel beside the desk with a crash of plastic and metal.
"Oops."
Xxxx
Greg Veder stared at the PC sitting before him with awe, reaching up to rub his eyes again for what seemed like the hundredth time. Even as his eyes refocused, he was unable to believe what he was seeing before him.
He had believed that Taylor was just going to fix the computer, maybe give it a few upgraded parts. It would be a nice gesture from a friend, after all.
But he wasn't prepared for what sat before him.
It was a work of art. Bland black and grey was nowhere to be seen on the tower, instead it was encased in a sleek white metallic and glass shell. Through it glowed a pristine and soft blue and green lighting that seemed to pulse through the various internals like it was alive. It was currently connected to a flatscreen monitor that showed a desktop that was unfamiliar, yet familiar at the same time. Like an entirely modern version of the Windows Millenium Edition he had been stuck with.
It was…perfect.
"Wow, Taylor," he breathed, "this looks fucking awesome."
"I certainly hope so," was her terse reply, causing him to blink as alarm bells were going off in his head. The tone was something he had heard all too often, usually with his mother when she was exasperated with him for something stupid that he did. He would certainly never have expected it from Taylor Hebert of all people.
"What's wrong," he asked.
The slight twitch of her eye over her dark sunglasses was the only indication that he had hit a nerve. That weird device on the side of her head glowed slightly and gave her a slightly intimidating presence. But that was all secondary to what came out of her lips.
"A word to the wise, Greg. If you are going to have a porn stash, especially a three hundred megabyte stash insect girl and tentacle porn, maybe you should not put it in a folder on your desktop and label it as 'PORN'.
He couldn't help but both pale and blush at the same time, mentally cursing himself. Why the hell didn't he think about hiding that? It wasn't like his mother ever looked at his computer, so he never really thought about security for it. And the tech guy hadn't said anything to him about it.
He laughed nervously, "Oh. Sorry, Taylor. I'll remember to do that for the next time."
It was in his further unraveling nerves that he couldn't help what escaped his lips next.
"Uh..What did you think of it?"
Taylor's expression fell blank, reminding him of the feeling of when his computer usually suffered a fatal error. He couldn't help but laugh nervously as Taylor stood there frozen.
She then sighed before shaking her head and muttering something under her breath. He couldn't make it out, but he thought he heard bleach somewhere in there.
"I'll have your computer packaged up for you and you can be on your way in thirty minutes," she finally declared, turning around and starting to walk away, "Make sure that you go over all of the documentation before you start running the computer. And for god's sake, get some actual antivirus. Your computer was so old most of the viruses you had on it couldn't even perform their executables."
Xxxxx
Rubbing his hands, he watched as the computer powered up. He had gotten home this afternoon after his…exchange with Taylor. He certainly hoped that she would let his small mistake go after a while, but right now he wasn't going to bother her. The only thing that had stopped him from logging into Words of Lorgar, had been the insistence that he read all the documentation provided with his rig, and now, his destiny could no longer be denied.
Logging in, he noted how fast and smooth it seemed to run. None of that stuttering that had plagued his old computer, and the screaming of the fan as it tried to keep it from overheating as it ran the game. No, it was as quiet as a whisper, the only evidence that it was running was the lighting.
Hell, even the keyboard felt strange, none of that clicking that he was so used to. It felt so smooth, he was actually confused if he was even pushing on the keys because there was barely any resistance that he was so used to. Even the mouse peripheral felt alien in how right it felt, like it was molded just for him, and it seamlessly slid across the surface without making him have to lift it up and move it again.
He couldn't wait to rub all of this in FedoraWithAPlan's face. Call his rig a waste of carbon now, will she?! The reaction was going to be worth all of this!
Finishing the login procedure, his smile widened, as his eyes took in the concerned messages from 001SvEtA001, the fact that a girl was so concerned for him made him feel like a million dollars despite Taylor finding all of his porn. He quickly messaged her, telling her what happened and he was back, along with a sweet new rig.
"It's good to have you back, Greg! Want to do the Khepri's Wrath Raid?"
He didn't even hesitate saying yes, accepting the party invite and joining the queue for the raid, all the while excitedly telling her about the computer, to her excitement. It was like he had never left.
And as the countdown timer, he found himself at the entrance to the raid, several orcs barreling out of battlements, heralding the first wave of the Raid, and warming them up for the larger monsters lurking and readying up.
Letting out a laugh, he moved his character forward.
It was time to be The Hero once again and impress the girl.
This was done with the assistance of BigBadBen at Spacebattles.
Disclaimer: This takes place between T-18 and T-5 Days before the opening of Leviathan's attack window.
It's Always Sunny in Brockton Bay
Greg Vader was a loser. He knew that. The world knew that. His parents knew that. But if there was one source of comfort for him, it was being the hero in the MMO game Words of Lorgar.
He got to be something worthwhile as he saved the world. One quest at a time. Whether it was playing politics, building armies, or bringing peace through force to all of those who refused his generous offers, each action was a step to the fulfillment of that dream.
His trusty little computer was chugging along. He cleaned it at least once a month. Dusted it completely out, even. Made sure that the drivers were up to date. All in order to make sure that he could maximize the performance from it. He was hoping to save enough money for an upgrade soon though. She was old, and it lagged horribly when it did anything intensive like updating the world map.
Which, of course, was when disaster struck. He had just defeated the Ulamar Empire and annexed it, when the game had frozen for longer than was typical. Almost immediately thereafter it had been joined by the scent of burnt wires and a suddenly dead monitor. The power safety had tripped and saved most of his pc, but the damage had already been done.
He had cursed and cried at his misfortune. He had been planning an upgrade, but it was still months away from fruition.
Maybe it could be salvaged.
Xxxx
It had only taken a shake of the head by the computer repair tech who had immediately told him that any hope of saving his old PC was pointless. The man had been apologetic, but he told him he was better off just replacing the entire thing, as the repair costs would be more than the rig was worth.
When he had offered to sell what was left to the tech, the technician had laughed. He didn't need to say anything more as he knew that it had been a long shot, but he had hoped that maybe he could get something out of it.
So it was with a heavy heart that he took his old pc out of the shop and packed it back on his bike.
It was as he was pedaling home that he had an epiphany: Taylor was working at a technology firm, right? One that dealt with computers. Obviously she would help him if he asked nicely. They were good friends like that.
Xxxx
Sitting in her chair, staring at the innocuous-looking computer tower, she wished that she had blaster powers for just a moment. Because what she had encountered could not be unencountered.
Taking a deep breath, she then let it out, trying to cleanse the imagery of horrors that she had been subjected to, all the while cursing Greg Veder and his awkward social ineptitude.
She really shouldn't be doing any of this. But Dad had been adamant that she find a hobby, or something to destress on, because she was working herself to the bone on getting the Light Rescue Lance operational. When Greg had showed up at her door, looking like a kicked puppy and asking if she could help him with his computer, he had immediately suggested that as an idea.
She wondered exactly how he would react if he knew that she now knew what Greg Veder's fetishes were. It wasn't her fault, who in the literal fuck put a folder labeled PORN right on their desktop. She had thought it was a smokescreen for something far more dubious, considering the vibe that was Greg Veder, and had investigated.
Releasing a shudder at the horrors that resided within, she flicked the muscle in her eyes, activating a command in the Focus which brought up a menu.
Yeah, she wasn't even going to try and salvage this computer. Even if the parts were in supply, this computer was fucking obsolete back in 1999. It would be a cold day in hell before she sullied herself with such primitive trash.
For a moment, she considered handing it off to Sobek. This was the type of thing for machine learning, but then she discarded that. The last thing she needed was for Sobek to be exposed to such…filth at such a stage.
No, she would build Greg Veder a new computer, one that was her own make. And then she would wash her hands of the boy. He was a ghost of the past, and she was moving forward. If she ever met him again, especially after having been illuminated upon his tastes, it would be too damn soon.
Honestly, it wouldn't take much effort, a few custom parts, a little rework modifying existing internal pieces, and she could probably have it done over a couple of days. Sobek could handle the core programming and processes. Along with crafting the necessary peripherals.
"I'm really doing this," she muttered, before making a decision, getting to her feet she walked towards the tower, taking care to remove the jack that allowed her to access the damn thing in the first place and be exposed the horrors hidden inside, and then, with a thrown elbow, knocked it into the trash barrel beside the desk with a crash of plastic and metal.
"Oops."
Xxxx
Greg Veder stared at the PC sitting before him with awe, reaching up to rub his eyes again for what seemed like the hundredth time. Even as his eyes refocused, he was unable to believe what he was seeing before him.
He had believed that Taylor was just going to fix the computer, maybe give it a few upgraded parts. It would be a nice gesture from a friend, after all.
But he wasn't prepared for what sat before him.
It was a work of art. Bland black and grey was nowhere to be seen on the tower, instead it was encased in a sleek white metallic and glass shell. Through it glowed a pristine and soft blue and green lighting that seemed to pulse through the various internals like it was alive. It was currently connected to a flatscreen monitor that showed a desktop that was unfamiliar, yet familiar at the same time. Like an entirely modern version of the Windows Millenium Edition he had been stuck with.
It was…perfect.
"Wow, Taylor," he breathed, "this looks fucking awesome."
"I certainly hope so," was her terse reply, causing him to blink as alarm bells were going off in his head. The tone was something he had heard all too often, usually with his mother when she was exasperated with him for something stupid that he did. He would certainly never have expected it from Taylor Hebert of all people.
"What's wrong," he asked.
The slight twitch of her eye over her dark sunglasses was the only indication that he had hit a nerve. That weird device on the side of her head glowed slightly and gave her a slightly intimidating presence. But that was all secondary to what came out of her lips.
"A word to the wise, Greg. If you are going to have a porn stash, especially a three hundred megabyte stash insect girl and tentacle porn, maybe you should not put it in a folder on your desktop and label it as 'PORN'.
He couldn't help but both pale and blush at the same time, mentally cursing himself. Why the hell didn't he think about hiding that? It wasn't like his mother ever looked at his computer, so he never really thought about security for it. And the tech guy hadn't said anything to him about it.
He laughed nervously, "Oh. Sorry, Taylor. I'll remember to do that for the next time."
It was in his further unraveling nerves that he couldn't help what escaped his lips next.
"Uh..What did you think of it?"
Taylor's expression fell blank, reminding him of the feeling of when his computer usually suffered a fatal error. He couldn't help but laugh nervously as Taylor stood there frozen.
She then sighed before shaking her head and muttering something under her breath. He couldn't make it out, but he thought he heard bleach somewhere in there.
"I'll have your computer packaged up for you and you can be on your way in thirty minutes," she finally declared, turning around and starting to walk away, "Make sure that you go over all of the documentation before you start running the computer. And for god's sake, get some actual antivirus. Your computer was so old most of the viruses you had on it couldn't even perform their executables."
Xxxxx
Rubbing his hands, he watched as the computer powered up. He had gotten home this afternoon after his…exchange with Taylor. He certainly hoped that she would let his small mistake go after a while, but right now he wasn't going to bother her. The only thing that had stopped him from logging into Words of Lorgar, had been the insistence that he read all the documentation provided with his rig, and now, his destiny could no longer be denied.
Logging in, he noted how fast and smooth it seemed to run. None of that stuttering that had plagued his old computer, and the screaming of the fan as it tried to keep it from overheating as it ran the game. No, it was as quiet as a whisper, the only evidence that it was running was the lighting.
Hell, even the keyboard felt strange, none of that clicking that he was so used to. It felt so smooth, he was actually confused if he was even pushing on the keys because there was barely any resistance that he was so used to. Even the mouse peripheral felt alien in how right it felt, like it was molded just for him, and it seamlessly slid across the surface without making him have to lift it up and move it again.
He couldn't wait to rub all of this in FedoraWithAPlan's face. Call his rig a waste of carbon now, will she?! The reaction was going to be worth all of this!
Finishing the login procedure, his smile widened, as his eyes took in the concerned messages from 001SvEtA001, the fact that a girl was so concerned for him made him feel like a million dollars despite Taylor finding all of his porn. He quickly messaged her, telling her what happened and he was back, along with a sweet new rig.
"It's good to have you back, Greg! Want to do the Khepri's Wrath Raid?"
He didn't even hesitate saying yes, accepting the party invite and joining the queue for the raid, all the while excitedly telling her about the computer, to her excitement. It was like he had never left.
And as the countdown timer, he found himself at the entrance to the raid, several orcs barreling out of battlements, heralding the first wave of the Raid, and warming them up for the larger monsters lurking and readying up.
Letting out a laugh, he moved his character forward.
It was time to be The Hero once again and impress the girl.
It's Always Sunny in Brockton Bay 2
AlSmash
Making the rounds.
- Joined
- May 26, 2018
- Messages
- 37
- Likes received
- 1,765
It's Always Sunny in Brockton Bay, Part 2
Greg Veder hesitated for a brief moment. It was daunting what he was about to do, but he felt obligated to do it nonetheless. After all, he now had the tools, why shouldn't he try to be a hero for those who may be less fortunate than himself?
No, he was going to be the hero, it wasn't that hard. He just had to do it.
So he rechecked everything for the…fourth time? Or was it the fifth? Everything should be working properly, but he was still getting used to the computer and system that Taylor had built. There was so much that he'd never even seen before! But the programs were really easy to use, and even had tooltips and explanations for everything.
Which was honestly a good thing, because he had absolutely no idea how to build a website and would have made an idiot of himself otherwise.
Okay, no turning back now. If he dragged his feet any further he was liable to chicken out. Taking a deep breath, he steeled his nerves and started everything up. Immediately, an image of his screen appeared…on his screen. Was that right? He glanced at the advanced tooltips and nodded to himself. Yep, that was right. So if everything was running right, then everyone should be able to see what was in the box which means that…
Okay, everything was ready. All he needed to do was drop the necessary links into PHO under his handle in a new thread. What should the thread be titled? Dammit, he was never good with names and titles, even his handle had been something he got from a Google name generator. Okay, he got it, quickly, he typed it in.
Charity Drive for Boston Livestream. Yeah, that's a good name. Short, sweet, and to the point. Not like anyone could get the wrong idea from it!
"Hey everyone," he faltered, looking for the right words, "Uh, as you might now, I'm VoidCowboy. Hi," he awkwardly waved, before he glanced at the feed, and felt a spike of panic that someone was already watching, "And I thought, well, since that…well, we all know that Leviathan hit Boston, right? That's what everyone is saying, but no one has any idea of what's going on. So, I guess, well, I'm doing this to raise money and try to keep everyone up to date with the news. If you click the link, you can donate to the Red Cross. Or something else, if you guys have a suggestion. I don't know, it's really up to you."
His eyes darted to the feed, noting that the camera was slightly off kilter with a frown and reached over to adjust it.
DING!
He nearly jumped at the chime, his head snapping back to the feed, letting him know that he had a message.
"Hey GGirl. I just…I'm not a hero, it's not like I can just go out there and do something. But! I can help raise money and keep people informed. I just…feel like I need to do something, y'know? Lot of people less fortunate than me right now," he rubbed the back of his head. "So yeah, I'm just going to stream a bit, chat with people if they want to chat, and if not, well, we're going to play some games. Have some fun. That kinda stuff."
He then went back to his computer, clicking over a few things. He needed to play a game. Nothing too violent, that'd be in poor taste, but has to be somewhat recognizable. No. No. Maybe? No. He then paused, staring at the title for a few moments. Okay, this should work. He then hit the launcher and prepared to wait, trying to find things to keep…
He blinked, not quite believing what he was saying? Thirty people? What the hell? And the ticker kept going up!
"So yeah," he quickly recovered, even as his nerves made him want to scream in terror and end the stream, "We're going to start with something I won't make a complete fool of myself," he chuckled, "It's been a couple of years since I played Starcraft. But I'm pretty sure I still got it," he declared, but before he was going to say anything more the launch music interrupted him.
He nervously chuckled, running his hand through his hair, "Sorry about that. I just got a new PC! Or rather, a friend of mine helped to build it. She's really cool! I'm actually still getting used to it."
"Hey man, it's not like that. She's just really good at what she does," he clicked through the menus, deciding that before he was going to jump into multiplayer he was going to do a skirmish or two to refresh his knowledge.
"Okay, I'm gonna do a couple of skirmishes to warm up, then we'll see if we can get some multiplayer matches going," he then selected his race, and loaded up the game.
Things were surprisingly going well. He actually had gotten through a pair of skirmish games against the bots and then jumped into multiplayer. His first game against a person actually went rather well, he was able to execute a Dark Zealot rush on a Terran adversary who was in the process of expanding.
All the while, he was chatting with a few people and they had even raised a little money. Eighty dollars, which was honestly amazing. Maybe a few more games and he'd look into something else?
"Well, as you probably have all likely figured out, I live in Brockton Bay. So we've got the Empire. Well, officially, they call themselves the 'Empire Eighty-Eight', but no one bothers using their full name. They…don't like most people? Or they only like some people," for the first time, he found himself having to be careful what he said. He would rather not have the Empire visit him.
He didn't even hesitate, as he stopped what he was doing in game, having launched a counterattack at a Zerg secondary base. He navigated through the menus and banned 'TimeSlice', "Sorry buddy, this is a charity stream. You have to keep it civil."
"Yeah yeah, laugh it up… umm," he bit his lip as he found himself driven back. That wasn't good, but it wasn't dire yet. He'd have to switch up his strategies. Now should he go Corsair/Dark Achon or Corsair/Carrier. There were a few other strategies, but he needed to know what his opponent was doing before he committed. Maybe playing Starcraft wasn't the greatest idea if he wanted to talk, "So we've got them. We've got the ABB, which are the Azn Bad Boyz, don't ask me why they use the letter z in their name. They're led by Lung, who can turn into this badass dragon if you piss him off. But yeah…they are kinda like the Empire in that they don't like anyone who isn't like them. So most people keep their distance."
Finally, he was able to get an advantage, and shortly thereafter was able to get the other player to resign. Yeah, he was going to put this one down and try to find a different game. Wasn't fair to his viewers that he wasn't giving them his undivided attention. This was about Boston, not himself anyways.
Closing Starcraft, he began browning again, at the same time, he brought up another window. It was honestly how smooth the computer was running. Holy crap! They'd just passed $238 in raised funds. Awesome!
"There's the Archer Bay Bridge Merchants," he continued, looking through his library, "but they're all druggies and drug dealers, so anyone with a brain cell avoids them like the plague. Then there's a few independent capes who do their own thing. Parian's kinda cool. She does these really cool puppet shows on the weekend down on the Boardwalk and she does custom clothes orders! We've also got hero teams like New Wave who have been active since the days of the Teeth. Their kids are doing most of the heavy lifting nowadays."
"Hey Gstring," he called out, making a decision on the next game to play. There would be enough there to stream, but also allow him to split his attention, "want to party up do some mats farming?"
"Cool," he clicked on Galaxy of Fantasy, letting it load up as he glanced over the chat again, seeing people go back and forth about news from Boston. No one seemed to know what was going on. Maybe he could do something about it.
"Okay, I can see a lot of you are looking for news from Boston, so let me pull up what I can," minimizing the game as it got to the title screen, he brought up the web search function and frowned. Most of the news sites were in the dark, repeating the same information that it was confirmed Boston was Leviathan's target. But other than that? Nothing.
He then blinked as the advisor pushed a suggestion onto his screen. That was certainly new. He must have said it aloud, because the chat lit up, several messages flashing across the screen, even as the advisor seemed to suggest more things, which he numbly entered in the terms it suggested, 'Boston', 'Endbringer', 'Reports'. He then used a dropdown menu and set the search functions to only use the 'latest sources' that were 'reputable'."
"Hey! Like I said, I'm still getting used to it. My old system croaked, like complete hardware failure and everything. The guy at the shop took one look at it and started laughing. But my friend, Taylor? She's like…a wizard with these things. Like a super secret genius. Maybe she's a…nope, not gonna finish that, I don't need to get banned again."
"Hah hah. No, seriously guys, it's me, I just don't want to ruin this by getting shut down. So cut me a bit of slack. K?"
While he was thankful for the quick shift in subject, he wasn't exactly looking for these type of questions, but he guessed it wouldn't hurt.
"Hold on. Let me see if I can pull up the system details. I just got this like a week ago, so cut me some slack," he clicked through the systems menu, resorting to the help function that was actually really helpful.
"Here you go."
"Look, I only got a new computer, not a monitor. I really didn't want to push the person who was nice enough to give me a new computer. I had to find some adapters to connect the two, but it works well enough."
Greg did so. It was kind of awkward, just sitting there while a bunch of people looked through his screen.
What? No. Absolutely not! To both things!
"No way," he shook his head, ignoring that last part pointedly "Nope. Not happening. Taylor is amazing, guys, but she's way out of my league. Like, she has started her own company. Some technology thing, computers and stuff. I don't know. There isn't much available if you go looking online. They don't even have a website. Anyhow, Taylor's company is called Zero Dawn Technologies. She set up her factory-warehouse thing near the docks here in the Bay."
It seemed like it was not enough for the chat, because the messages, and the viewers - over seven hundred now! - were dropping messages about Taylor and how it was obvious she had a thing for him if she did all of that, when an alert rang on his computer.
Ripping his attention from the chat and trying to deny what was definitely not true, he stared at the bouncing icon on his desktop, thankful for the distraction.
"Hey, NewsWatch seems to have something," he clicked it, and a video opened from a government site. The guy on the screen looked familiar and the background had flags and stuff. So it looked official at least.
"My fellow Americans. A few moments ago, I spoke with rescue workers in Boston and they have confirmed what we have all feared. Boston has been attacked by Leviathan. The damage is significant, and the defenders, while victorious in driving the beast away, have suffered casualties."
"It is now confirmed that we have lost Governor Johnson, along with a majority of the leadership in Boston. The full extent of our loss will only be revealed in the days to come. But we must stand strong. Even as I speak to you now, rescue workers are hard at work and the full might of the country is mobilizing to offer aid."
"To organize and ensure the success of this relief effort, I have had to make certain actions that no previous President has had cause to use. As of 4:23pm this afternoon, in absence of any legally recognized leadership the State of Massachusetts has been placed under a state of Martial Law. This will remain in effect for 120 days, with an election being held in 90 days to restore proper civilian control to the state."
"My thoughts and prayers go out to all of those affected by these events, and I call upon everyone who can to contribute what they can as we work to rebuild what has been taken from us. God be with you, and God Bless America. Goodnight."
He slumped back in his chair, stunned by the announcement, even as the chat section of his livestream descended into anarchy. He couldn't possibly hope to control things and now even more people were joining! He was now more certain than ever that Boston needed help. And he would do his part.
Collecting himself, he got to work trying to organize things, silently wondering if Taylor was going to get involved. She was good at fixing things.
Xxxxxx
He woke with a start, blinking at the sudden intrusion of light on his face. Blearily, he reached up to his mouth to cover a yawn that escaped as his mind slowly grappled with the transition from unconscious to conscious.
And as it did so, things clicked together and he shot out of his bed.
Shit, he had overslept!
Scrambling to find some clothes, he quickly slipped them on, even as he hobbled over his computer. He hadn't even turned it off before he had turned in, so tired he had been from staying up most of the night answering questions and just chatting with people. They had actually pulled in almost 2200 dollars for charity, to his shock.
Stumbling into his chair, the thing creaking from the sudden weight placed upon it, he found himself first glancing at the clock, which told him it was two in the afternoon. Then his attention was drawn to the notifications bar.
What the hell, he stared numbly at the nearly four hundred notifications from Newswatch.
The advisor made a suggestion, and he followed it, grouping the notifications by category. And he found himself once again staring at one of the groups, not quite grasping what he was reading. He didn't even realize what he was doing before he clicked on it.
Immediately, he was bombarded with images of machines, some of them grainy, the others clear as day. They were varied, yet all seemed to have an animal theme, but that wasn't what drew his attention, even though the geek part of him was freaking out at the imagery.
No, what drew his attention was the emblem on the side of one of them, one that he was intimately familiar with. He went through other photos, seeing them now on not just that one machine, but on all of the others. It was unmistakable, after all, it was the same emblem that he saw every morning when he looked at his computer.
A blue flower with nine petals that spun outward from the center.
It was hard for him to process just the idea that Taylor, mousey Taylor Hebert from Winslow, was somehow involved in these machines. Yet the evidence was right in his face, in all of its imaged glory.
A part of him didn't know how to react. Surprise? Shock? He didn't even know what he was supposed to even feel. It wasn't like they were friends, why would she share something like that with him?
Yet, funnily enough, he found that he didn't care, because it was a source of inspiration. If Taylor was involved, then she was trying to fix things. He couldn't do anything else himself.
Reaching over, he opened up his streaming program again, took a deep breath, because fuck it, he was going to do what that one Aleph broadcaster did, and do it live.
And he hit the stream button.
Or he would have… if he didn't decide that food, and a shower were needed first. Heroes should try to look respectable. Maybe he should clean his room?
Greg Veder hesitated for a brief moment. It was daunting what he was about to do, but he felt obligated to do it nonetheless. After all, he now had the tools, why shouldn't he try to be a hero for those who may be less fortunate than himself?
No, he was going to be the hero, it wasn't that hard. He just had to do it.
So he rechecked everything for the…fourth time? Or was it the fifth? Everything should be working properly, but he was still getting used to the computer and system that Taylor had built. There was so much that he'd never even seen before! But the programs were really easy to use, and even had tooltips and explanations for everything.
Which was honestly a good thing, because he had absolutely no idea how to build a website and would have made an idiot of himself otherwise.
Okay, no turning back now. If he dragged his feet any further he was liable to chicken out. Taking a deep breath, he steeled his nerves and started everything up. Immediately, an image of his screen appeared…on his screen. Was that right? He glanced at the advanced tooltips and nodded to himself. Yep, that was right. So if everything was running right, then everyone should be able to see what was in the box which means that…
Okay, everything was ready. All he needed to do was drop the necessary links into PHO under his handle in a new thread. What should the thread be titled? Dammit, he was never good with names and titles, even his handle had been something he got from a Google name generator. Okay, he got it, quickly, he typed it in.
Charity Drive for Boston Livestream. Yeah, that's a good name. Short, sweet, and to the point. Not like anyone could get the wrong idea from it!
"Hey everyone," he faltered, looking for the right words, "Uh, as you might now, I'm VoidCowboy. Hi," he awkwardly waved, before he glanced at the feed, and felt a spike of panic that someone was already watching, "And I thought, well, since that…well, we all know that Leviathan hit Boston, right? That's what everyone is saying, but no one has any idea of what's going on. So, I guess, well, I'm doing this to raise money and try to keep everyone up to date with the news. If you click the link, you can donate to the Red Cross. Or something else, if you guys have a suggestion. I don't know, it's really up to you."
His eyes darted to the feed, noting that the camera was slightly off kilter with a frown and reached over to adjust it.
DING!
He nearly jumped at the chime, his head snapping back to the feed, letting him know that he had a message.
GStringGirl: Hey Void! What made you think of doing this?
"Hey GGirl. I just…I'm not a hero, it's not like I can just go out there and do something. But! I can help raise money and keep people informed. I just…feel like I need to do something, y'know? Lot of people less fortunate than me right now," he rubbed the back of his head. "So yeah, I'm just going to stream a bit, chat with people if they want to chat, and if not, well, we're going to play some games. Have some fun. That kinda stuff."
He then went back to his computer, clicking over a few things. He needed to play a game. Nothing too violent, that'd be in poor taste, but has to be somewhat recognizable. No. No. Maybe? No. He then paused, staring at the title for a few moments. Okay, this should work. He then hit the launcher and prepared to wait, trying to find things to keep…
He blinked, not quite believing what he was saying? Thirty people? What the hell? And the ticker kept going up!
"So yeah," he quickly recovered, even as his nerves made him want to scream in terror and end the stream, "We're going to start with something I won't make a complete fool of myself," he chuckled, "It's been a couple of years since I played Starcraft. But I'm pretty sure I still got it," he declared, but before he was going to say anything more the launch music interrupted him.
GStringGirl: Wow, that was fast!
He nervously chuckled, running his hand through his hair, "Sorry about that. I just got a new PC! Or rather, a friend of mine helped to build it. She's really cool! I'm actually still getting used to it."
Lostinthesause: Awww, Void's got a crush!
brainlessmarcelina: If someone built a new PC for me, I'd have a crush too!
brainlessmarcelina: If someone built a new PC for me, I'd have a crush too!
"Hey man, it's not like that. She's just really good at what she does," he clicked through the menus, deciding that before he was going to jump into multiplayer he was going to do a skirmish or two to refresh his knowledge.
"Okay, I'm gonna do a couple of skirmishes to warm up, then we'll see if we can get some multiplayer matches going," he then selected his race, and loaded up the game.
Bagrat: Of course you're a Protoss player! That explains a lot.
*****
Things were surprisingly going well. He actually had gotten through a pair of skirmish games against the bots and then jumped into multiplayer. His first game against a person actually went rather well, he was able to execute a Dark Zealot rush on a Terran adversary who was in the process of expanding.
All the while, he was chatting with a few people and they had even raised a little money. Eighty dollars, which was honestly amazing. Maybe a few more games and he'd look into something else?
GStringGirl: Hey Void, so what's it like where you live?
"Well, as you probably have all likely figured out, I live in Brockton Bay. So we've got the Empire. Well, officially, they call themselves the 'Empire Eighty-Eight', but no one bothers using their full name. They…don't like most people? Or they only like some people," for the first time, he found himself having to be careful what he said. He would rather not have the Empire visit him.
rewardward:You can say it, Void. They're a bunch of racist white folks
TimeSlice: **** you, race traitor. They are doing what all proper Americans should be doing! If you want to shack up with those ****** who pollute our streets and...
TimeSlice: **** you, race traitor. They are doing what all proper Americans should be doing! If you want to shack up with those ****** who pollute our streets and...
He didn't even hesitate, as he stopped what he was doing in game, having launched a counterattack at a Zerg secondary base. He navigated through the menus and banned 'TimeSlice', "Sorry buddy, this is a charity stream. You have to keep it civil."
GrinningGoblin: Damn… VoidCowboy just banned someone!
IThoughtWhatIdDo: What is the world coming that Void now wields the banhammer? Human Sacrifice! Dogs and cats living together! Mass Hysteria!
DoSheepHaveSouls: How the turntables have turned!
SlyDart: They grow up so fast ;(
WhensMahvel: When's Mahvel?
IThoughtWhatIdDo: What is the world coming that Void now wields the banhammer? Human Sacrifice! Dogs and cats living together! Mass Hysteria!
DoSheepHaveSouls: How the turntables have turned!
SlyDart: They grow up so fast ;(
WhensMahvel: When's Mahvel?
"Yeah yeah, laugh it up… umm," he bit his lip as he found himself driven back. That wasn't good, but it wasn't dire yet. He'd have to switch up his strategies. Now should he go Corsair/Dark Achon or Corsair/Carrier. There were a few other strategies, but he needed to know what his opponent was doing before he committed. Maybe playing Starcraft wasn't the greatest idea if he wanted to talk, "So we've got them. We've got the ABB, which are the Azn Bad Boyz, don't ask me why they use the letter z in their name. They're led by Lung, who can turn into this badass dragon if you piss him off. But yeah…they are kinda like the Empire in that they don't like anyone who isn't like them. So most people keep their distance."
Finally, he was able to get an advantage, and shortly thereafter was able to get the other player to resign. Yeah, he was going to put this one down and try to find a different game. Wasn't fair to his viewers that he wasn't giving them his undivided attention. This was about Boston, not himself anyways.
Closing Starcraft, he began browning again, at the same time, he brought up another window. It was honestly how smooth the computer was running. Holy crap! They'd just passed $238 in raised funds. Awesome!
"There's the Archer Bay Bridge Merchants," he continued, looking through his library, "but they're all druggies and drug dealers, so anyone with a brain cell avoids them like the plague. Then there's a few independent capes who do their own thing. Parian's kinda cool. She does these really cool puppet shows on the weekend down on the Boardwalk and she does custom clothes orders! We've also got hero teams like New Wave who have been active since the days of the Teeth. Their kids are doing most of the heavy lifting nowadays."
"Hey Gstring," he called out, making a decision on the next game to play. There would be enough there to stream, but also allow him to split his attention, "want to party up do some mats farming?"
GStringGirl: Sure! Give me a few.
"Cool," he clicked on Galaxy of Fantasy, letting it load up as he glanced over the chat again, seeing people go back and forth about news from Boston. No one seemed to know what was going on. Maybe he could do something about it.
"Okay, I can see a lot of you are looking for news from Boston, so let me pull up what I can," minimizing the game as it got to the title screen, he brought up the web search function and frowned. Most of the news sites were in the dark, repeating the same information that it was confirmed Boston was Leviathan's target. But other than that? Nothing.
He then blinked as the advisor pushed a suggestion onto his screen. That was certainly new. He must have said it aloud, because the chat lit up, several messages flashing across the screen, even as the advisor seemed to suggest more things, which he numbly entered in the terms it suggested, 'Boston', 'Endbringer', 'Reports'. He then used a dropdown menu and set the search functions to only use the 'latest sources' that were 'reputable'."
HootingJoy: How do you not know your own system?!?
"Hey! Like I said, I'm still getting used to it. My old system croaked, like complete hardware failure and everything. The guy at the shop took one look at it and started laughing. But my friend, Taylor? She's like…a wizard with these things. Like a super secret genius. Maybe she's a…nope, not gonna finish that, I don't need to get banned again."
WormsInTheShop: *Gasp* IT HAS PATTERN RECOGNITION
AlltheDakka: Okay, Stranger Alert. Who are you and what have you done with the real Void?!
AlltheDakka: Okay, Stranger Alert. Who are you and what have you done with the real Void?!
"Hah hah. No, seriously guys, it's me, I just don't want to ruin this by getting shut down. So cut me a bit of slack. K?"
JovianFirefly: So she built you a new one?! Damn, that's a good friend.
brainlessmarcelina: Cowboy said it before, but he never told us what's in it.
brainlessmarcelina: Cowboy said it before, but he never told us what's in it.
While he was thankful for the quick shift in subject, he wasn't exactly looking for these type of questions, but he guessed it wouldn't hurt.
"Hold on. Let me see if I can pull up the system details. I just got this like a week ago, so cut me some slack," he clicked through the systems menu, resorting to the help function that was actually really helpful.
"Here you go."
HairPlot: Holy **** Cowboy. That's some nice specs! I mean, RAM, Storage, graphics. Why does it look like sh*& on your monitor?
"Look, I only got a new computer, not a monitor. I really didn't want to push the person who was nice enough to give me a new computer. I had to find some adapters to connect the two, but it works well enough."
WindowsisaLie: Hey Void, can you pull up the details of your OS for a second?
Greg did so. It was kind of awkward, just sitting there while a bunch of people looked through his screen.
WindowsisaLie: Okay, so this is really strange. I work for a software company, and the OS you are using? SBKLite. It doesn't exist. Anywhere. I've never even heard of it and I like to think I'm in the know. So it seems like your girl really likes you, because she not only made you the hardware, but she threw in a new operating system…from scratch.
FedoraWithAPlan: Never thought I'd see the day when Void of all people would ever get a girl to do something nice for him...Wonder if your girl will do a custom computer for me?
FedoraWithAPlan: Never thought I'd see the day when Void of all people would ever get a girl to do something nice for him...Wonder if your girl will do a custom computer for me?
What? No. Absolutely not! To both things!
"No way," he shook his head, ignoring that last part pointedly "Nope. Not happening. Taylor is amazing, guys, but she's way out of my league. Like, she has started her own company. Some technology thing, computers and stuff. I don't know. There isn't much available if you go looking online. They don't even have a website. Anyhow, Taylor's company is called Zero Dawn Technologies. She set up her factory-warehouse thing near the docks here in the Bay."
It seemed like it was not enough for the chat, because the messages, and the viewers - over seven hundred now! - were dropping messages about Taylor and how it was obvious she had a thing for him if she did all of that, when an alert rang on his computer.
Ripping his attention from the chat and trying to deny what was definitely not true, he stared at the bouncing icon on his desktop, thankful for the distraction.
"Hey, NewsWatch seems to have something," he clicked it, and a video opened from a government site. The guy on the screen looked familiar and the background had flags and stuff. So it looked official at least.
"My fellow Americans. A few moments ago, I spoke with rescue workers in Boston and they have confirmed what we have all feared. Boston has been attacked by Leviathan. The damage is significant, and the defenders, while victorious in driving the beast away, have suffered casualties."
"It is now confirmed that we have lost Governor Johnson, along with a majority of the leadership in Boston. The full extent of our loss will only be revealed in the days to come. But we must stand strong. Even as I speak to you now, rescue workers are hard at work and the full might of the country is mobilizing to offer aid."
"To organize and ensure the success of this relief effort, I have had to make certain actions that no previous President has had cause to use. As of 4:23pm this afternoon, in absence of any legally recognized leadership the State of Massachusetts has been placed under a state of Martial Law. This will remain in effect for 120 days, with an election being held in 90 days to restore proper civilian control to the state."
"My thoughts and prayers go out to all of those affected by these events, and I call upon everyone who can to contribute what they can as we work to rebuild what has been taken from us. God be with you, and God Bless America. Goodnight."
He slumped back in his chair, stunned by the announcement, even as the chat section of his livestream descended into anarchy. He couldn't possibly hope to control things and now even more people were joining! He was now more certain than ever that Boston needed help. And he would do his part.
Collecting himself, he got to work trying to organize things, silently wondering if Taylor was going to get involved. She was good at fixing things.
Xxxxxx
He woke with a start, blinking at the sudden intrusion of light on his face. Blearily, he reached up to his mouth to cover a yawn that escaped as his mind slowly grappled with the transition from unconscious to conscious.
And as it did so, things clicked together and he shot out of his bed.
Shit, he had overslept!
Scrambling to find some clothes, he quickly slipped them on, even as he hobbled over his computer. He hadn't even turned it off before he had turned in, so tired he had been from staying up most of the night answering questions and just chatting with people. They had actually pulled in almost 2200 dollars for charity, to his shock.
Stumbling into his chair, the thing creaking from the sudden weight placed upon it, he found himself first glancing at the clock, which told him it was two in the afternoon. Then his attention was drawn to the notifications bar.
What the hell, he stared numbly at the nearly four hundred notifications from Newswatch.
The advisor made a suggestion, and he followed it, grouping the notifications by category. And he found himself once again staring at one of the groups, not quite grasping what he was reading. He didn't even realize what he was doing before he clicked on it.
Immediately, he was bombarded with images of machines, some of them grainy, the others clear as day. They were varied, yet all seemed to have an animal theme, but that wasn't what drew his attention, even though the geek part of him was freaking out at the imagery.
No, what drew his attention was the emblem on the side of one of them, one that he was intimately familiar with. He went through other photos, seeing them now on not just that one machine, but on all of the others. It was unmistakable, after all, it was the same emblem that he saw every morning when he looked at his computer.
A blue flower with nine petals that spun outward from the center.
It was hard for him to process just the idea that Taylor, mousey Taylor Hebert from Winslow, was somehow involved in these machines. Yet the evidence was right in his face, in all of its imaged glory.
A part of him didn't know how to react. Surprise? Shock? He didn't even know what he was supposed to even feel. It wasn't like they were friends, why would she share something like that with him?
Yet, funnily enough, he found that he didn't care, because it was a source of inspiration. If Taylor was involved, then she was trying to fix things. He couldn't do anything else himself.
Reaching over, he opened up his streaming program again, took a deep breath, because fuck it, he was going to do what that one Aleph broadcaster did, and do it live.
And he hit the stream button.
Or he would have… if he didn't decide that food, and a shower were needed first. Heroes should try to look respectable. Maybe he should clean his room?
Last edited:
Glenn Chamber's No Good, Very Bad Day
AlSmash
Making the rounds.
- Joined
- May 26, 2018
- Messages
- 37
- Likes received
- 1,765
This started as an idea from BigBadBen over on SB/SV, and kinda gained a life of its own.
Special thanks to BigBadBen and Tigers-Tall-Tails.
Glenn Chamber's No Good, Very Bad Day
Daniel South was a young man with a stressful job. Everyone knew it, even if he tried to downplay it, you would have to live under a rock not to see it. When he had first applied, he had great hopes for things. An introductory position inside the Parahuman Response Team. Secretary work. Just some light work to get his foot in the door, then he could move on to better things.
Unfortunately, better things didn't come. Because Daniel was too good at his job. He managed his boss' calender with precision and cultivated connections inside and outside the office. So that whatever his boss needed, he could provide. He just…couldn't leave now. First, because he was getting a generous salary, benefits, and so on. Second…it was because his boss had made sure that no one else would take him. Which was…flattering. Sort of. It felt good to be needed and rewarded for your hard work! But, there were times when he wondered…
He flinched as he heard more shouting and the slam of something heavy through the door. Glass broke and he made a note to ask maintenance to…have someone ready. Another roar of frustration echoed from his boss' office and something else broke. Daniel's coworkers gave him pitying glances. His boss wasn't a violent man, he never yelled at his employees. But he was a passionate and energetic man, and when he did feel the need to unleash that energy…in a less constructive way…he would barricade himself in his office. And since it was now a full week since Boston was hit by Leviathan… everyone was frayed and stressed.
The sound of something crashing to the floor made him sigh, as he brought up his contacts list for the interior decorators. It looked like it was going to be one of those events.
Yes…sometimes, all the pay and benefits in the world didn't make up for being Glenn Chamber's secretary.
Glenn Chambers
Glenn Chambers liked to fancy himself a calm and reasonable man. After all, it took the patience and serenity of a saint in order to be the PRT's Head of Imaging. He was regularly handling difficult people, troublesome situations, and potential scandals. Despite the image that he and his colleagues worked tirelessly to present, parahumans were broken people. Heroes. Villains. It didn't matter. They were all twisted to some degree. His job was to smooth out those twists. Make the people who can shoot laser beams from their fingers seem approachable. So that you can feel comfortable shaking their hand and not think about the possibility of getting your arm blown off because the cape twitched wrong.
Of course, he didn't work in a vacuum. The PRT was the largest law enforcement department in the country and that came with opportunity! Glenn Chambers and his team were responsible for merchandising the personas that were crafted for the Capes that made up the Protectorate. After all, it's hard to be afraid of a woman who can bend steel with her fingers if every girl is playing with a dress-up doll of Alexandria. And furthermore…
There was a timid knock at the door and it opened after a minute; Daniel, his ever wonderful assistant walked in with a towel and a cold bottle of water.
"Daniel, my boy, you're a saint," he said, taking the offered bottle.
"Is…there anything I can do?"
He sighed, leaning back in his very comfortable chair and loosening his collar and tie, "I'd like a time machine and a shotgun so I can shoot every department head in the ENE branch."
"...I'll see if Toybox has anything available, sir."
Glenn snorted, unscrewing the bottle's cap and taking a swig of the lovely cold water. This is why Daniel's salary was almost as large as his own. It was also why he would ruin the career of anyone who tried to poach the boy. The young man was a saint with a promising future. He never said no, he always said, 'I'll look into it.' Truly, those monkeys they put in front of microphones could learn a thing or two from him.
Placing the bottle down, he reached over and pulled his keyboard in front of him. With an aggressive stab, he brought his monitor to life then transferred everything over to his big screen. The projector pushed images against the wall, filling his office with light. Sometimes, you just need to look at something in large sizes. Dozens of video clips, photos, and news segments filled the screen as Daniel started tidying. He would admit, quietly of course, that he may have gone overboard. But that bookcase was more for aesthetics anyways, that vase was so last season, and that painting...okay, he did regret that painting. He'd have to find the artist again.
He sighed, "My boy, what do you see when you look at all of this?" He waved one meaty finger at the wall.
Daniel paused in his efforts and looked, "In terms of the actual? Or meaning?
Yes…Daniel was special alright. If only he could have a department of Daniels. Maybe…no, he probably couldn't get Blasto to make clones. Too bad.
"Both."
The young man hummed, tilting his head, "Zero Dawn robots. The media coverage of them. As to the meaning? Hope. Reconstruction? A different perspective?"
Daniel looked to him for approval on his guesses. A small habit that he was trying to break the younger man of. Better to be confident and defend your position.
"I look at it and see a massive money waterfall that we are never going to see!"
His mouth going to dry again, he polished off the water. Sighing, he dropped it into the bin. Even if he was angry and frustrated, you don't kick the bin. It's just not done.
"The PRT and Protectorate are, at their core, law enforcement agencies. We don't have the manpower or resources to devote effort to reconstruction. Capes get in, fight the bad guy, then leave. But that's not what 'heroes' do. The collective consciousness of the nation has internalized this notion of heroes from comic books. So we play into that. We teach our capes how to stand, how to fight, how to talk like the idealized image that people hold in their head."
He stabbed another button. Various pieces of promotional material scrolled by. He could name them all, having worked or approved them. That was the Legend image from 2001. The Triumvirate image from Time Magazine August 1998. Chevalier news pieces 2003.
"Then, along comes this girl who breaks the norm. She's a parahuman, but not a cape. She behaves as a hero, but doesn't 'act' like a hero. Even if she isn't in the scene personally, people know that those machines are hers. So the actions of the machines become her actions. And her machines are where our capes aren't! They're in the rubble, in the aftermath, long after our capes have gone back to their cities."
"And the public loves it! Which means the news agencies love it! Because everyone loves the nail that sticks out. The tree with different colors stands out in the forest and all that. Do you know I was actually told 'no' by the various news agencies when I tried to get the memorials featured? They said that 'more pressing issues' were being presented during primetime! We got features just preprime on blasted PBS!"
He hurled a pen against the wall, "And we were this close!" He pinched two of his pudgy fingers together, "This close! Ms. Hebert came to us with a device that could give the blind back their sight! But NOOOooooo, the person in charge just looked at the little blind girl and thought 'we can't use her to punch criminals, so let's just stuff her in a box."
Stabbing another button, a new headline appeared on the screen. Today's headline with an accompanying shot.
It was of Taylor Hebert, dressed in BDUs, sunglasses over her eyes, Focus on her temple, in a crouch with her hand resting upon a weasel-like machine's head. It was obvious from the shot that this wasn't a pose, but an opportunist catching what was probably a private moment for the girl.
Taylor Hebert: A Blue Light in the Dark
He had to hand it to the writer. It was a well crafted narrative, playing just right on the imagery without making it too heavy-handed, balancing the tragedy with hope. If they weren't a writer with the New York Times, he would have probably looked at poaching them. Alas.
"So here she is. Untouchable, with merchandising opportunities galore, and that's just off of what we've seen already. I would be more impressed and annoyed if this had all been planned."
"You don't think this was planned, sir?"
He chuckled, "Not at all. I don't think Ms. Hebert was ready for this kind of attention. Her company has 380 employees registered. There's no press release, no media, no marketing. Still…we'll see if she can run fast enough to catch up."
His phone started to ring and all of his thoughts about the matter ceased as he recognized the ringtone. It was a ringtone that was only given to one person. And anytime she called, it was always going to be a shitshow.
Daniel smoothly picked it up and answered with a pleasant tone. The traitor.
"Image and Merchandising, Chambers' office. This is Daniel speaking."
He was also a saint, handling that far better than he would have likely done at this point.
Daniel looked at him for a moment, and he frantically shook his head.
"No ma'am, Mr. Chambers isn't available right now. Can I take a message?"
An absolute saint.
"Yes, ma'am, I understand the urgency. Once he is available, I will pass the message along," he stopped, obviously awaiting a response, "I understand perfectly, ma'am. I will get right on that. Yes ma'am, good.."
He then placed the receiver back, "She hung up on me."
"What does the Iron Lady want now?" All respect for the late Ms. Thatcher, but the woman had nothing on Rebecca Costa-Brown. She was intelligent, ruthless, and driven. And was not the type of woman you wanted to gain the ire of.
"She wants you in Conference Room 5 in half-an-hour."
He sighed, wondering just how his day could get any worse.
Feeling slightly more composed, he walked into the conference room ready to tackle the challenges ahead. Despite the occasional pitfalls, he really did love his job. The PRT/Protectorate was the iconic focus of the century. The world would remember the way that the organization was presented. And he was at the center of it all. He was the one that would shape the presentation. It was everything that he had ever dreamed of since those media classes back in College. When he started to understand just how important 'image' was.
Unfortunately, it did mean he had to work with…difficult people.
Around the table sat several of those examples. Lucius, the Director of Communications, technically his boss. Maks, Director of the Washington PRT office. Rebecca Costa-Brown, Chief Director of the PRT. There were four or five other people who he knew the positions of, but didn't interact with.
As everyone settled, Costa-Brown began.
"Alright. An Endbringer hit our shores, Boston is devastated, and people are questioning the relevance of our organization. We need solutions. Starting with this: Why didn't the USS Kidd's warning receive more attention?"
All eyes turned to Lucius, who stared back calmly. Credit to him that he didn't flinch under the gaze.
"The simple fact is that there's no clear lines of communication between the PRT and the military. The military doesn't have access to the Endbringer Alert Systems, they aren't hooked into our phone lines or our radio frequencies."
The man stopped to check over the papers in front of him, leaving the room in silence. Nice trick. He had to remind himself sometimes that his boss was competent, even if his behavior was a little rigid.
"When the Kidd contacted the PRT, they actually just called the emergency dispatch of Boston. Credit to the dispatcher, they immediately forwarded the call to their supervisors because it was a legitimate military office calling. Said supervisor called Watchdog to confirm the information. This is where the issues crop up. Watchdog checked the systems meant to monitor Leviathan. They even had the Tinker who made the devices double-check that they were receiving good data. Said Tinker was on site for another project, we didn't lose any time there. But all sensors indicated that Leviathan was still waiting. This information was shared with the Kidd, who insisted that their sonar was showing Leviathan inbound for Boston and insisted on initiating an Endbringer Alert. The supervisor disagreed."
"And where is the supervisor now," that was Helen, Director of Human Resources.
"Dead. He was among the casualties when Leviathan attacked the PRT offices."
Costa-Brown nodded, writing something down, "Alright, we play up the disconnect between the military and PRT. Keep the supervisor out of the spotlight if you can, we don't want the fault to fall on PRT personnel."
Lucius nodded, and made some of his own notes as the Chief Director looked around the room.
"Alright, next issue," she shuffled her notes, "Wards in Boston. The Youth GUard is already building up their 'child soldiers' rhetoric and I would rather not have the Wards program be axed."
Helen spoke up again, "From what I can gather, without speaking to Director Piggot herself, the Wards were clearly asked about volunteering. Piggot highlighted the Endbringer Defense Clause of the Wards contract, which states that they could be asked to take on 'auxiliary duties dedicated to defense'...without requiring parent permission. Yes, the Director stretched things by saying that Boston was close enough for the aftereffects of Leviathan's attack could impact the city. But every Ward present was there voluntarily."
"Alright, we're going to lean on that. Glenn, prepare a Wards highlight for…Kid Win, Vista, and Clockblocker. Focus on their actions during and after the fight. Also, the only reason they were 'in' the fight was because Leviathan changed tactics."
He wrote a few notes, already planning it out. He would need to get proper after-action reports for those three and maybe dig up some old marketing material for them. Vista was solid and he could market her. Clock was...certainly memorable. He could remember the marketing and PR reps for the Bay calling him in frustrated tears. Kid Win was new to him, so some intern would have to do some digging. He could imagine the headlines now. Highest values of heroism…hmmm…Next generation steps forward…Eh, he could workshop it later.
"Last order of business before we get to force redistribution for Boston. Taylor Hebert. Alloy. Optics aren't looking good where she's concerned. How are we going to handle this?"
He immediately raised his pen, pausing a moment while the room focused on him before providing an answer.
"We're not. Any spin we try to put on this mess isn't going to do us any favors. And just trying is going to lean more people away from us."
Oh, he could see that Costa-Brown didn't like that idea.
"Look. It would take two or three FOIA requests for people to get the story out. Director Piggot had a device that could give the blind back their sight back, wrapped up in the most pitiful news story character I could ever dream up. She fumbled and we're stuck cleaning up the mess," he looked around the room, hoping that everyone understood him, "If we make it clear that we're trying to squash her, the public is going to take her side."
Lucious tapped his finger against the table, "What if we do the opposite, try and pull her in closer to us? Right now, some of the attraction is that she's 'not a cape'. We make it clear we do consider her as such, more like an open cape from New Wave. Our public message will be focused on referring to her as a cape and a heroic one. Someone who we would like to work with. If she pushes back," the man shrugged, "Then we can paint ourselves as the bereaved party. We're willing to let past mistakes go, but she's not."
The Chief Director nodded along, "A long term solution, but one that gets us out of the honeymoon phase in the news cycle. Alright, send me the talking points when you've got them. I'll probably be called to the Senate within the next few days and we will all need a coordinated message."
He nodded himself, understanding the base necessity of the decision. The Protectorate survived because they were 'the good guys'. Ergo, anyone opposing them were…'the bad guys'. Comic book, black and white logic pushed in a world of greys, where the populace had access to more information than ever before, but still preferred the strength of a single monolithic perspective.
As the meeting moved on to deploying Protectorate and PRT personnel in the wake of the losses suffered in Boston, he continued to take notes. Which capes to hold up in the spotlight, which capes to transfer quietly. Which to make martyrs, and which to make disappear. All to shape the image that the PRT was doing good work in a world that was slowly falling apart.
Truly, he loved his job.
An aide burst into the room, interrupting the conversation. He glanced up as they hurried to the Chief Director and handed her a paper. His good mood faded. No one acted and looked like that with good news.
The aid left, and the Chief Director looked over the paper before crumpling it in her fist. With a strained breath, she looked up and declared, "Canary has been sighted in Boston. She's turned herself into the police…the military police. They are refusing to return her to PRT custody."
Just like that, his day was officially ruined. Because trying to keep the attempted murder trial of a beloved, attractive young pop-idol out of the spotlight had literally been a sisyphean task. It had taken him and his staff many sleepless nights in the office in order to manipulate the news cycle and cost him quite a number of favors. And when the verdict had been reached, he had congratulated himself as there had been no riots outside of the PRT building or the courthouse. And now all that was moot.
Truly, it sometimes didn't pay to be Glenn Chambers.
Special thanks to BigBadBen and Tigers-Tall-Tails.
Glenn Chamber's No Good, Very Bad Day
Daniel South was a young man with a stressful job. Everyone knew it, even if he tried to downplay it, you would have to live under a rock not to see it. When he had first applied, he had great hopes for things. An introductory position inside the Parahuman Response Team. Secretary work. Just some light work to get his foot in the door, then he could move on to better things.
Unfortunately, better things didn't come. Because Daniel was too good at his job. He managed his boss' calender with precision and cultivated connections inside and outside the office. So that whatever his boss needed, he could provide. He just…couldn't leave now. First, because he was getting a generous salary, benefits, and so on. Second…it was because his boss had made sure that no one else would take him. Which was…flattering. Sort of. It felt good to be needed and rewarded for your hard work! But, there were times when he wondered…
He flinched as he heard more shouting and the slam of something heavy through the door. Glass broke and he made a note to ask maintenance to…have someone ready. Another roar of frustration echoed from his boss' office and something else broke. Daniel's coworkers gave him pitying glances. His boss wasn't a violent man, he never yelled at his employees. But he was a passionate and energetic man, and when he did feel the need to unleash that energy…in a less constructive way…he would barricade himself in his office. And since it was now a full week since Boston was hit by Leviathan… everyone was frayed and stressed.
The sound of something crashing to the floor made him sigh, as he brought up his contacts list for the interior decorators. It looked like it was going to be one of those events.
Yes…sometimes, all the pay and benefits in the world didn't make up for being Glenn Chamber's secretary.
Glenn Chambers
Glenn Chambers liked to fancy himself a calm and reasonable man. After all, it took the patience and serenity of a saint in order to be the PRT's Head of Imaging. He was regularly handling difficult people, troublesome situations, and potential scandals. Despite the image that he and his colleagues worked tirelessly to present, parahumans were broken people. Heroes. Villains. It didn't matter. They were all twisted to some degree. His job was to smooth out those twists. Make the people who can shoot laser beams from their fingers seem approachable. So that you can feel comfortable shaking their hand and not think about the possibility of getting your arm blown off because the cape twitched wrong.
Of course, he didn't work in a vacuum. The PRT was the largest law enforcement department in the country and that came with opportunity! Glenn Chambers and his team were responsible for merchandising the personas that were crafted for the Capes that made up the Protectorate. After all, it's hard to be afraid of a woman who can bend steel with her fingers if every girl is playing with a dress-up doll of Alexandria. And furthermore…
There was a timid knock at the door and it opened after a minute; Daniel, his ever wonderful assistant walked in with a towel and a cold bottle of water.
"Daniel, my boy, you're a saint," he said, taking the offered bottle.
"Is…there anything I can do?"
He sighed, leaning back in his very comfortable chair and loosening his collar and tie, "I'd like a time machine and a shotgun so I can shoot every department head in the ENE branch."
"...I'll see if Toybox has anything available, sir."
Glenn snorted, unscrewing the bottle's cap and taking a swig of the lovely cold water. This is why Daniel's salary was almost as large as his own. It was also why he would ruin the career of anyone who tried to poach the boy. The young man was a saint with a promising future. He never said no, he always said, 'I'll look into it.' Truly, those monkeys they put in front of microphones could learn a thing or two from him.
Placing the bottle down, he reached over and pulled his keyboard in front of him. With an aggressive stab, he brought his monitor to life then transferred everything over to his big screen. The projector pushed images against the wall, filling his office with light. Sometimes, you just need to look at something in large sizes. Dozens of video clips, photos, and news segments filled the screen as Daniel started tidying. He would admit, quietly of course, that he may have gone overboard. But that bookcase was more for aesthetics anyways, that vase was so last season, and that painting...okay, he did regret that painting. He'd have to find the artist again.
He sighed, "My boy, what do you see when you look at all of this?" He waved one meaty finger at the wall.
Daniel paused in his efforts and looked, "In terms of the actual? Or meaning?
Yes…Daniel was special alright. If only he could have a department of Daniels. Maybe…no, he probably couldn't get Blasto to make clones. Too bad.
"Both."
The young man hummed, tilting his head, "Zero Dawn robots. The media coverage of them. As to the meaning? Hope. Reconstruction? A different perspective?"
Daniel looked to him for approval on his guesses. A small habit that he was trying to break the younger man of. Better to be confident and defend your position.
"I look at it and see a massive money waterfall that we are never going to see!"
His mouth going to dry again, he polished off the water. Sighing, he dropped it into the bin. Even if he was angry and frustrated, you don't kick the bin. It's just not done.
"The PRT and Protectorate are, at their core, law enforcement agencies. We don't have the manpower or resources to devote effort to reconstruction. Capes get in, fight the bad guy, then leave. But that's not what 'heroes' do. The collective consciousness of the nation has internalized this notion of heroes from comic books. So we play into that. We teach our capes how to stand, how to fight, how to talk like the idealized image that people hold in their head."
He stabbed another button. Various pieces of promotional material scrolled by. He could name them all, having worked or approved them. That was the Legend image from 2001. The Triumvirate image from Time Magazine August 1998. Chevalier news pieces 2003.
"Then, along comes this girl who breaks the norm. She's a parahuman, but not a cape. She behaves as a hero, but doesn't 'act' like a hero. Even if she isn't in the scene personally, people know that those machines are hers. So the actions of the machines become her actions. And her machines are where our capes aren't! They're in the rubble, in the aftermath, long after our capes have gone back to their cities."
"And the public loves it! Which means the news agencies love it! Because everyone loves the nail that sticks out. The tree with different colors stands out in the forest and all that. Do you know I was actually told 'no' by the various news agencies when I tried to get the memorials featured? They said that 'more pressing issues' were being presented during primetime! We got features just preprime on blasted PBS!"
He hurled a pen against the wall, "And we were this close!" He pinched two of his pudgy fingers together, "This close! Ms. Hebert came to us with a device that could give the blind back their sight! But NOOOooooo, the person in charge just looked at the little blind girl and thought 'we can't use her to punch criminals, so let's just stuff her in a box."
Stabbing another button, a new headline appeared on the screen. Today's headline with an accompanying shot.
It was of Taylor Hebert, dressed in BDUs, sunglasses over her eyes, Focus on her temple, in a crouch with her hand resting upon a weasel-like machine's head. It was obvious from the shot that this wasn't a pose, but an opportunist catching what was probably a private moment for the girl.
Taylor Hebert: A Blue Light in the Dark
He had to hand it to the writer. It was a well crafted narrative, playing just right on the imagery without making it too heavy-handed, balancing the tragedy with hope. If they weren't a writer with the New York Times, he would have probably looked at poaching them. Alas.
"So here she is. Untouchable, with merchandising opportunities galore, and that's just off of what we've seen already. I would be more impressed and annoyed if this had all been planned."
"You don't think this was planned, sir?"
He chuckled, "Not at all. I don't think Ms. Hebert was ready for this kind of attention. Her company has 380 employees registered. There's no press release, no media, no marketing. Still…we'll see if she can run fast enough to catch up."
His phone started to ring and all of his thoughts about the matter ceased as he recognized the ringtone. It was a ringtone that was only given to one person. And anytime she called, it was always going to be a shitshow.
Daniel smoothly picked it up and answered with a pleasant tone. The traitor.
"Image and Merchandising, Chambers' office. This is Daniel speaking."
He was also a saint, handling that far better than he would have likely done at this point.
Daniel looked at him for a moment, and he frantically shook his head.
"No ma'am, Mr. Chambers isn't available right now. Can I take a message?"
An absolute saint.
"Yes, ma'am, I understand the urgency. Once he is available, I will pass the message along," he stopped, obviously awaiting a response, "I understand perfectly, ma'am. I will get right on that. Yes ma'am, good.."
He then placed the receiver back, "She hung up on me."
"What does the Iron Lady want now?" All respect for the late Ms. Thatcher, but the woman had nothing on Rebecca Costa-Brown. She was intelligent, ruthless, and driven. And was not the type of woman you wanted to gain the ire of.
"She wants you in Conference Room 5 in half-an-hour."
He sighed, wondering just how his day could get any worse.
Feeling slightly more composed, he walked into the conference room ready to tackle the challenges ahead. Despite the occasional pitfalls, he really did love his job. The PRT/Protectorate was the iconic focus of the century. The world would remember the way that the organization was presented. And he was at the center of it all. He was the one that would shape the presentation. It was everything that he had ever dreamed of since those media classes back in College. When he started to understand just how important 'image' was.
Unfortunately, it did mean he had to work with…difficult people.
Around the table sat several of those examples. Lucius, the Director of Communications, technically his boss. Maks, Director of the Washington PRT office. Rebecca Costa-Brown, Chief Director of the PRT. There were four or five other people who he knew the positions of, but didn't interact with.
As everyone settled, Costa-Brown began.
"Alright. An Endbringer hit our shores, Boston is devastated, and people are questioning the relevance of our organization. We need solutions. Starting with this: Why didn't the USS Kidd's warning receive more attention?"
All eyes turned to Lucius, who stared back calmly. Credit to him that he didn't flinch under the gaze.
"The simple fact is that there's no clear lines of communication between the PRT and the military. The military doesn't have access to the Endbringer Alert Systems, they aren't hooked into our phone lines or our radio frequencies."
The man stopped to check over the papers in front of him, leaving the room in silence. Nice trick. He had to remind himself sometimes that his boss was competent, even if his behavior was a little rigid.
"When the Kidd contacted the PRT, they actually just called the emergency dispatch of Boston. Credit to the dispatcher, they immediately forwarded the call to their supervisors because it was a legitimate military office calling. Said supervisor called Watchdog to confirm the information. This is where the issues crop up. Watchdog checked the systems meant to monitor Leviathan. They even had the Tinker who made the devices double-check that they were receiving good data. Said Tinker was on site for another project, we didn't lose any time there. But all sensors indicated that Leviathan was still waiting. This information was shared with the Kidd, who insisted that their sonar was showing Leviathan inbound for Boston and insisted on initiating an Endbringer Alert. The supervisor disagreed."
"And where is the supervisor now," that was Helen, Director of Human Resources.
"Dead. He was among the casualties when Leviathan attacked the PRT offices."
Costa-Brown nodded, writing something down, "Alright, we play up the disconnect between the military and PRT. Keep the supervisor out of the spotlight if you can, we don't want the fault to fall on PRT personnel."
Lucius nodded, and made some of his own notes as the Chief Director looked around the room.
"Alright, next issue," she shuffled her notes, "Wards in Boston. The Youth GUard is already building up their 'child soldiers' rhetoric and I would rather not have the Wards program be axed."
Helen spoke up again, "From what I can gather, without speaking to Director Piggot herself, the Wards were clearly asked about volunteering. Piggot highlighted the Endbringer Defense Clause of the Wards contract, which states that they could be asked to take on 'auxiliary duties dedicated to defense'...without requiring parent permission. Yes, the Director stretched things by saying that Boston was close enough for the aftereffects of Leviathan's attack could impact the city. But every Ward present was there voluntarily."
"Alright, we're going to lean on that. Glenn, prepare a Wards highlight for…Kid Win, Vista, and Clockblocker. Focus on their actions during and after the fight. Also, the only reason they were 'in' the fight was because Leviathan changed tactics."
He wrote a few notes, already planning it out. He would need to get proper after-action reports for those three and maybe dig up some old marketing material for them. Vista was solid and he could market her. Clock was...certainly memorable. He could remember the marketing and PR reps for the Bay calling him in frustrated tears. Kid Win was new to him, so some intern would have to do some digging. He could imagine the headlines now. Highest values of heroism…hmmm…Next generation steps forward…Eh, he could workshop it later.
"Last order of business before we get to force redistribution for Boston. Taylor Hebert. Alloy. Optics aren't looking good where she's concerned. How are we going to handle this?"
He immediately raised his pen, pausing a moment while the room focused on him before providing an answer.
"We're not. Any spin we try to put on this mess isn't going to do us any favors. And just trying is going to lean more people away from us."
Oh, he could see that Costa-Brown didn't like that idea.
"Look. It would take two or three FOIA requests for people to get the story out. Director Piggot had a device that could give the blind back their sight back, wrapped up in the most pitiful news story character I could ever dream up. She fumbled and we're stuck cleaning up the mess," he looked around the room, hoping that everyone understood him, "If we make it clear that we're trying to squash her, the public is going to take her side."
Lucious tapped his finger against the table, "What if we do the opposite, try and pull her in closer to us? Right now, some of the attraction is that she's 'not a cape'. We make it clear we do consider her as such, more like an open cape from New Wave. Our public message will be focused on referring to her as a cape and a heroic one. Someone who we would like to work with. If she pushes back," the man shrugged, "Then we can paint ourselves as the bereaved party. We're willing to let past mistakes go, but she's not."
The Chief Director nodded along, "A long term solution, but one that gets us out of the honeymoon phase in the news cycle. Alright, send me the talking points when you've got them. I'll probably be called to the Senate within the next few days and we will all need a coordinated message."
He nodded himself, understanding the base necessity of the decision. The Protectorate survived because they were 'the good guys'. Ergo, anyone opposing them were…'the bad guys'. Comic book, black and white logic pushed in a world of greys, where the populace had access to more information than ever before, but still preferred the strength of a single monolithic perspective.
As the meeting moved on to deploying Protectorate and PRT personnel in the wake of the losses suffered in Boston, he continued to take notes. Which capes to hold up in the spotlight, which capes to transfer quietly. Which to make martyrs, and which to make disappear. All to shape the image that the PRT was doing good work in a world that was slowly falling apart.
Truly, he loved his job.
An aide burst into the room, interrupting the conversation. He glanced up as they hurried to the Chief Director and handed her a paper. His good mood faded. No one acted and looked like that with good news.
The aid left, and the Chief Director looked over the paper before crumpling it in her fist. With a strained breath, she looked up and declared, "Canary has been sighted in Boston. She's turned herself into the police…the military police. They are refusing to return her to PRT custody."
Just like that, his day was officially ruined. Because trying to keep the attempted murder trial of a beloved, attractive young pop-idol out of the spotlight had literally been a sisyphean task. It had taken him and his staff many sleepless nights in the office in order to manipulate the news cycle and cost him quite a number of favors. And when the verdict had been reached, he had congratulated himself as there had been no riots outside of the PRT building or the courthouse. And now all that was moot.
Truly, it sometimes didn't pay to be Glenn Chambers.
Last edited:
Freebird
AlSmash
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Authors note: Alright everyone, here you have it. The start of Paige's story. She's got a long road ahead of her. But there's a better horizon waiting for her. Please note that no one who worked on this is lawyer, and we're all trying to untangle the mess that Wildbow put into canon. So we hope you'll accept our attempts at explaining. Enjoy! Credit to BigBadBen and more for hammering away at this with me.
Sprout 3.3.5 - Freebird
Boston
One week after Leviathan hit the city.
I ran into someone. My shoulder hurt, and my ribs. It hurt to breathe, but I couldn't stop. They went down, cried out. I didn't want to hurt anyone, I didn't mean to hurt anyone. But I couldn't stop. I couldn't. If they caught me, I would go back. And I couldn't go back. To sit and wait, and wonder how my life was going to end.
I gripped a pole, scraping my palms. Turned the corner quickly. This road was more clear. I ran as fast as I could. Splashing through mud, trying not to slip and fall. Everything would end if I slipped.
"There she is!" "Cut left!"
I could hear a whine in the air, like a bird. I ducked, not daring to look back. I heaved in air through my nose, my scars stretching and painful. I felt something wet run down the skin of my throat, might be sweat, might be blood. I couldn't stop.
In the corner of my eye, I could see someone running. Bright colours, splattered with mud. A cape. I couldn't let them catch me.
Another turn, I could feel them at my back. I couldn't go back there. Just run, keep running. My lungs hurt, I wanted to cry. Darkness fogged up the edge of my sight.
Ahead of me, was the camp entrance. Guarded. Watchful uniforms to keep the peace. Different from them. Maybe these would be different. The Guards raised their hands, shouted orders. Hands on weapons, then weapons raised. I couldn't slow down to explain. I could see their faces, maybe they could see mine. I threw myself to the ground, feeling the gravel claw at my skin.
I scrambled, clawing at their boots. Curling up around their legs, pressing closer. Please God, let them protect me. My lungs burned for oxygen, blackness pressed in around my eyes. I spoke as much as I could. Please help me. Don't let them take me. Please help me. I don't know what I sounded like. Blood hammered in my ears. The blackness won; and I felt hands on my shoulders.
"Heh meh. Heh me pleys."
"Stop right there! Stay where you are!"
"That woman is a wanted fugitive and we are taking her in!"
"Step back! You! Stay where you are! Let us sort this out."
"There's nothing to sort out! We.."
"PRT Boston is suspended while Martial Law is in effect, you have no authority here! Malan, check her."
"On it chief. Ma'am? Can you hear me? Ma'am? Shit, looks like she fainted. Hold up… shit! Fuck me! 'This is south gate, I need a medic team and transport, urgent! Collapsed female, signs of torture, possible mutilation.' This woman's in a bad way, Chief."
"Fuck me.. 'This is South Gate Chief Rodan, calling Colonel Herres for a developing situation, requesting backup.' Stay the fuck where you are Cape! This is a Military matter now."
"That woman is a wanted Cape, and belongs in PRT custody! We are the only ones who can hold her."
"Another move, and I start shooting. Back the fuck up!"
"Chief? I think this woman is Canary."
"Oh Fuck me… 'This is Rodan, connect me directly with Colonel Herres, urgent backup needed at South Gate.'"
I sat. Breathing. My sides hurt, my legs hurt. I kept looking down at my wrists… but still no cuffs. Opening my eyes had been the worst part. Would I wake up in a cell? My hands locked in those heavy manacles again? In some dark room with no power? A van, driving me to hell on earth?
The reality was… mundane. I opened my eyes to a cot, in a tent. A medical drip was attached to my arm. I wanted to take it out, but the uniformed guard made me hesitate. Aside from my cot, the wool blanket covering my legs, there was a table, some chairs, and grass for a floor. I could hear the sounds of the camp around me, people moving about, conversation, shouting in the distance. The tent flap opened, and a man and a woman entered. I tried to stand; freezing as the woman took large steps towards me. I flinched as she reached for me.
The woman wore a military uniform of some kind. The man was wearing the browns of a state trooper, he was younger, and he carried a case under his arm. On both their temples, I could see the blue glow of a Focus. I had heard about those. Listening to the teams going around Boston, listening to the radio, listening the first and only time that I went to the camp for food.
The military woman was strong, pulling me up. Gently though. She guided me to the chair sitting across from them. The trooper was already there, staring at my face… oh. I lowered my eyes, not wanting to see the look on his face. I guess my scarf came off. I hope I wasn't bleeding. Everyone settled in, and I kept my eyes on the table, clasping my fingers together. Still surprised that there were no cuffs.
"Ms. Mcabee? My name is Captain Miriam Semrad of the Judge Advocate General's Corps. This is Trooper Waldren of the Massachusetts State Patrol." Trooper Waldren nodded. "We are informing you now that you're being recorded. This is for your safety and for ours. Do you understand what we're telling you?" I nodded slightly, my hair tickling the back of my neck, and falling around my ears. I wanted to tuck it away, but didn't want to move and startle the guards.
Captain Semrad leaned forward. "Ms. Macabee, it's important that you clearly acknowledge that you understand." Oh no, she thinks… I nodded frantically. Slowly, I pulled my hand up, covering my mouth completely. Then with one finger. I hope she understands.
She frowned, "You can't speak? Alright, wait a moment, we'll solve this." Then she just… walked out of the tent. I stared after her, looking at that slice of blue sky. Trooper Waldren spoke up, he sounded young. "Don't worry about her. She's straightlaced, but knows her stuff. She'll be back in a moment."
The state trooper put his hands on the table, palms up. "Here, can you give me your hands? I know you took a tumble when you met the guards, we don't want to let those scrapes get infected." I slowly stretched my hands forward. Turning them over, I could see the scrapes. Funny, I didn't feel them. Waldren hummed for a moment, pulling his case closer. I blinked, it was… purple. A dark purple. With flowers stitched in. The man must have noticed because he smiled, "Don't judge. My wife made it for me. Told me that 'big bad state troopers need to soften their image'. It's something of a good luck charm now." Ripping open an alcohol swab, he started gently swiping my hands. It stung, and I flinched. "Sorry sorry, I know it stings. We'll be done in a moment." We sat in silence. It was funny, the things that you miss. With those heavy manacles on, with the guards and the restraints… I hadn't held someone's hand in a long time. His hands were cold, but mine were hot. It was nice.
"There we go, we should be good now." The trooper's voice pulled me out of my head. He turned my hands over. "Well that won't do. Hold on, we can fix that." I didn't understand what he was talking about. He reached back into his purple flower pouch and pulled out… nail clippers. I suddenly felt mortified, staring down at my fingers. My nails were long. And cracked, and chipped, and it had been so long since I cared or had time to… Click. I blinked. The young man inspected his work, then clipped again. One by one… I… started to look civilized again.
Something tightened in my chest. I breathed deep through my nose, fully aware that my jaw was sealed. I swallowed. "There we go! Much better. Alright, decision time Ms. Mcabee. It's an important one." He smiled at me. It made me feel… like something other than a mess. Like my old self. He reached into his pack and pulled out nail polish… I must have looked confused because he grinned. "My wife told me to always be prepared. And yes, she packed these. So you have two colours. Quiet-Seduction… also known as red. Or Marina-Dive… also known as light blue." I smiled. Making sure to keep my mouth closed. God… how long ago was it since I smiled? I pointed. Blue would do. Although he was wrong. That's not 'blue', that's two shades lighter than 'robin egg blue'. I wondered where the Captain went…? I know my sense of time was off, but maybe this was going faster than expected?
I let go of those thoughts as Trooper Waldren firmly took my hand, and delicately started painting my nails. There was something so nostalgic about it. "My wife works at this cute little clothing boutique, and she always told me that her nails should match her outfits for the week. Yes, she planned her outfits for the week. My wife is a very organized woman. The boutique didn't survive, but she was just fine. Recently we met up and…"
I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath through the lump in my throat. I remembered the good times backstage before a show. Picking out clothes, accessories, makeup. The chatter of my stylist as he worked. God…I missed those days.
"There we go, good to go." He said with a smile. I looked at my nails. Trimmed short, freshly painted. And he did a good job also. No splatter. With this done I… I relaxed. I felt… human again. I wanted to blow on them, get the paint to dry faster. But… that wasn't possible. I didn't want him to see.
The tent opened, and the Captain walked in, a tablet under her arm. I looked in shock, worried that Waldren would get in trouble for interacting with me. I started to shake my head, not wanting him to get in trouble like the previous time…
She spared a glance, but otherwise didn't comment. I was relieved. She placed a tablet in front of me. Keyboard on the screen. "This will let you communicate with us. It might be slower, but it will speak what you write. Give it a try." Oh… for a moment I was angry. Or hurt. Or… I don't know what I felt. But I remember the trial. I remembered how hard it was to get in touch with anyone, even my own lawyer.
I tapped away, mindful to keep my fingers steady. I didn't want to smudge my nails. "Please don't send me back" The two of them looked at one another. Waldren spoke up, having returned everything to his case. "Right now, it's important we understand what happened, Paige. Can you tell us how you got out of PRT Boston? The more we know, the better our superiors can make a decision."
They had to keep me. I didn't want to go back. If I answered, they might keep me. I didn't do anything wrong. "I was released. With the others. Someone named Armstrong. Came on the intercom, then the doors all opened. My cuffs fell off." Captain Semrad was writing notes, Waldren was just sitting watching me. I swallowed as I typed away. The robotic voice of the tablet filled the silence with a light female voice. "He said; Leviathan is coming. Run, or fight. No one deserves to die in a cell. I ran. Some prisoners fought each other. I got outside. Started running."
"You ran into the city? How did you survive the attack?"
"I hid. Found a Parking Garage. Climbed the inside stairway, up and up." My hands started shaking. I had been so afraid. Worse than the trial. Or after the trial. "The water was rising. And the roof was damaged. Rain was coming in, falling down the stairs. I could hear crashing outside. Rumbling. I hid." I was trembling.
"Paige, you're safe now. Take a deep breath for me, okay? Deeeeppp breath, good." Waldren spoke up, as Captain Semrad wrote a few notes down. I breathed through my nose, in and out. I was safe. Nothing would happen to me. I was safe. Please let me be safe.
A moment passed, before Captain Semrad spoke, looking up from her notes. "You made it clear before that you can't speak. Is that an injury from the attack? Debris or something else?"
I shook my head. My hair and feathers flying everywhere. I desperately needed to cut it. "No." I didn't want to say more. But the Captain wasn't willing. "If something happened to you, Ms. Macabee, we need to know about it." I glanced at Waldren, who gave me a firm nod, and a small smile.
"It was when they arrested me. They were shouting. I didn't understand what was happening. Wanted to ask questions. They hit me." I mimed punching my jaw. The two of them looked at each other again. Just a quick glance. "A PRT trooper hit you? One of the Protectorate heroes?" I shook my head, looking down at the table. "I don't know. It hurt, and it was loud. I couldn't focus. They kept shouting; 'don't let her sing'."
"But you were provided treatment when they had you in detention, correct?" Waldren asked, making me look up again. He was looking at me with such a look of concern. Captain Semrad was writing furiously. I tilted my head side to side. Tapping away at the screen took some time. "No. I woke up in a cell. They told me that my jaw was damaged, and that it had been wired shut for my safety. Everything hurt."
"Were you given anything for the pain?"
"I think so, but it's hazy. I kept being drugged. They had a collar on me. To make me sleep. So… I didn't feel much pain for long."
"I'm no dentist, but wiring your jaw shut would make it very hard to eat. And drink. Were you getting enough food and water?"
Oh no. I closed my eyes. Afraid that they would ask that. "Yes. They…" I took a moment to break, shaking out my fingers. The nice blue tips of my nails caught my eyes. It was a lovely colour. "They removed my front teeth. Two of them. So I can drink, and eat. With a straw." There. I said it. Now they would know I'm ugly. I remembered finding a mirror. Crying in front of it when I stumbled out after Leviathan had left. I stared at the table. Not wanting to see the look in their eyes.
Someone stood up, and I could see a hand reaching across the table. I glanced up. Waldren laid his hand on top of mine, while Captain Semrad spoke softly but urgently in the corner. The glow of her Focus was obvious.
"Alright Paige. We're going to get a doctor to look at you, alright? Just to make sure you're alright." I nodded, resigning myself to it all. I wanted to hope that they would keep me. Please don't send me back to the Birdcage.
Captain Semrad walked over. "Ms. Macabee. I am formally informing you that you are being held in military custody. You will not be transferred over to PRT custody, and we will require a full interview as to your treatment under their care."
I cried. Leaning over, placed my head on the table and cried. With teary eyes, I pulled the tablet closer. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."
I kept hitting the repeat button until Waldren gently took the tablet away from me.
Herres
Colonel Herres was a man juggling with chainsaws. For the past week he had given thousands of instructions in order to establish some sense of organization to the devastated city of Boston. He had enough problems. He didn't need more.
Too bad that the universe didn't agree with that sentiment.
He sat in his office, watching the screen that had been pulled in. With him was Colonel Mathew Johnson, of the JAG. Boston had seen a number of military police and Judge Advocate General officers arriving over the past week. Bolstering the decimated Boston police and justice department. Colonel Johnson had been the first person Herres had called when he received the news that a wanted, convicted, parahuman appeared at his gates begging for protection.
Now the two men had to sort out this mess.
"Very nice empathy play with Waldren. Boy's got talent."
"He's genuinely a nice man according to his co-workers. He was outside the city during the Leviathan mess. He's been trying to prove himself ever since."
"Well, keep an eye on him. Don't want to lose talent to burnout." The video they watched was an hour old now. Techs had gone over the whole thing to make sure that nothing would impact the viewers.
Herres paused the video as Paige was telling the officers about her treatment by the PRT. "We had a cape healer, Panacea, take a look at her while she was unconscious. The officers were not made aware of her injuries, so their reactions aren't compromised. I have a write up of Panacea's findings, and am waiting for my Docs to give me theirs. So far? Everything Canary is saying lines up. Panacea also paralyzed her vocal cords, just in case."
Herres reached for a pen on his desk, twisting it between his fingers. "What are my options Johnson?"
The older Colonel looked at him, then back at the monitor. "You want my professional or personal opinion?"
"Let's start with professional."
"Legally, the President has suspended the operations of the PRT inside the Boston area. Anything PRT related is meant to report to you, or the JAG office, or the Police department."
"Which means that the capture team I've got engaged in a staring contest with my soldiers is legally tricky."
Johnson barked a laugh. "Escaped fugitives should be the responsibility of the States Marshals. But the PRT could argue that away." He grew serious. "No, the trouble is if you don't want to turn that young woman back to the PRT."
"I already said I wouldn't."
"I know, but there's a mountain of shit to come because of it. Look, if you want to use your special authority to grant her a pardon, you can do so."
"And if I do, we'll have dozens of people screaming about tyranny and the mishandling of the justice system."
The JAG officer noded. "Another option is to put her through a military court, and use that to challenge the previous conviction." "Any other options?"
"Stash her somewhere, gather evidence for an appeal, and fight it out in federal courts." Johnson frowned. "But that only works as long as you're Governor. Which means that when the city is handed back to civilian control, the PRT gets jurisdiction again."
"And she ends up arrested."
"Yes."
Herres sighed. "Alright, professional opinion of her case and conviction?"
"It was the best case of railroading I've ever seen. It wasn't lawyers who did that, it was fucking engineers for how perfect it was." Herres waved his hand for more details. "Her lawyer was a year out of school, working as a public defender with fifteen other cases. The man barely had time to take a shit, let alone get a solid defence going."
Johnson grumbled. "And that conviction? A death sentence for unintended sexual assault? Judge Roberts made it clear in his verdict. He wasn't punishing the girl for her crimes. She was just the message to anyone else who might have powers like her. Fall in line, or get crushed."
"Talk to me about the Birdcage."
"It's a legal precedent that bends the rules like they're pretzels. And is basically held together by string and chewing gum." Johnson sighs. "It hinges on Dragon. She bought land from the Canadian Government, and then built the prison. So it's technically, 'private property'. But Dragon is a recognized Federal Employee thanks to the treaty that allowed the creation of the PRT Toronto branch. So a Judge in a criminal case can control sentencing, which also means 'where' the prisoner is held. So if, like Judge Roberts did with Paige Macabee, a judge sentences a prisoner to Baumann? They aren't technically sentencing them to a 'prison'. The Judge is sentencing them to the care of a Federal Warden, Dragon. Who has only one place to put them. A prison, on private property."
"With no appeals, where the prisoners are the guards, no communication in or out, no inspections, and no review board."
"Yes, under Constitutional Law, and several dozen cases of precedent law, that prison shouldn't exist. But it does. Because it solves a problem. It's seen as a reasonable solution to the problem of Capes, without getting involved with repealing the death sentence in most states."
"That's the thing, isn't it? How bad things can be made to sound reasonable…like breaking a woman's jaw to keep her from using her super powered voice. Like removing her teeth to make sure she can eat. All seems reasonable…until you look back at everything as a whole and look at the evil you've done."
Herres looked back at the frozen screen, quiet for a moment. "You think we have a case?"
"Personally? What was done to that woman was a horrible mockery of our justice system, and the basic rights of the Constitution. Her treatment before, during, and after her trial are shameful, cruel, and an attack on the safety of every citizen of our country."
Johnson looked him dead in the eye. "Professional opinion? You've got one hell of a case. With a good lawyer? You can make the PRT bleed for this mess that they created."
"YOU ARE A BUTCHA'!" The great shout, then thud, from outside had the two men out the door in moments.
Standing in the hall was CMO Elban, holding the PRT officer's jacket in his fists. He had clearly just slammed the man into the wall, because the officer was reeling.
"That's enough!" Herres roared.
Elban looked over slowly. Blinked at Colonel Herres, before releasing the man and snapping to a picture perfect salute. The PRT officer slumped down, catching himself before he hit the floor. The guard outside Herres' door looked to him for order. "Doctor Elban, my office, now!" The tall black man marched into the office that Herres had commandeered. The Colonel closed the door, after waving the JAG officer back in.
Herres took in the taller man. Elban stared right ahead, his jaw rigid. "Doctor Elban. Your assessment of Paige Macabee?" The Doctor handed him a written report, several pages long. Herres glanced over the first page, before dropping it on his desk. "At ease. Summarize for me Doctor."
Elban sighed, relaxing a little. "Subject is suffering from malnutrition, and dehydration. She is underweight, although not to an unhealthy degree. She has abrasions on her body consistent with exploring the damaged areas of Boston. The rest of the assessment was carried out by a dental specialist. She has bleeding of the gums from extended poor oral hygiene, and signs of infection from improper post treatment care after four teeth were removed. The 'lock' between her upper and lower jaw is installed correctly, but it also shows signs of infection. The setting of the jawbone was done in an acceptable but imperfect manner. She would likely have had pain from muscles being stressed in unexpected ways." He took a breath.
"At the moment, I can't theorize on damage her liver or kidneys might have experienced due to repeated use of whatever drug they were using to knock her out. Also, a discrete questioning by one of my female staff reports that Ms. Macabee does not suspect any cases of sexual assault. Either when she was conscious, or unconscious."
"That lines up with Panacea's account. I trust you documented everything?"
"Yes Sir. Photos and video. Both are being recorded in a variety of mediums."
Herres nodded, slowly coming to terms with things. This was a fight outside of his duties inside Boston. Some would say that he was overreaching with his authority. But all his life, and all his time in the military, he had known that there was right, and there was wrong. And this was a chance to right a wrong. And that was always worth doing.
"I will ask Panacea to heal her completely. Elban, you oversee that. And get a dentist or an oral surgeon to remove the hardware. If you can't find one on staff, or in the camps, we'll see about bringing one in." The big man nodded. "In the meantime, I'm going to ask Ms. Hebert if she can develop a more humane way of containing Ms. Macabee's powers."
"In the meantime… CMO Elban. Take the rest of the day off. Oversee Ms. Macabee's care, then transfer command to your second. Find some peace, come back tomorrow. Dismissed" The Doctor nodded, saluted, then walked out. "Johnson, please get me that PRT officer."
Herres called out to the guard at the door. Stood as the man walked in. "Officer. I'll make this short. Paige Macabee will not be transferred to your custody. In fact, I'm about to get on the phone and demand to know why the PRT didn't tell my office, or the Boston Police that there were fugitives at large in the city. I will demand to know why a capture team of PRT capes, and PRT officers, was active in my city where you have NO jurisdiction!"
Planting his fists on the desk, he leaned forward. "I am going to have a unit of Military Police and JAG officers escort you back to your prisoners. They will review your actions, they will review the state of your prisoners, and they will stay with you until you leave this city."
The Colonel paused for a moment. "Am I understood?"
"And that's everything, Ms. Hebert."
He leaned back in his chair as he looked across the desk at Taylor. She had been prompt in responding to his summons. But with the drawdown of the LRL, a lot of her time had been spent analyzing the data from the machines, along with fine-tuning the Focus network now that she had added enhancements to the network to allow streaming and better datalink.
Even now, there were times when he struggled with the scale of a quantum leap forward in not only communications, but datalink systems that the Focus represented. To have it all on nearly instantaneous demand and be able to communicate immediately through the network provided a strategic and tactical flexibility that was unmatched, was nothing sort of awe-inspiring.
The media may focus on the LRL and it certainly made a difference in the lives that it had saved. But to him, the Focus was the true hero of Boston. Without them, rescuers would have taken days to do what was now accomplished in hours. Nor would Herres be able to flex the logistical might of the military and rescue services so finely like they had done here.
And despite the age of the girl, and the attached criticisms he was starting to get from outside sources? Taylor Hebert had shown herself, once she had awoken, to be a solid asset in providing assistance in almost any matter when asked.
But he was distracting himself from the here and now. What mattered now was if Ms. Hebert was able to work something up that he would be able to use against the grave injustice the PRT had done to Ms. Mcabee.
"Do we have access to the PRT files on her?" was the first question that escaped the girl's mouth, "power testing, observations from officers, any notes from Dragon?"
"No. But I can demand them."
The teenager shook her head, "They'd be helpful if you can get them within the next day, but that doesn't help Canary at this moment," she fell silent, and he had no doubt she was looking through something on her Focus. How she was able to use it so adroitly without having to use her hand was a point of curiosity for himself, but he had a feeling that it was more the expertise of the inventor instead of anything nefarious.
"Okay, a lot of this is based upon conjecture," she finally said, "but, I might be able to work something up. I will need to have access to her, and we'll need to find someone willing to be a test subject for a Master."
"A test subject?"
"I need to confirm a few things about her power before I can start providing a solution. If there is one. Mainly it's about the expression of her power and how it's transmitted. If it's transmitted through sound or if there is another hidden mechanic of it. If it's solely through sound, then the question becomes the origin point of its transmission. If it's through the vocal box, then that narrows it down even further. At that point, the question would be if it's tied to a specific vocal pattern, or if it's broad-spectrum and just uses her voice as the medium. If it's the former, the solution could be something as simple as putting together something that would change the pattern, and if it's the latter, something like a throat microphone should work. She'd have to be trained on how to use it, of course. But, like I said, there are options, but I need to have the time and access to her in order to pin it down."
All that in less than eight minutes, he thought to himself as he glanced at the clock.
"Alright Ms. Hebert. We'll get you what you need. But I'm cutting orders for Captain Schofield to make sure that you are nowhere near the testing area. Dismissed."
The scarred blind girl nodded, and walked out. Her security team fell in around her.
Colonel Herres sat back down at his desk, and began to tackle the next problem.
Paige Macabee
I pulled my jacket tighter, trying to ward off the morning cold. The last two days were… something out of a dream for me. I woke up this morning and wasn't cold. I wasn't waking up huddled under newspapers or in some broken apartment.
After the interview, this Cape named Panacea came in to speak with me. Her costume was mud stained white, with red crosses on it. She explained that she was a healer, and that… she could fix me. She put her hood down, and had frizzy hair, with freckles on her cheeks. Then… she took my hand and everything felt better. I relaxed, just felt… warmth flow over me. Everything was a haze after that. I remember people, lights, sounds. But I wasn't afraid. I could feel her hand, holding mine. And it was still holding mine when the world came back into focus. And she held my hand as I cried, because nothing hurt. My jaw didn't hurt, swallowing didn't hurt, my missing teeth didn't hurt. In fact!
I ran my tongue across my teeth. Marveling that they were all there. Taking a deep breath of the cold air, I smiled. Just… so thrilled to feel whole again. I had gotten a shower, and a quick haircut. Not the butchery that the PRT subjected me to. But something respectable; my hair was shorter now. Barely reaching my shoulders. It was enough that…everyone could see my new accessories.
"Hello there Ms. Paige. How're you doing today?" I looked over, seeing Taylor walk over with her guards. Why she had guards, I didn't ask. I mean, I had guards. Two of them, both from the Military Police. It was odd, seeing so many people in uniforms. It took a moment to pull my tablet from the small backpack I had been given. "Hello Taylor."
"Hmm, you know that you don't have to do that right? I'm confident that the neck-piece that I made for you." I nodded, not really ready to say that I didn't trust it. Taylor had made it for me yesterday, apparently after a day of testing. It was a wide strip of metal that curved around the front of my throat. And connected to the headpiece that I was wearing as a headband. We tested it once. And…it wasn't uncomfortable. I could talk normally. But when I tried to use my powers? It made my voice distort, with the pitch swinging up and down. The soldier I tried to use it on broke down laughing, instead of standing on the crate like I was ordering him to.
Taylor looked at me for a moment or, at least I think she did. Wearing dark sunglasses in the morning would have been a bold fashion choice, or the sign of a hangover. But she had made it clear when we met up that she was blind. The glasses were for everyone else's benefit.
Panacea walked up, with her guards. She was bundled up in her costume, with a jacket on top. She was nursing a cup of coffee in her hands. "Morning," said Taylor.
"I hate mornings."
Well…someone wasn't a morning person. I smiled, and it felt good to smile. Taylor promised that she would make me a better voice-inhibitor when we got back to her factory. Apparently, the PRT wouldn't be able to touch me there. I wasn't ready to speak yet, nor thank my rescuers properly. But one day.
One day I would. Thank them. And sing again.
I raised a hand to shield my eyes as the helicopters landed, and let my guards hustle me into the second one. Taylor and Amy would ride together, and we would all meet up in Brockton Bay.
As we took off into the air, I watched the ground fall away, and felt free for the first time in months.
Free as a bird.
(END)
Sprout 3.3.5 - Freebird
Boston
One week after Leviathan hit the city.
I ran into someone. My shoulder hurt, and my ribs. It hurt to breathe, but I couldn't stop. They went down, cried out. I didn't want to hurt anyone, I didn't mean to hurt anyone. But I couldn't stop. I couldn't. If they caught me, I would go back. And I couldn't go back. To sit and wait, and wonder how my life was going to end.
I gripped a pole, scraping my palms. Turned the corner quickly. This road was more clear. I ran as fast as I could. Splashing through mud, trying not to slip and fall. Everything would end if I slipped.
"There she is!" "Cut left!"
I could hear a whine in the air, like a bird. I ducked, not daring to look back. I heaved in air through my nose, my scars stretching and painful. I felt something wet run down the skin of my throat, might be sweat, might be blood. I couldn't stop.
In the corner of my eye, I could see someone running. Bright colours, splattered with mud. A cape. I couldn't let them catch me.
Another turn, I could feel them at my back. I couldn't go back there. Just run, keep running. My lungs hurt, I wanted to cry. Darkness fogged up the edge of my sight.
Ahead of me, was the camp entrance. Guarded. Watchful uniforms to keep the peace. Different from them. Maybe these would be different. The Guards raised their hands, shouted orders. Hands on weapons, then weapons raised. I couldn't slow down to explain. I could see their faces, maybe they could see mine. I threw myself to the ground, feeling the gravel claw at my skin.
I scrambled, clawing at their boots. Curling up around their legs, pressing closer. Please God, let them protect me. My lungs burned for oxygen, blackness pressed in around my eyes. I spoke as much as I could. Please help me. Don't let them take me. Please help me. I don't know what I sounded like. Blood hammered in my ears. The blackness won; and I felt hands on my shoulders.
"Heh meh. Heh me pleys."
AEH
"Stop right there! Stay where you are!"
"That woman is a wanted fugitive and we are taking her in!"
"Step back! You! Stay where you are! Let us sort this out."
"There's nothing to sort out! We.."
"PRT Boston is suspended while Martial Law is in effect, you have no authority here! Malan, check her."
"On it chief. Ma'am? Can you hear me? Ma'am? Shit, looks like she fainted. Hold up… shit! Fuck me! 'This is south gate, I need a medic team and transport, urgent! Collapsed female, signs of torture, possible mutilation.' This woman's in a bad way, Chief."
"Fuck me.. 'This is South Gate Chief Rodan, calling Colonel Herres for a developing situation, requesting backup.' Stay the fuck where you are Cape! This is a Military matter now."
"That woman is a wanted Cape, and belongs in PRT custody! We are the only ones who can hold her."
"Another move, and I start shooting. Back the fuck up!"
"Chief? I think this woman is Canary."
"Oh Fuck me… 'This is Rodan, connect me directly with Colonel Herres, urgent backup needed at South Gate.'"
AEH
I sat. Breathing. My sides hurt, my legs hurt. I kept looking down at my wrists… but still no cuffs. Opening my eyes had been the worst part. Would I wake up in a cell? My hands locked in those heavy manacles again? In some dark room with no power? A van, driving me to hell on earth?
The reality was… mundane. I opened my eyes to a cot, in a tent. A medical drip was attached to my arm. I wanted to take it out, but the uniformed guard made me hesitate. Aside from my cot, the wool blanket covering my legs, there was a table, some chairs, and grass for a floor. I could hear the sounds of the camp around me, people moving about, conversation, shouting in the distance. The tent flap opened, and a man and a woman entered. I tried to stand; freezing as the woman took large steps towards me. I flinched as she reached for me.
The woman wore a military uniform of some kind. The man was wearing the browns of a state trooper, he was younger, and he carried a case under his arm. On both their temples, I could see the blue glow of a Focus. I had heard about those. Listening to the teams going around Boston, listening to the radio, listening the first and only time that I went to the camp for food.
The military woman was strong, pulling me up. Gently though. She guided me to the chair sitting across from them. The trooper was already there, staring at my face… oh. I lowered my eyes, not wanting to see the look on his face. I guess my scarf came off. I hope I wasn't bleeding. Everyone settled in, and I kept my eyes on the table, clasping my fingers together. Still surprised that there were no cuffs.
"Ms. Mcabee? My name is Captain Miriam Semrad of the Judge Advocate General's Corps. This is Trooper Waldren of the Massachusetts State Patrol." Trooper Waldren nodded. "We are informing you now that you're being recorded. This is for your safety and for ours. Do you understand what we're telling you?" I nodded slightly, my hair tickling the back of my neck, and falling around my ears. I wanted to tuck it away, but didn't want to move and startle the guards.
Captain Semrad leaned forward. "Ms. Macabee, it's important that you clearly acknowledge that you understand." Oh no, she thinks… I nodded frantically. Slowly, I pulled my hand up, covering my mouth completely. Then with one finger. I hope she understands.
She frowned, "You can't speak? Alright, wait a moment, we'll solve this." Then she just… walked out of the tent. I stared after her, looking at that slice of blue sky. Trooper Waldren spoke up, he sounded young. "Don't worry about her. She's straightlaced, but knows her stuff. She'll be back in a moment."
The state trooper put his hands on the table, palms up. "Here, can you give me your hands? I know you took a tumble when you met the guards, we don't want to let those scrapes get infected." I slowly stretched my hands forward. Turning them over, I could see the scrapes. Funny, I didn't feel them. Waldren hummed for a moment, pulling his case closer. I blinked, it was… purple. A dark purple. With flowers stitched in. The man must have noticed because he smiled, "Don't judge. My wife made it for me. Told me that 'big bad state troopers need to soften their image'. It's something of a good luck charm now." Ripping open an alcohol swab, he started gently swiping my hands. It stung, and I flinched. "Sorry sorry, I know it stings. We'll be done in a moment." We sat in silence. It was funny, the things that you miss. With those heavy manacles on, with the guards and the restraints… I hadn't held someone's hand in a long time. His hands were cold, but mine were hot. It was nice.
"There we go, we should be good now." The trooper's voice pulled me out of my head. He turned my hands over. "Well that won't do. Hold on, we can fix that." I didn't understand what he was talking about. He reached back into his purple flower pouch and pulled out… nail clippers. I suddenly felt mortified, staring down at my fingers. My nails were long. And cracked, and chipped, and it had been so long since I cared or had time to… Click. I blinked. The young man inspected his work, then clipped again. One by one… I… started to look civilized again.
Something tightened in my chest. I breathed deep through my nose, fully aware that my jaw was sealed. I swallowed. "There we go! Much better. Alright, decision time Ms. Mcabee. It's an important one." He smiled at me. It made me feel… like something other than a mess. Like my old self. He reached into his pack and pulled out nail polish… I must have looked confused because he grinned. "My wife told me to always be prepared. And yes, she packed these. So you have two colours. Quiet-Seduction… also known as red. Or Marina-Dive… also known as light blue." I smiled. Making sure to keep my mouth closed. God… how long ago was it since I smiled? I pointed. Blue would do. Although he was wrong. That's not 'blue', that's two shades lighter than 'robin egg blue'. I wondered where the Captain went…? I know my sense of time was off, but maybe this was going faster than expected?
I let go of those thoughts as Trooper Waldren firmly took my hand, and delicately started painting my nails. There was something so nostalgic about it. "My wife works at this cute little clothing boutique, and she always told me that her nails should match her outfits for the week. Yes, she planned her outfits for the week. My wife is a very organized woman. The boutique didn't survive, but she was just fine. Recently we met up and…"
I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath through the lump in my throat. I remembered the good times backstage before a show. Picking out clothes, accessories, makeup. The chatter of my stylist as he worked. God…I missed those days.
"There we go, good to go." He said with a smile. I looked at my nails. Trimmed short, freshly painted. And he did a good job also. No splatter. With this done I… I relaxed. I felt… human again. I wanted to blow on them, get the paint to dry faster. But… that wasn't possible. I didn't want him to see.
The tent opened, and the Captain walked in, a tablet under her arm. I looked in shock, worried that Waldren would get in trouble for interacting with me. I started to shake my head, not wanting him to get in trouble like the previous time…
She spared a glance, but otherwise didn't comment. I was relieved. She placed a tablet in front of me. Keyboard on the screen. "This will let you communicate with us. It might be slower, but it will speak what you write. Give it a try." Oh… for a moment I was angry. Or hurt. Or… I don't know what I felt. But I remember the trial. I remembered how hard it was to get in touch with anyone, even my own lawyer.
I tapped away, mindful to keep my fingers steady. I didn't want to smudge my nails. "Please don't send me back" The two of them looked at one another. Waldren spoke up, having returned everything to his case. "Right now, it's important we understand what happened, Paige. Can you tell us how you got out of PRT Boston? The more we know, the better our superiors can make a decision."
They had to keep me. I didn't want to go back. If I answered, they might keep me. I didn't do anything wrong. "I was released. With the others. Someone named Armstrong. Came on the intercom, then the doors all opened. My cuffs fell off." Captain Semrad was writing notes, Waldren was just sitting watching me. I swallowed as I typed away. The robotic voice of the tablet filled the silence with a light female voice. "He said; Leviathan is coming. Run, or fight. No one deserves to die in a cell. I ran. Some prisoners fought each other. I got outside. Started running."
"You ran into the city? How did you survive the attack?"
"I hid. Found a Parking Garage. Climbed the inside stairway, up and up." My hands started shaking. I had been so afraid. Worse than the trial. Or after the trial. "The water was rising. And the roof was damaged. Rain was coming in, falling down the stairs. I could hear crashing outside. Rumbling. I hid." I was trembling.
"Paige, you're safe now. Take a deep breath for me, okay? Deeeeppp breath, good." Waldren spoke up, as Captain Semrad wrote a few notes down. I breathed through my nose, in and out. I was safe. Nothing would happen to me. I was safe. Please let me be safe.
A moment passed, before Captain Semrad spoke, looking up from her notes. "You made it clear before that you can't speak. Is that an injury from the attack? Debris or something else?"
I shook my head. My hair and feathers flying everywhere. I desperately needed to cut it. "No." I didn't want to say more. But the Captain wasn't willing. "If something happened to you, Ms. Macabee, we need to know about it." I glanced at Waldren, who gave me a firm nod, and a small smile.
"It was when they arrested me. They were shouting. I didn't understand what was happening. Wanted to ask questions. They hit me." I mimed punching my jaw. The two of them looked at each other again. Just a quick glance. "A PRT trooper hit you? One of the Protectorate heroes?" I shook my head, looking down at the table. "I don't know. It hurt, and it was loud. I couldn't focus. They kept shouting; 'don't let her sing'."
"But you were provided treatment when they had you in detention, correct?" Waldren asked, making me look up again. He was looking at me with such a look of concern. Captain Semrad was writing furiously. I tilted my head side to side. Tapping away at the screen took some time. "No. I woke up in a cell. They told me that my jaw was damaged, and that it had been wired shut for my safety. Everything hurt."
"Were you given anything for the pain?"
"I think so, but it's hazy. I kept being drugged. They had a collar on me. To make me sleep. So… I didn't feel much pain for long."
"I'm no dentist, but wiring your jaw shut would make it very hard to eat. And drink. Were you getting enough food and water?"
Oh no. I closed my eyes. Afraid that they would ask that. "Yes. They…" I took a moment to break, shaking out my fingers. The nice blue tips of my nails caught my eyes. It was a lovely colour. "They removed my front teeth. Two of them. So I can drink, and eat. With a straw." There. I said it. Now they would know I'm ugly. I remembered finding a mirror. Crying in front of it when I stumbled out after Leviathan had left. I stared at the table. Not wanting to see the look in their eyes.
Someone stood up, and I could see a hand reaching across the table. I glanced up. Waldren laid his hand on top of mine, while Captain Semrad spoke softly but urgently in the corner. The glow of her Focus was obvious.
"Alright Paige. We're going to get a doctor to look at you, alright? Just to make sure you're alright." I nodded, resigning myself to it all. I wanted to hope that they would keep me. Please don't send me back to the Birdcage.
Captain Semrad walked over. "Ms. Macabee. I am formally informing you that you are being held in military custody. You will not be transferred over to PRT custody, and we will require a full interview as to your treatment under their care."
I cried. Leaning over, placed my head on the table and cried. With teary eyes, I pulled the tablet closer. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."
I kept hitting the repeat button until Waldren gently took the tablet away from me.
AEH
Herres
Colonel Herres was a man juggling with chainsaws. For the past week he had given thousands of instructions in order to establish some sense of organization to the devastated city of Boston. He had enough problems. He didn't need more.
Too bad that the universe didn't agree with that sentiment.
He sat in his office, watching the screen that had been pulled in. With him was Colonel Mathew Johnson, of the JAG. Boston had seen a number of military police and Judge Advocate General officers arriving over the past week. Bolstering the decimated Boston police and justice department. Colonel Johnson had been the first person Herres had called when he received the news that a wanted, convicted, parahuman appeared at his gates begging for protection.
Now the two men had to sort out this mess.
"Very nice empathy play with Waldren. Boy's got talent."
"He's genuinely a nice man according to his co-workers. He was outside the city during the Leviathan mess. He's been trying to prove himself ever since."
"Well, keep an eye on him. Don't want to lose talent to burnout." The video they watched was an hour old now. Techs had gone over the whole thing to make sure that nothing would impact the viewers.
Herres paused the video as Paige was telling the officers about her treatment by the PRT. "We had a cape healer, Panacea, take a look at her while she was unconscious. The officers were not made aware of her injuries, so their reactions aren't compromised. I have a write up of Panacea's findings, and am waiting for my Docs to give me theirs. So far? Everything Canary is saying lines up. Panacea also paralyzed her vocal cords, just in case."
Herres reached for a pen on his desk, twisting it between his fingers. "What are my options Johnson?"
The older Colonel looked at him, then back at the monitor. "You want my professional or personal opinion?"
"Let's start with professional."
"Legally, the President has suspended the operations of the PRT inside the Boston area. Anything PRT related is meant to report to you, or the JAG office, or the Police department."
"Which means that the capture team I've got engaged in a staring contest with my soldiers is legally tricky."
Johnson barked a laugh. "Escaped fugitives should be the responsibility of the States Marshals. But the PRT could argue that away." He grew serious. "No, the trouble is if you don't want to turn that young woman back to the PRT."
"I already said I wouldn't."
"I know, but there's a mountain of shit to come because of it. Look, if you want to use your special authority to grant her a pardon, you can do so."
"And if I do, we'll have dozens of people screaming about tyranny and the mishandling of the justice system."
The JAG officer noded. "Another option is to put her through a military court, and use that to challenge the previous conviction." "Any other options?"
"Stash her somewhere, gather evidence for an appeal, and fight it out in federal courts." Johnson frowned. "But that only works as long as you're Governor. Which means that when the city is handed back to civilian control, the PRT gets jurisdiction again."
"And she ends up arrested."
"Yes."
Herres sighed. "Alright, professional opinion of her case and conviction?"
"It was the best case of railroading I've ever seen. It wasn't lawyers who did that, it was fucking engineers for how perfect it was." Herres waved his hand for more details. "Her lawyer was a year out of school, working as a public defender with fifteen other cases. The man barely had time to take a shit, let alone get a solid defence going."
Johnson grumbled. "And that conviction? A death sentence for unintended sexual assault? Judge Roberts made it clear in his verdict. He wasn't punishing the girl for her crimes. She was just the message to anyone else who might have powers like her. Fall in line, or get crushed."
"Talk to me about the Birdcage."
"It's a legal precedent that bends the rules like they're pretzels. And is basically held together by string and chewing gum." Johnson sighs. "It hinges on Dragon. She bought land from the Canadian Government, and then built the prison. So it's technically, 'private property'. But Dragon is a recognized Federal Employee thanks to the treaty that allowed the creation of the PRT Toronto branch. So a Judge in a criminal case can control sentencing, which also means 'where' the prisoner is held. So if, like Judge Roberts did with Paige Macabee, a judge sentences a prisoner to Baumann? They aren't technically sentencing them to a 'prison'. The Judge is sentencing them to the care of a Federal Warden, Dragon. Who has only one place to put them. A prison, on private property."
"With no appeals, where the prisoners are the guards, no communication in or out, no inspections, and no review board."
"Yes, under Constitutional Law, and several dozen cases of precedent law, that prison shouldn't exist. But it does. Because it solves a problem. It's seen as a reasonable solution to the problem of Capes, without getting involved with repealing the death sentence in most states."
"That's the thing, isn't it? How bad things can be made to sound reasonable…like breaking a woman's jaw to keep her from using her super powered voice. Like removing her teeth to make sure she can eat. All seems reasonable…until you look back at everything as a whole and look at the evil you've done."
Herres looked back at the frozen screen, quiet for a moment. "You think we have a case?"
"Personally? What was done to that woman was a horrible mockery of our justice system, and the basic rights of the Constitution. Her treatment before, during, and after her trial are shameful, cruel, and an attack on the safety of every citizen of our country."
Johnson looked him dead in the eye. "Professional opinion? You've got one hell of a case. With a good lawyer? You can make the PRT bleed for this mess that they created."
"YOU ARE A BUTCHA'!" The great shout, then thud, from outside had the two men out the door in moments.
Standing in the hall was CMO Elban, holding the PRT officer's jacket in his fists. He had clearly just slammed the man into the wall, because the officer was reeling.
"That's enough!" Herres roared.
Elban looked over slowly. Blinked at Colonel Herres, before releasing the man and snapping to a picture perfect salute. The PRT officer slumped down, catching himself before he hit the floor. The guard outside Herres' door looked to him for order. "Doctor Elban, my office, now!" The tall black man marched into the office that Herres had commandeered. The Colonel closed the door, after waving the JAG officer back in.
Herres took in the taller man. Elban stared right ahead, his jaw rigid. "Doctor Elban. Your assessment of Paige Macabee?" The Doctor handed him a written report, several pages long. Herres glanced over the first page, before dropping it on his desk. "At ease. Summarize for me Doctor."
Elban sighed, relaxing a little. "Subject is suffering from malnutrition, and dehydration. She is underweight, although not to an unhealthy degree. She has abrasions on her body consistent with exploring the damaged areas of Boston. The rest of the assessment was carried out by a dental specialist. She has bleeding of the gums from extended poor oral hygiene, and signs of infection from improper post treatment care after four teeth were removed. The 'lock' between her upper and lower jaw is installed correctly, but it also shows signs of infection. The setting of the jawbone was done in an acceptable but imperfect manner. She would likely have had pain from muscles being stressed in unexpected ways." He took a breath.
"At the moment, I can't theorize on damage her liver or kidneys might have experienced due to repeated use of whatever drug they were using to knock her out. Also, a discrete questioning by one of my female staff reports that Ms. Macabee does not suspect any cases of sexual assault. Either when she was conscious, or unconscious."
"That lines up with Panacea's account. I trust you documented everything?"
"Yes Sir. Photos and video. Both are being recorded in a variety of mediums."
Herres nodded, slowly coming to terms with things. This was a fight outside of his duties inside Boston. Some would say that he was overreaching with his authority. But all his life, and all his time in the military, he had known that there was right, and there was wrong. And this was a chance to right a wrong. And that was always worth doing.
"I will ask Panacea to heal her completely. Elban, you oversee that. And get a dentist or an oral surgeon to remove the hardware. If you can't find one on staff, or in the camps, we'll see about bringing one in." The big man nodded. "In the meantime, I'm going to ask Ms. Hebert if she can develop a more humane way of containing Ms. Macabee's powers."
"In the meantime… CMO Elban. Take the rest of the day off. Oversee Ms. Macabee's care, then transfer command to your second. Find some peace, come back tomorrow. Dismissed" The Doctor nodded, saluted, then walked out. "Johnson, please get me that PRT officer."
Herres called out to the guard at the door. Stood as the man walked in. "Officer. I'll make this short. Paige Macabee will not be transferred to your custody. In fact, I'm about to get on the phone and demand to know why the PRT didn't tell my office, or the Boston Police that there were fugitives at large in the city. I will demand to know why a capture team of PRT capes, and PRT officers, was active in my city where you have NO jurisdiction!"
Planting his fists on the desk, he leaned forward. "I am going to have a unit of Military Police and JAG officers escort you back to your prisoners. They will review your actions, they will review the state of your prisoners, and they will stay with you until you leave this city."
The Colonel paused for a moment. "Am I understood?"
AEH
"And that's everything, Ms. Hebert."
He leaned back in his chair as he looked across the desk at Taylor. She had been prompt in responding to his summons. But with the drawdown of the LRL, a lot of her time had been spent analyzing the data from the machines, along with fine-tuning the Focus network now that she had added enhancements to the network to allow streaming and better datalink.
Even now, there were times when he struggled with the scale of a quantum leap forward in not only communications, but datalink systems that the Focus represented. To have it all on nearly instantaneous demand and be able to communicate immediately through the network provided a strategic and tactical flexibility that was unmatched, was nothing sort of awe-inspiring.
The media may focus on the LRL and it certainly made a difference in the lives that it had saved. But to him, the Focus was the true hero of Boston. Without them, rescuers would have taken days to do what was now accomplished in hours. Nor would Herres be able to flex the logistical might of the military and rescue services so finely like they had done here.
And despite the age of the girl, and the attached criticisms he was starting to get from outside sources? Taylor Hebert had shown herself, once she had awoken, to be a solid asset in providing assistance in almost any matter when asked.
But he was distracting himself from the here and now. What mattered now was if Ms. Hebert was able to work something up that he would be able to use against the grave injustice the PRT had done to Ms. Mcabee.
"Do we have access to the PRT files on her?" was the first question that escaped the girl's mouth, "power testing, observations from officers, any notes from Dragon?"
"No. But I can demand them."
The teenager shook her head, "They'd be helpful if you can get them within the next day, but that doesn't help Canary at this moment," she fell silent, and he had no doubt she was looking through something on her Focus. How she was able to use it so adroitly without having to use her hand was a point of curiosity for himself, but he had a feeling that it was more the expertise of the inventor instead of anything nefarious.
"Okay, a lot of this is based upon conjecture," she finally said, "but, I might be able to work something up. I will need to have access to her, and we'll need to find someone willing to be a test subject for a Master."
"A test subject?"
"I need to confirm a few things about her power before I can start providing a solution. If there is one. Mainly it's about the expression of her power and how it's transmitted. If it's transmitted through sound or if there is another hidden mechanic of it. If it's solely through sound, then the question becomes the origin point of its transmission. If it's through the vocal box, then that narrows it down even further. At that point, the question would be if it's tied to a specific vocal pattern, or if it's broad-spectrum and just uses her voice as the medium. If it's the former, the solution could be something as simple as putting together something that would change the pattern, and if it's the latter, something like a throat microphone should work. She'd have to be trained on how to use it, of course. But, like I said, there are options, but I need to have the time and access to her in order to pin it down."
All that in less than eight minutes, he thought to himself as he glanced at the clock.
"Alright Ms. Hebert. We'll get you what you need. But I'm cutting orders for Captain Schofield to make sure that you are nowhere near the testing area. Dismissed."
The scarred blind girl nodded, and walked out. Her security team fell in around her.
Colonel Herres sat back down at his desk, and began to tackle the next problem.
AEH
Paige Macabee
I pulled my jacket tighter, trying to ward off the morning cold. The last two days were… something out of a dream for me. I woke up this morning and wasn't cold. I wasn't waking up huddled under newspapers or in some broken apartment.
After the interview, this Cape named Panacea came in to speak with me. Her costume was mud stained white, with red crosses on it. She explained that she was a healer, and that… she could fix me. She put her hood down, and had frizzy hair, with freckles on her cheeks. Then… she took my hand and everything felt better. I relaxed, just felt… warmth flow over me. Everything was a haze after that. I remember people, lights, sounds. But I wasn't afraid. I could feel her hand, holding mine. And it was still holding mine when the world came back into focus. And she held my hand as I cried, because nothing hurt. My jaw didn't hurt, swallowing didn't hurt, my missing teeth didn't hurt. In fact!
I ran my tongue across my teeth. Marveling that they were all there. Taking a deep breath of the cold air, I smiled. Just… so thrilled to feel whole again. I had gotten a shower, and a quick haircut. Not the butchery that the PRT subjected me to. But something respectable; my hair was shorter now. Barely reaching my shoulders. It was enough that…everyone could see my new accessories.
"Hello there Ms. Paige. How're you doing today?" I looked over, seeing Taylor walk over with her guards. Why she had guards, I didn't ask. I mean, I had guards. Two of them, both from the Military Police. It was odd, seeing so many people in uniforms. It took a moment to pull my tablet from the small backpack I had been given. "Hello Taylor."
"Hmm, you know that you don't have to do that right? I'm confident that the neck-piece that I made for you." I nodded, not really ready to say that I didn't trust it. Taylor had made it for me yesterday, apparently after a day of testing. It was a wide strip of metal that curved around the front of my throat. And connected to the headpiece that I was wearing as a headband. We tested it once. And…it wasn't uncomfortable. I could talk normally. But when I tried to use my powers? It made my voice distort, with the pitch swinging up and down. The soldier I tried to use it on broke down laughing, instead of standing on the crate like I was ordering him to.
Taylor looked at me for a moment or, at least I think she did. Wearing dark sunglasses in the morning would have been a bold fashion choice, or the sign of a hangover. But she had made it clear when we met up that she was blind. The glasses were for everyone else's benefit.
Panacea walked up, with her guards. She was bundled up in her costume, with a jacket on top. She was nursing a cup of coffee in her hands. "Morning," said Taylor.
"I hate mornings."
Well…someone wasn't a morning person. I smiled, and it felt good to smile. Taylor promised that she would make me a better voice-inhibitor when we got back to her factory. Apparently, the PRT wouldn't be able to touch me there. I wasn't ready to speak yet, nor thank my rescuers properly. But one day.
One day I would. Thank them. And sing again.
I raised a hand to shield my eyes as the helicopters landed, and let my guards hustle me into the second one. Taylor and Amy would ride together, and we would all meet up in Brockton Bay.
As we took off into the air, I watched the ground fall away, and felt free for the first time in months.
Free as a bird.
(END)
A Lone Man On A Mountain I
New
AlSmash
Making the rounds.
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This started out as an idea from BigBadBen and kinda took off from there. Introducing a side character that will only have a few or so scenes for the foreseeable future. But it felt like the right place to put him.
Special thanks to all of you who decided to throw yourselves on the Patreon. I'm currently in contact with Mikezzzzz on Deviantart for the commission. Some of you in the Worm community should know that name. So let's hope to see something in the foreseeable future.
A Lone Man on a Mountain I
Taking in a deep breath of the cold, mountainous air, he released it slowly, watching as it steamed from him. It was one of the few accompaniments he had in this dreary landscape. His gaze slipped from the rising sun to the valley down below, to the remains of what had been the city of Eagleton, his home.
Now it was nothing more than a graveyard infested by the Machine Army.
An overgrown crumbling ruin of a city, which nature was reclaiming inch by inch. One where danger often hid in plain sight.
Yet, in the nearly twelve years since they had emerged, the Machine Army had learned to leave him alone. The exact reason why they had chosen to, when they had made it a point to kill every other human they encountered in their territory, he didn't know. But he had a feeling that somewhere, someplace, in those ones and zeros, he had earned a grudging respect from them that it was not worth the effort to remove him from their domain.
There was no peace between the machines and himself. There would NEVER be peace between them. But grudging respect? Leaving each other to live and let live? It was tolerable. Over the years he had just become…tired. Going through the motions of life, waiting for the inevitable day when he was finally reunited with his family.
Rubbing a hand through his unkempt beard, he pushed the memories back. That was the trick really. Focus on the now. Live in the moment.
So he kept living, waking up each day with tasks in mind. Complete the tasks. Sleep. Wake again. Enjoy the little moments of nature unspoiled by other people.
Because there was no one else around. Just ghosts. Old memories. Little reminders.
Focus on the tasks.
He shouldered his pack, jostling the weapons on his back. He had a boar to track.
The sun was high in the sky. The gravel crunched under his boots, and the grass pushed up through the cracks of the road he walked along. Animals were amazingly adaptive. Where they would have once avoided this part of the city, now they crossed through it without fear. The short memories of their lives were blessings in a way.
Rost kept his eyes moving. Taking in the broken display windows, the mannequins with water-stained clothes. Maria would have commented on that.
He bit his lip. Don't go down that road.
Taking another look ahead, he slowed to stop. Intuition was a funny thing. It was the brain's way of saying that it noticed something, but it wasn't certain what it was. Gut instinct was a powerful thing, if you could start respecting it.
His years before returning to Eagleton had trained him to respect it. It saved his life quite a few times.
Alright…break it down. What was he seeing? Rusted cars. Crumpled post box. Broken shop windows. Grass moving in the wind. His grip on his spear tightened. Guns were too complex, the gunpowder ran out years ago. Bows, arrows, spear. Metal tools were fine. Most survival tools lasted.
Collecting a scrap of rubble at his feet, he aimed and let fly. The pebble flew true, clanging against the mailbox. The sound rang out in the silence like a gunshot. He waited. The sound faded. Yet still, he waited.
With a metallic shriek, the mailbox unfolded. Nothing humanoid, just a ramshackle collection of limbs, and hinges. It was completely lacking in symmetry, but somehow able to fake a damaged mailbox. Just not convincingly enough.
It warbled and chittered, a bladed limb jabbing in his direction. He lowered his stance, ready if needed. Live and let live only went so far. There would NEVER be peace.
A fight didn't seem to be in the forecast today. The machine backed away, before turning and taking off in an ungainly scamper.
He relaxed, adjusting the pack on his back. Daylight was fading, it was time to track his prey or he would go hungry this evening. There was no benefit in standing still.
Sighing, he kept low. Human voices on the wind as the patrol walked by. The added weight of his kill on an improvised sled was not pleasant, but like most discomforts it could be ignored.
The PRT did not send their best to Quarantine Areas. They sent two types; the undisciplined and the zealous. The zealous were those who believed the hype. Believed that they were the thin line keeping madness at bay from escaping. They went about their duties carefully. Equipment cleaned. Helmets on. Procedure followed to the letter.
The rest were undisciplined. The washouts. The troublemakers. The ones who were an incident from being judiciously cashed out, or just couldn't handle their job, but the system couldn't just terminate them. They walked about with scuffed up gear, smoking, joking, and wandering around when they should be keeping a tight patrol pattern.
Capes fell into these categories as well, they just came with a brand of their own troubles in addition. Most of them were angry and itching for combat. They wanted the action, they wanted the fight. He had wondered in the past if this was a condition of the capes, because almost every single one he had encountered assigned to the Quarantine Zone shared these traits.
He did his best to avoid them. Not impossible, just difficult. They changed their patrols often. Twice in the past he had been caught and questioned. The first time he had tried to explain that this place was…home. Even destroyed as it was, he felt at peace here.
The second time, he just kept quiet. The outcome didn't change in either case. They relocated him to the nearest city. He would hike back past their patrols and just kept on living. It hadn't been hard to set up in Eagleton. The PRT didn't expect anyone to break in. Or if someone did, it would usually be Capes who wanted to steal something or use the Machine Army for their own ends. Some attempts were picked up by patrols. The rest made it in and were found by the machines. The Machines generally won those fights.
The men passed by, chatting and letting their weapons swing loose. Sloppy and amateurish. It was clearly evident that they were content in their own superiority.
No matter. Night was falling, and the sky was growing dark with rain clouds. He would have to hurry to make his evening camp. He had dozens spread across the zone. But few could be used to dress and care for his kill. It wouldn't do to waste precious meat.
Scratching at his jaw, he huddled closer to his fire. April weather in Tennessee was usually temperate, but the cold front had brought rain with it. It wasn't enough to be freezing, but it was enough to carry a chill. Yet, despite the inclement weather, his demons had been silent for a while now. Being in the forest helped keep them quiet.
Not the same quiet as the house. That was the quiet of a tomb, of old memories waiting to jump out at him. It was only here, now, with the fire going, and the day's work done that he would let himself remember. Happy memories, of successes and shared hopes, of mundane moments that were now so precious.
It took effort to not think of the later times. Hearing the news while he was half a world away fighting someone else's battles. Fighting battles that made no difference in protecting his family from falling to bloodshed at home. Where they should have been safe.
The wind picked up, sending sparks spiralling in the air. The trees groaned as they swayed, and the fire crackled and shifted. Leaning back on the log, he looked up to the sky and noted the clouds starting to part, the rain giving way to the still of night.
He stoked the fire, now free of the threat of rain and fed a few more sticks to the hungry flames.
"If you walked any heavier, the patrols might catch you."
"And if you keep growing that beard, they might think you're a bear."
He looked up, watching as a younger man ambled into the light. He had a pack on his back, a sturdy pair of boots and clothes fit for a time in the woods.
"What do you want, Clark?"
"Can't an old friend drop in and say hello? Swap stories about how lovely the forest is at this time of year?"
He snorted, "The last time I saw you I held a gun to your face. If you call that friendly behavior, then I wonder who handles your mental evaluations."
"Sometimes the best of friends have disagreements at gunpoint," was the other man's blase response, coming to a stop beside the fire, motioning to the other log, "May I?"
For a brief moment, he wanted to be petty and tell the other man off. But the one thing that everyone knew was that the man was persistent to a 'T' once he set his mind to it. So instead of telling him to pound sand, he merely motioned to the other log, and Clark took a seat on it.
"What do you want?"
"A lot, but we can start with you putting aside this 'mountain man' aesthetic and come with me to do some good."
He honestly knew it was going to be that, he thought to himself with a sigh.
"Fuck off."
Clark leaned back, uncaring of the bite in his words. "Oh come on, Rost, I came all this way and tracked you down, the least you can do is pretend to be interested. Just a little? Please?"
Persistent, and annoying. Yeah, that was Clark.
"I'll listen, but that doesn't mean I'm going to say yes."
"See, I've got a problem. I was asked to put together a team of killers. The kind of team who will get shit done, keep their mouths shut, and who work well with the strange and the unexpected. And, of course, kill it."
Clark pulled his arms wide, "Not a lot of people can achieve that. Even less when you consider the new blood running things. Which means I need to pull a few dusty relics from storage for the job," he then leaned forward slightly, a damnable smirk on his face, "You're the relic in this case…in the event you missed that."
"Another war to fight in some far-flung corner of the world? Doing the dirty work for people who don't care and will never see the consequences of their actions? I'll repeat myself," Rost frowned, looking over the fire. It would need wood soon, "Fuck off."
"See Rost, that's where you're wrong. We ain't hunting some Russian oligarch too big for his britches this time. No more globetrotting and killing someone cuz our bosses think they looked at America the wrong way. The dirty work is happening right in our backyard. Home soil. And it's Ryan putting this soirée together. You think Ryan doesn't know the score?"
That brought his retort up short. Taking the moment to collect his thoughts, he tossed a few more branches into the fire, setting the embers flying, "Ryan wouldn't go for it. Not here at home. Not worth the mess if things got out of control."
Clark shrugged, "Things have changed. Ryan thinks it's worth it now. Not sure if you saw the news, but the PRT has been making 'shitting the bed' an artform lately. Ryan thinks with the PRT finally getting its well-earned 'Caesar and the senate' treatment, there's a chance we can make a joke of their dog and pony show. Frankly, I think it's about damn time."
For a moment, he felt a surge of rage at the mention of the PRT. It had been them that had failed to protect his family. It had been them that had decided that it wasn't worth doing anything about the Machine Army, instead choosing to wall it in and forget it. But as quickly as it was there, it was gone, replaced with the familiar emptiness.
"I'm not that person anymore, Clark," he finally said, using a stick to stoke the fire, "I left it behind me."
"Bullshit, Everett. You never leave it behind, not until your dying day. You're lying to yourself if you think you can lock it up and throw away the key. You were the best tracker the Marines ever had. You've survived in the heart of the Machine Army's territory for over a decade. I need your skills to help me deal with problems none of those pansies in DC have the guts for."
"Who are you going after?"
There was a moment of silence, before he got his answer.
"The Slaughterhouse Nine."
He raised an eyebrow. That was a name he had heard from time to time, usually over the radio when he chose to listen to it. The Slaughterhouse Nine, a group of murderous capes who went from place to place. Why they still seemed to exist had always bothered him, it was nothing that a few precision-guided bombs wouldn't be able to solve. Only it seemed the government was quite content with keeping it a cape issue.
Seems like someone had finally lost their patience
"Why now? You've had years to deal with them."
The other man smirked, "Things change, like they always do. New allies, new tech, new enemies, new possibilities. Does it really matter, Everett? This is going to happen. I don't know what the odds are, I don't ask. But the odds are better with you, then without you."
"So," the man leaned in, "are you in?"
He didn't answer immediately, instead choosing to stare into the fire, searching for answers. There was a part of him that yearned for what Clark was offering, to get back on the horse and actually do something to make a difference again. But there was another part of him that felt like by doing so, he would be dishonoring the memory of both Maria and Alana.
But was he really? Was he actually honoring them by doing this? Not quite living, but on the other hand, not quite dead either. Just existing, shuffling through what was left of his life, waiting for death to finally reunite himself with them.
Was it fair to their memory?
He knew the answer to it and he hated it. Because he knew exactly what Maria would say to him, even if he didn't want to admit it.
Closing his eyes, he released a sigh. Looking for something - anything really - that could stop him from doing this. But there simply wasn't an answer there.
"Alright," he finally said, "I'm in."
Clarke's smile was all teeth, as he held out a hand.
"Welcome to Rainbow."
Special thanks to all of you who decided to throw yourselves on the Patreon. I'm currently in contact with Mikezzzzz on Deviantart for the commission. Some of you in the Worm community should know that name. So let's hope to see something in the foreseeable future.
A Lone Man on a Mountain I
Taking in a deep breath of the cold, mountainous air, he released it slowly, watching as it steamed from him. It was one of the few accompaniments he had in this dreary landscape. His gaze slipped from the rising sun to the valley down below, to the remains of what had been the city of Eagleton, his home.
Now it was nothing more than a graveyard infested by the Machine Army.
An overgrown crumbling ruin of a city, which nature was reclaiming inch by inch. One where danger often hid in plain sight.
Yet, in the nearly twelve years since they had emerged, the Machine Army had learned to leave him alone. The exact reason why they had chosen to, when they had made it a point to kill every other human they encountered in their territory, he didn't know. But he had a feeling that somewhere, someplace, in those ones and zeros, he had earned a grudging respect from them that it was not worth the effort to remove him from their domain.
There was no peace between the machines and himself. There would NEVER be peace between them. But grudging respect? Leaving each other to live and let live? It was tolerable. Over the years he had just become…tired. Going through the motions of life, waiting for the inevitable day when he was finally reunited with his family.
Rubbing a hand through his unkempt beard, he pushed the memories back. That was the trick really. Focus on the now. Live in the moment.
So he kept living, waking up each day with tasks in mind. Complete the tasks. Sleep. Wake again. Enjoy the little moments of nature unspoiled by other people.
Because there was no one else around. Just ghosts. Old memories. Little reminders.
Focus on the tasks.
He shouldered his pack, jostling the weapons on his back. He had a boar to track.
xxxxxx
The sun was high in the sky. The gravel crunched under his boots, and the grass pushed up through the cracks of the road he walked along. Animals were amazingly adaptive. Where they would have once avoided this part of the city, now they crossed through it without fear. The short memories of their lives were blessings in a way.
Rost kept his eyes moving. Taking in the broken display windows, the mannequins with water-stained clothes. Maria would have commented on that.
He bit his lip. Don't go down that road.
Taking another look ahead, he slowed to stop. Intuition was a funny thing. It was the brain's way of saying that it noticed something, but it wasn't certain what it was. Gut instinct was a powerful thing, if you could start respecting it.
His years before returning to Eagleton had trained him to respect it. It saved his life quite a few times.
Alright…break it down. What was he seeing? Rusted cars. Crumpled post box. Broken shop windows. Grass moving in the wind. His grip on his spear tightened. Guns were too complex, the gunpowder ran out years ago. Bows, arrows, spear. Metal tools were fine. Most survival tools lasted.
Collecting a scrap of rubble at his feet, he aimed and let fly. The pebble flew true, clanging against the mailbox. The sound rang out in the silence like a gunshot. He waited. The sound faded. Yet still, he waited.
With a metallic shriek, the mailbox unfolded. Nothing humanoid, just a ramshackle collection of limbs, and hinges. It was completely lacking in symmetry, but somehow able to fake a damaged mailbox. Just not convincingly enough.
It warbled and chittered, a bladed limb jabbing in his direction. He lowered his stance, ready if needed. Live and let live only went so far. There would NEVER be peace.
A fight didn't seem to be in the forecast today. The machine backed away, before turning and taking off in an ungainly scamper.
He relaxed, adjusting the pack on his back. Daylight was fading, it was time to track his prey or he would go hungry this evening. There was no benefit in standing still.
xxxxxx
Sighing, he kept low. Human voices on the wind as the patrol walked by. The added weight of his kill on an improvised sled was not pleasant, but like most discomforts it could be ignored.
The PRT did not send their best to Quarantine Areas. They sent two types; the undisciplined and the zealous. The zealous were those who believed the hype. Believed that they were the thin line keeping madness at bay from escaping. They went about their duties carefully. Equipment cleaned. Helmets on. Procedure followed to the letter.
The rest were undisciplined. The washouts. The troublemakers. The ones who were an incident from being judiciously cashed out, or just couldn't handle their job, but the system couldn't just terminate them. They walked about with scuffed up gear, smoking, joking, and wandering around when they should be keeping a tight patrol pattern.
Capes fell into these categories as well, they just came with a brand of their own troubles in addition. Most of them were angry and itching for combat. They wanted the action, they wanted the fight. He had wondered in the past if this was a condition of the capes, because almost every single one he had encountered assigned to the Quarantine Zone shared these traits.
He did his best to avoid them. Not impossible, just difficult. They changed their patrols often. Twice in the past he had been caught and questioned. The first time he had tried to explain that this place was…home. Even destroyed as it was, he felt at peace here.
The second time, he just kept quiet. The outcome didn't change in either case. They relocated him to the nearest city. He would hike back past their patrols and just kept on living. It hadn't been hard to set up in Eagleton. The PRT didn't expect anyone to break in. Or if someone did, it would usually be Capes who wanted to steal something or use the Machine Army for their own ends. Some attempts were picked up by patrols. The rest made it in and were found by the machines. The Machines generally won those fights.
The men passed by, chatting and letting their weapons swing loose. Sloppy and amateurish. It was clearly evident that they were content in their own superiority.
No matter. Night was falling, and the sky was growing dark with rain clouds. He would have to hurry to make his evening camp. He had dozens spread across the zone. But few could be used to dress and care for his kill. It wouldn't do to waste precious meat.
xxxxxx
Scratching at his jaw, he huddled closer to his fire. April weather in Tennessee was usually temperate, but the cold front had brought rain with it. It wasn't enough to be freezing, but it was enough to carry a chill. Yet, despite the inclement weather, his demons had been silent for a while now. Being in the forest helped keep them quiet.
Not the same quiet as the house. That was the quiet of a tomb, of old memories waiting to jump out at him. It was only here, now, with the fire going, and the day's work done that he would let himself remember. Happy memories, of successes and shared hopes, of mundane moments that were now so precious.
It took effort to not think of the later times. Hearing the news while he was half a world away fighting someone else's battles. Fighting battles that made no difference in protecting his family from falling to bloodshed at home. Where they should have been safe.
The wind picked up, sending sparks spiralling in the air. The trees groaned as they swayed, and the fire crackled and shifted. Leaning back on the log, he looked up to the sky and noted the clouds starting to part, the rain giving way to the still of night.
He stoked the fire, now free of the threat of rain and fed a few more sticks to the hungry flames.
"If you walked any heavier, the patrols might catch you."
"And if you keep growing that beard, they might think you're a bear."
He looked up, watching as a younger man ambled into the light. He had a pack on his back, a sturdy pair of boots and clothes fit for a time in the woods.
"What do you want, Clark?"
"Can't an old friend drop in and say hello? Swap stories about how lovely the forest is at this time of year?"
He snorted, "The last time I saw you I held a gun to your face. If you call that friendly behavior, then I wonder who handles your mental evaluations."
"Sometimes the best of friends have disagreements at gunpoint," was the other man's blase response, coming to a stop beside the fire, motioning to the other log, "May I?"
For a brief moment, he wanted to be petty and tell the other man off. But the one thing that everyone knew was that the man was persistent to a 'T' once he set his mind to it. So instead of telling him to pound sand, he merely motioned to the other log, and Clark took a seat on it.
"What do you want?"
"A lot, but we can start with you putting aside this 'mountain man' aesthetic and come with me to do some good."
He honestly knew it was going to be that, he thought to himself with a sigh.
"Fuck off."
Clark leaned back, uncaring of the bite in his words. "Oh come on, Rost, I came all this way and tracked you down, the least you can do is pretend to be interested. Just a little? Please?"
Persistent, and annoying. Yeah, that was Clark.
"I'll listen, but that doesn't mean I'm going to say yes."
"See, I've got a problem. I was asked to put together a team of killers. The kind of team who will get shit done, keep their mouths shut, and who work well with the strange and the unexpected. And, of course, kill it."
Clark pulled his arms wide, "Not a lot of people can achieve that. Even less when you consider the new blood running things. Which means I need to pull a few dusty relics from storage for the job," he then leaned forward slightly, a damnable smirk on his face, "You're the relic in this case…in the event you missed that."
"Another war to fight in some far-flung corner of the world? Doing the dirty work for people who don't care and will never see the consequences of their actions? I'll repeat myself," Rost frowned, looking over the fire. It would need wood soon, "Fuck off."
"See Rost, that's where you're wrong. We ain't hunting some Russian oligarch too big for his britches this time. No more globetrotting and killing someone cuz our bosses think they looked at America the wrong way. The dirty work is happening right in our backyard. Home soil. And it's Ryan putting this soirée together. You think Ryan doesn't know the score?"
That brought his retort up short. Taking the moment to collect his thoughts, he tossed a few more branches into the fire, setting the embers flying, "Ryan wouldn't go for it. Not here at home. Not worth the mess if things got out of control."
Clark shrugged, "Things have changed. Ryan thinks it's worth it now. Not sure if you saw the news, but the PRT has been making 'shitting the bed' an artform lately. Ryan thinks with the PRT finally getting its well-earned 'Caesar and the senate' treatment, there's a chance we can make a joke of their dog and pony show. Frankly, I think it's about damn time."
For a moment, he felt a surge of rage at the mention of the PRT. It had been them that had failed to protect his family. It had been them that had decided that it wasn't worth doing anything about the Machine Army, instead choosing to wall it in and forget it. But as quickly as it was there, it was gone, replaced with the familiar emptiness.
"I'm not that person anymore, Clark," he finally said, using a stick to stoke the fire, "I left it behind me."
"Bullshit, Everett. You never leave it behind, not until your dying day. You're lying to yourself if you think you can lock it up and throw away the key. You were the best tracker the Marines ever had. You've survived in the heart of the Machine Army's territory for over a decade. I need your skills to help me deal with problems none of those pansies in DC have the guts for."
"Who are you going after?"
There was a moment of silence, before he got his answer.
"The Slaughterhouse Nine."
He raised an eyebrow. That was a name he had heard from time to time, usually over the radio when he chose to listen to it. The Slaughterhouse Nine, a group of murderous capes who went from place to place. Why they still seemed to exist had always bothered him, it was nothing that a few precision-guided bombs wouldn't be able to solve. Only it seemed the government was quite content with keeping it a cape issue.
Seems like someone had finally lost their patience
"Why now? You've had years to deal with them."
The other man smirked, "Things change, like they always do. New allies, new tech, new enemies, new possibilities. Does it really matter, Everett? This is going to happen. I don't know what the odds are, I don't ask. But the odds are better with you, then without you."
"So," the man leaned in, "are you in?"
He didn't answer immediately, instead choosing to stare into the fire, searching for answers. There was a part of him that yearned for what Clark was offering, to get back on the horse and actually do something to make a difference again. But there was another part of him that felt like by doing so, he would be dishonoring the memory of both Maria and Alana.
But was he really? Was he actually honoring them by doing this? Not quite living, but on the other hand, not quite dead either. Just existing, shuffling through what was left of his life, waiting for death to finally reunite himself with them.
Was it fair to their memory?
He knew the answer to it and he hated it. Because he knew exactly what Maria would say to him, even if he didn't want to admit it.
Closing his eyes, he released a sigh. Looking for something - anything really - that could stop him from doing this. But there simply wasn't an answer there.
"Alright," he finally said, "I'm in."
Clarke's smile was all teeth, as he held out a hand.
"Welcome to Rainbow."