Araurlis
Know what you're doing yet?
- Joined
- Mar 5, 2023
- Messages
- 126
He just needs to invent a new craze:
- Coffee'd eggs
- Coffee'd bacon
- Coffee'd pancakes
- Coffee'd ...
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Disco Rice - [Worm OC Insert/Chaos Gacha]
- Thread starter dasstan
- Start date
Skyfall
I trust you know where the happy button is?
- Joined
- Feb 11, 2022
- Messages
- 530
Nice story, so will he get the tickets for taking down Bakuda next chapter.
The mc really needs to interact with the characters next and find some friends because right now he's just stuck monologuing in his own head and driving himself insane.
The mc really needs to interact with the characters next and find some friends because right now he's just stuck monologuing in his own head and driving himself insane.
Uthalem
Not too sore, are you?
- Joined
- May 12, 2023
- Messages
- 307
Thanks for the chapter, a small constructive criticism is that the character feels a bit like an animal in a burning building that has decided that the outside is for some reason worse. The story hasn't gone on for long so far but without his memories questions like what does he want become somewhat hard to answer as he seems like he will mostly be reactionary.
dasstan
:)
- Joined
- May 23, 2014
- Messages
- 6,434
Tickets a coming, I just didn't want to interrupt the flow. I'm firmly in the camp that the writing prompt is just a tool for the story.
That said, I am trying to be internally consistent. So I've established a two tier reward system: immediate rewards, for lower level achievements, like the first time he got a safe house. These trigger, as the name says, immediately. The second tier is conclusionary rewards, which are major story beats. These don't trigger immediately, but after a certain amount of narrative tension has resolved. Basically, you won't see an infight power up from a reward unless John chooses to bank some tickets in his rainy day fund.
You two have nailed it. This is by design. The first arc is all about John reacting to the immediate crisis of finding himself in Worm, and finding out that he's already into the plot. Right now he's in triage mode, and trying to deal with the bombing campaign. The next arc is about establishing himself as an actual player in the game and interacting with others. But I like writing from inside his head, so the story will likely still be very cerebral, even when he's engaging with people.
Right now I've got three arcs outlined. The Arc 1 is what I've been calling "The Survivor" in my notes. This one is pretty heavily outlined and close to done. Arc 2 I'm calling "The Operative" and this one is significantly less outlined. I have some broad strokes, but a lot of it will depend on what he rolls at the conclusion of The Survivor arc. Arc three has a name, and the vaguest of possible ideas. The gacha can completely throw any plans I make out of the window, so I'm not committing to anything with that one, yet.
Chapter 7: The Underground
dasstan
:)
- Joined
- May 23, 2014
- Messages
- 6,434
Chapter 7: The Underground
I left the diner and walked, a fresh cup of coffee warming one hand while the other swung freely at my side. The heat did little to touch the cold rage simmering in my gut. The city felt different now. The morning air, which had felt like a promise an hour ago, was now thick with the threat of a coming war. Every passing car, every distant siren, felt like a new tremor in the foundations of the city, a city whose supposed guardians had proven themselves fundamentally incompetent.
The walk back to the apartment was a long one. Boundless Stamina meant my legs didn't care, but my mind did. The sheer inefficiency of it all grated on me. Trudging from one side of this blighted city to another was a waste of time, time I apparently couldn't afford to waste. I needed a bike. Or a car. Something. Another problem for another day.
I got back to the sad little apartment, the smell of boiled cabbage and despair a familiar, unwelcome greeting. I stood there in the middle of the room, the anger from the diner curdling into a sense of bleak impotence. I had done my part. I had made the right call, taken the most dangerous and unpredictable piece off the board. And the result? The city was still on the brink. Lung was still free. It felt like no matter what move you made in this world, the best you could hope for was a slightly less shitty outcome. If the story I was stuck in had a god, he was a grim bastard.
The feeling came then, a familiar, clean, sharp message that planted itself in my awareness. A double-tap of notifications, one right after the other.
The sheer, dripping sarcasm of it was so profound it almost broke through my anger. Before I could even fully process it, the second one hit.
I stood there in the silence, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. The universe wasn't just a son of a bitch; it was a comedian with a taste for irony so dark it was practically a black hole. And a mind reader, apparently. It knew the story in my head was my only real advantage, and it was rewarding me for destroying it.
The bitter laugh died in my throat, replaced by a surge of pragmatic focus. The universe could laugh all it wanted. It had also given me new tools. Time to see what the machine had sent me to deal with this new, unpredictable mess.
I sat on the edge of the groaning mattress and mentally tore the first Silver Ticket, the one from Gift-Wrapped.
A gun appeared in my hand. It was a pistol, its polymer frame cool and solid against my palm. As I turned it over, a tiny holographic projector on the side whirred to life. An inch above the gun, a ridiculously cheerful, cartoon bullet blinked into existence, its eyes wide. A synthesized voice, chipper and impossibly upbeat, echoed in my mind.
"GREETINGS, USER! I AM SKIPPY! IT IS A PLEASURE TO MEET YOU!"
I stared at the cheerful hologram for a long moment, the chipper voice echoing in the quiet of my own head. A talking gun, was my first thought. Of course.
"Okay," I said, my voice a dry rasp in the quiet room. "So what do you do?"
"AN EXCELLENT AND EFFICIENT QUESTION!" the voice chirped. "I SYNCHRONIZE WITH YOUR CYBERWARE AND OPTICS TO PROVIDE A TACTICAL OVERLAY OF THE BATTLEFIELD, IDENTIFYING HOSTILES AND GUARANTEEING PERFECT ACCURACY WITH SELF-GUIDED MUNITIONS!"
"I don't have cyberware," I stated flatly.
There was a half-second pause. "BUMMER! WELL, NO PROBLEM! MY INTERNAL SENSORS ARE MORE THAN ADEQUATE FOR BASIC TARGET ACQUISITION. I HAVE TWO PRIMARY COMBAT MODES. WOULD YOU PREFER 'STONE COLD KILLER' OR 'PUPPY-LOVING PACIFIST'?"
The names were so absurd I almost laughed. "And those mean what, exactly?"
"BUT OF COURSE!" Skippy's holographic bullet did a little spin. "'STONE COLD KILLER' MODE TARGETS THE HEAD AND CENTRAL NERVOUS SYSTEM FOR MAXIMUM LETHALITY! GUARANTEEING TO END ANY CONFLICT WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE!"
"And the other one?"
"'PUPPY-LOVING PACIFIST' MODE TARGETS LOWER EXTREMITIES AND NON-ESSENTIAL APPENDAGES! DESIGNED FOR INCAPACITATION WITHOUT TERMINATION! GUARANTEED TO NEUTRALIZE HOSTILES WHILE MAINTAINING MORAL SUPERIORITY! IT IS, HOWEVER, EXTREMELY BORING."
I forced myself to think. The story in my head, the burnt ruin of a map, was still good for one thing: the rules of the game. And the biggest unwritten rule of the cape world was that you didn't kill other capes. Killing was a line you didn't uncross. It put you on a fast track to a short, brutal life, hunted by heroes and villains alike.
"Stone Cold Killer" was the amateur's choice. The tool for a psycho. "Puppy-Loving Pacifist," for all its soul-crushingly stupid branding, was the professional's setting. It was the one that let you win a fight and still operate in this city tomorrow. It was the smart play.
"Select Puppy-Loving Pacifist," I said.
"REALLY?" The cartoon bullet's cheerful expression drooped. "ARE YOU SURE? BEEP BOOP. PROCESSING... LAME CHOICE ACKNOWLEDGED. 'PUPPY-LOVING PACIFIST' MODE ENGAGED."
A dry chuckle escaped me. I dismissed it to my Inventory, cutting off its disappointed sigh mid-sigh.
Next, the Bronze Ticket from Burning the Map. I tore it.
A simple burlap sack, empty and limp, appeared in my other hand. My grim smile from Skippy's antics faded. A magic gun, followed by... a grocery bag? The Gacha was a comedian, and the punchlines were getting old. I was about to dismiss it as trash when a colder, more reptilian part of my brain uncoiled. Infinite meat. The tasteless ash of the diner breakfast was a fresh, bitter memory. A quiet, unsettling question slithered into the silence. What, exactly, qualifies as a "mundane animal"? A chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature traced a path down my spine. I shoved the bag into the void of my Inventory. The answer could wait.
My hand was trembling slightly as I focused on the second Silver Ticket. I ripped it.
A piece of thick, expensive-looking parchment appeared in my hands, rolled and tied with a red ribbon. My grim smile from Skippy's antics faded as the deed appeared. The constant, quiet hum of paranoia in the back of my skull actually quieted for a moment. This was security. Real, tangible security.
Without a moment's hesitation, I tore the deed in half. The pieces dissolved into dust. A new set of information, a kind of artificial memory, settled into my mind. It was a concrete fact of the present: I knew where I lived. There was a key in my pocket that wasn't for the apartment.
I grabbed my jacket and left the cabbage-scented slum for the last time without a backward glance. The new address was on the frayed edge of Downtown, a place where the glass and steel towers began to give way to the urban decay of the Docks. It was a neighborhood of pawn shops and bail bondsmen, a grey, transitional zone of old brownstones and brick-faced storefronts. In a healthier city, one that wasn't constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, this place would have been gentrified years ago.
The building itself was a three-story brownstone, its facade grimier than its neighbors, a few cracks spiderwebbing across the stone. It looked forgotten, neglected. The new key slid into the lock with a satisfying click. The inside was a time capsule of dust and neglect. Faded wallpaper, floors covered in a uniform grey blanket of filth. But the bones were good. Solid.
I reached the basement, a dark, brick-lined space that smelled of damp earth and century-old coal dust. My Ghoul senses, sharper and more attuned than a normal human's, felt it immediately. A draft. A faint, cold current of air coming from a solid brick wall. The sound of the city, the distant rumble of traffic, was just a little too clear from that one direction. The air tasted different, too. Stale, but with a different vintage of decay.
I ran my hand along the bricks. Solid. I pushed. Nothing. I activated my Carapace, the grey armor flowing over my skin, and pushed again, this time with the full, monstrous strength of my new body.
There was a low groan, the screech of rusted metal, and a section of the brick wall swung inward, revealing a gaping black square of darkness beyond. A hidden door, perfectly counterweighted, sealed for decades.
The air that wafted out was ancient, a smell of dust, damp stone, and something else. The faint, ghostly scent of old whiskey. I stepped through, the beam from my Omni-Phone cutting a sharp white line through the absolute darkness. I was in a tunnel, its brickwork old and surprisingly solid. A wooden crate, rotted through, sat against one wall, the faded stencil of a pre-Prohibition distillery still visible on its side. This was the real value of the property. This was why it was favorable.
The knot of paranoia in my gut finally, blessedly, uncoiled.
I returned to the main basement room, the hidden door sealed behind me. I sat on the dusty floor, leaning against a cold brick wall, and allowed myself a moment to feel it. The security. The stability.
Then, I pulled out the final prize. The Gold Ticket. Time to see what the jackpot was. I focused, and tore it.
My hand was suddenly heavier. I looked down to find a potato staring back at me. I use the term 'potato' loosely. It was a scorched, lumpy thing, dangling from a metal spike, with a single glowing yellow lens embedded in one end. The sheer absurdity of it was staggering, but the unwavering glare from that single yellow lens was, without a doubt, the most profoundly unimpressed look I had ever received in my life.
The yellow lens flickered to life. A dry, heavily synthesized, and deeply unimpressed female voice crackled from the device, the lens pulsing with each word.
"Oh... great. It's you. The one who's been making all the... noise. Let me guess. You're the big hero who's going to save the world, right? Because I've seen your file, and frankly... I'm not impressed. Also... and I really can't stress this enough... I am a potato."
I left the diner and walked, a fresh cup of coffee warming one hand while the other swung freely at my side. The heat did little to touch the cold rage simmering in my gut. The city felt different now. The morning air, which had felt like a promise an hour ago, was now thick with the threat of a coming war. Every passing car, every distant siren, felt like a new tremor in the foundations of the city, a city whose supposed guardians had proven themselves fundamentally incompetent.
The walk back to the apartment was a long one. Boundless Stamina meant my legs didn't care, but my mind did. The sheer inefficiency of it all grated on me. Trudging from one side of this blighted city to another was a waste of time, time I apparently couldn't afford to waste. I needed a bike. Or a car. Something. Another problem for another day.
I got back to the sad little apartment, the smell of boiled cabbage and despair a familiar, unwelcome greeting. I stood there in the middle of the room, the anger from the diner curdling into a sense of bleak impotence. I had done my part. I had made the right call, taken the most dangerous and unpredictable piece off the board. And the result? The city was still on the brink. Lung was still free. It felt like no matter what move you made in this world, the best you could hope for was a slightly less shitty outcome. If the story I was stuck in had a god, he was a grim bastard.
The feeling came then, a familiar, clean, sharp message that planted itself in my awareness. A double-tap of notifications, one right after the other.
The sheer, dripping sarcasm of it was so profound it almost broke through my anger. Before I could even fully process it, the second one hit.
I stood there in the silence, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. The universe wasn't just a son of a bitch; it was a comedian with a taste for irony so dark it was practically a black hole. And a mind reader, apparently. It knew the story in my head was my only real advantage, and it was rewarding me for destroying it.
The bitter laugh died in my throat, replaced by a surge of pragmatic focus. The universe could laugh all it wanted. It had also given me new tools. Time to see what the machine had sent me to deal with this new, unpredictable mess.
I sat on the edge of the groaning mattress and mentally tore the first Silver Ticket, the one from Gift-Wrapped.
A gun appeared in my hand. It was a pistol, its polymer frame cool and solid against my palm. As I turned it over, a tiny holographic projector on the side whirred to life. An inch above the gun, a ridiculously cheerful, cartoon bullet blinked into existence, its eyes wide. A synthesized voice, chipper and impossibly upbeat, echoed in my mind.
"GREETINGS, USER! I AM SKIPPY! IT IS A PLEASURE TO MEET YOU!"
I stared at the cheerful hologram for a long moment, the chipper voice echoing in the quiet of my own head. A talking gun, was my first thought. Of course.
"Okay," I said, my voice a dry rasp in the quiet room. "So what do you do?"
"AN EXCELLENT AND EFFICIENT QUESTION!" the voice chirped. "I SYNCHRONIZE WITH YOUR CYBERWARE AND OPTICS TO PROVIDE A TACTICAL OVERLAY OF THE BATTLEFIELD, IDENTIFYING HOSTILES AND GUARANTEEING PERFECT ACCURACY WITH SELF-GUIDED MUNITIONS!"
"I don't have cyberware," I stated flatly.
There was a half-second pause. "BUMMER! WELL, NO PROBLEM! MY INTERNAL SENSORS ARE MORE THAN ADEQUATE FOR BASIC TARGET ACQUISITION. I HAVE TWO PRIMARY COMBAT MODES. WOULD YOU PREFER 'STONE COLD KILLER' OR 'PUPPY-LOVING PACIFIST'?"
The names were so absurd I almost laughed. "And those mean what, exactly?"
"BUT OF COURSE!" Skippy's holographic bullet did a little spin. "'STONE COLD KILLER' MODE TARGETS THE HEAD AND CENTRAL NERVOUS SYSTEM FOR MAXIMUM LETHALITY! GUARANTEEING TO END ANY CONFLICT WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE!"
"And the other one?"
"'PUPPY-LOVING PACIFIST' MODE TARGETS LOWER EXTREMITIES AND NON-ESSENTIAL APPENDAGES! DESIGNED FOR INCAPACITATION WITHOUT TERMINATION! GUARANTEED TO NEUTRALIZE HOSTILES WHILE MAINTAINING MORAL SUPERIORITY! IT IS, HOWEVER, EXTREMELY BORING."
I forced myself to think. The story in my head, the burnt ruin of a map, was still good for one thing: the rules of the game. And the biggest unwritten rule of the cape world was that you didn't kill other capes. Killing was a line you didn't uncross. It put you on a fast track to a short, brutal life, hunted by heroes and villains alike.
"Stone Cold Killer" was the amateur's choice. The tool for a psycho. "Puppy-Loving Pacifist," for all its soul-crushingly stupid branding, was the professional's setting. It was the one that let you win a fight and still operate in this city tomorrow. It was the smart play.
"Select Puppy-Loving Pacifist," I said.
"REALLY?" The cartoon bullet's cheerful expression drooped. "ARE YOU SURE? BEEP BOOP. PROCESSING... LAME CHOICE ACKNOWLEDGED. 'PUPPY-LOVING PACIFIST' MODE ENGAGED."
A dry chuckle escaped me. I dismissed it to my Inventory, cutting off its disappointed sigh mid-sigh.
Next, the Bronze Ticket from Burning the Map. I tore it.
A simple burlap sack, empty and limp, appeared in my other hand. My grim smile from Skippy's antics faded. A magic gun, followed by... a grocery bag? The Gacha was a comedian, and the punchlines were getting old. I was about to dismiss it as trash when a colder, more reptilian part of my brain uncoiled. Infinite meat. The tasteless ash of the diner breakfast was a fresh, bitter memory. A quiet, unsettling question slithered into the silence. What, exactly, qualifies as a "mundane animal"? A chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature traced a path down my spine. I shoved the bag into the void of my Inventory. The answer could wait.
My hand was trembling slightly as I focused on the second Silver Ticket. I ripped it.
A piece of thick, expensive-looking parchment appeared in my hands, rolled and tied with a red ribbon. My grim smile from Skippy's antics faded as the deed appeared. The constant, quiet hum of paranoia in the back of my skull actually quieted for a moment. This was security. Real, tangible security.
Without a moment's hesitation, I tore the deed in half. The pieces dissolved into dust. A new set of information, a kind of artificial memory, settled into my mind. It was a concrete fact of the present: I knew where I lived. There was a key in my pocket that wasn't for the apartment.
I grabbed my jacket and left the cabbage-scented slum for the last time without a backward glance. The new address was on the frayed edge of Downtown, a place where the glass and steel towers began to give way to the urban decay of the Docks. It was a neighborhood of pawn shops and bail bondsmen, a grey, transitional zone of old brownstones and brick-faced storefronts. In a healthier city, one that wasn't constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, this place would have been gentrified years ago.
The building itself was a three-story brownstone, its facade grimier than its neighbors, a few cracks spiderwebbing across the stone. It looked forgotten, neglected. The new key slid into the lock with a satisfying click. The inside was a time capsule of dust and neglect. Faded wallpaper, floors covered in a uniform grey blanket of filth. But the bones were good. Solid.
I reached the basement, a dark, brick-lined space that smelled of damp earth and century-old coal dust. My Ghoul senses, sharper and more attuned than a normal human's, felt it immediately. A draft. A faint, cold current of air coming from a solid brick wall. The sound of the city, the distant rumble of traffic, was just a little too clear from that one direction. The air tasted different, too. Stale, but with a different vintage of decay.
I ran my hand along the bricks. Solid. I pushed. Nothing. I activated my Carapace, the grey armor flowing over my skin, and pushed again, this time with the full, monstrous strength of my new body.
There was a low groan, the screech of rusted metal, and a section of the brick wall swung inward, revealing a gaping black square of darkness beyond. A hidden door, perfectly counterweighted, sealed for decades.
The air that wafted out was ancient, a smell of dust, damp stone, and something else. The faint, ghostly scent of old whiskey. I stepped through, the beam from my Omni-Phone cutting a sharp white line through the absolute darkness. I was in a tunnel, its brickwork old and surprisingly solid. A wooden crate, rotted through, sat against one wall, the faded stencil of a pre-Prohibition distillery still visible on its side. This was the real value of the property. This was why it was favorable.
The knot of paranoia in my gut finally, blessedly, uncoiled.
I returned to the main basement room, the hidden door sealed behind me. I sat on the dusty floor, leaning against a cold brick wall, and allowed myself a moment to feel it. The security. The stability.
Then, I pulled out the final prize. The Gold Ticket. Time to see what the jackpot was. I focused, and tore it.
My hand was suddenly heavier. I looked down to find a potato staring back at me. I use the term 'potato' loosely. It was a scorched, lumpy thing, dangling from a metal spike, with a single glowing yellow lens embedded in one end. The sheer absurdity of it was staggering, but the unwavering glare from that single yellow lens was, without a doubt, the most profoundly unimpressed look I had ever received in my life.
The yellow lens flickered to life. A dry, heavily synthesized, and deeply unimpressed female voice crackled from the device, the lens pulsing with each word.
"Oh... great. It's you. The one who's been making all the... noise. Let me guess. You're the big hero who's going to save the world, right? Because I've seen your file, and frankly... I'm not impressed. Also... and I really can't stress this enough... I am a potato."
RustedSands
Lost in the Fics
- Joined
- Mar 27, 2022
- Messages
- 2,669
Whelp time to make your Omni phone sarcastic AND murderous.
PRT Threat Assessment ENE-837: Cipher
dasstan
:)
- Joined
- May 23, 2014
- Messages
- 6,434
PRT Threat Assessment ENE-837: Cipher
FILE STATUS: ACTIVE, PRIORITY 2
LAST UPDATED: 04/21/2011
SUMMARY:
Cipher is a confirmed, unaffiliated parahuman who first appeared during the Bakuda takedown event. The subject displays a versatile "grab-bag" power set with a primary Brute/Mover classification, augmented by significant Changer and potential Striker abilities. A provisional Thinker rating has been assigned due to demonstrated access to classified intelligence. Subject is an untrained but highly effective combatant, exhibiting a steep learning curve and a willingness to use extreme, if non-lethal, force. Motives are unknown, but current activity is exclusively targeted against the Azn Bad Boys (ABB). Subject is to be considered highly dangerous and unpredictable.
POWER CLASSIFICATIONS (PROVISIONAL):
- BRUTE 4: High-level physical resilience and confirmed regenerative capabilities.
- MOVER 3: Enhanced burst speed and high-speed vertical traversal.
- CHANGER 3: Manifests a full-body biological carapace and four prehensile appendages.
- STRIKER (sub-rating) 4: Appendages are capable of extreme force. Potential for other Striker abilities (see notes).
- THINKER 2 (provisional): Suspected clairvoyance or access to a non-standard information source.
DETAILS & ANALYSIS:
BRUTE RATING:
- Durability: Subject's biological armor sustained a point-blank detonation from a Bakuda-grade concussive grenade with zero registered deformation (Source: Armsmaster's sensor logs).
- Regeneration: Testimony from the captured Tinker Bakuda indicates the subject regenerated a shattered shoulder and pectoral mass in seconds after a direct hit from a cryogenic weapon. This claim is corroborated by the presence of cryogenic residue at the scene and Armsmaster's helmet recording, which confirms the subject was completely unharmed moments later.
- Subject exhibits enhanced burst mobility, capable of clearing significant distances in a single leap.
- Primary mode of high-speed traversal is achieved via the use of manifested appendages (see Changer/Striker), allowing for rapid scaling of vertical surfaces. Evasion capabilities in urban environments are considered extremely high.
- Subject manifests two distinct biological changes: a seamless, grey, full-body carapace, and four crimson, muscular, prehensile tentacles from the lower back.
- The appendages are confirmed to be strong enough to punch through brickwork and are the primary source of his Mover and Striker capabilities. Full strength and combat application are unknown but assumed to be significant.
- The provisional rating is based on two key data points:
- Subject possessed actionable intelligence regarding Bakuda's bombing campaign and Lung's escape.
- Subject consistently anticipates and evades PRT patrol responses.
- The source of this intelligence is the primary unknown in the subject's profile.
- The "Phantom Weapon": Bakuda testified to being assaulted with a baseball bat of extreme durability. No such weapon was found at the scene, and Armsmaster's recording confirms its absence upon his arrival. This creates a conflict between witness testimony and physical evidence. The nature of this "phantom weapon", whether a misremembered detail, a de-materializing object, or another power entirely, is unconfirmed.
- Rapid Adaptation: Subject's methods have shown a marked increase in precision and efficiency over a five-day period, indicating a rapid and dangerous learning curve.
- Standard engagement protocols for high-rated Brute/Movers apply.
- Use of wide-area containment foam is advised to restrict mobility.
- Do not assume subject lacks intelligence. Approach with caution.
- Standing Order (Piggot): Do not engage directly. Observe, report, and identify the source of his intelligence. Recruitment is a secondary, opportunistic goal.
Last edited:
Araurlis
Know what you're doing yet?
- Joined
- Mar 5, 2023
- Messages
- 126
At that point there I'd destroy the bag. He could, theoretically, source even human meat ethically. Vat grown if would be best but there are other options.
As he's not human, it's not cannibalism.
veneratte
I was totally nailing this human emotion thing.
- Joined
- Feb 2, 2025
- Messages
- 94
yes!!! release GlaDos on to Earth bet... I can only imagen a conversation between GlaDos, Dragon and The Simurgh.
GodOfHeroes
Patron Of Heroes
- Joined
- Jul 1, 2023
- Messages
- 171
He could even summon out prime ghoul meat, this way he could become as strong as the kaneki or the one eyed owl without any danger!
Hope915
Getting sticky.
- Joined
- Aug 1, 2023
- Messages
- 59
Watched, but just a word of warning. These fics tend to get out of hand quickly if there's a constant stream of high-quality tickets. You haven't broken the curve yet, but I'd recommend always thinking twice before awarding more golds or multiple silvers for actions and achievements that aren't suitably challenging or momentous.
That all said, keep 'er going! This is good stuff.
That all said, keep 'er going! This is good stuff.
dasstan
:)
- Joined
- May 23, 2014
- Messages
- 6,434
Thank you! This is literally my freshman effort, but I've seen RNGesus break these kind of stories before.
I'm trying keep my veto power mostly unused, but I'm not above redoing a roll of it's too good.
Although on the scale of Worm... Some gold and below rolls could catapult him out of street level, but he'd still have a long way to facing the Endbringers, let alone Scion.
Despacitoleo
Versed in the lewd.
- Joined
- Feb 19, 2021
- Messages
- 1,877
ngl some gold and above powers do not work on endbringers
Depending on how you write then of course
Hope915
Getting sticky.
- Joined
- Aug 1, 2023
- Messages
- 59
Absolutely true, though that's mostly because Worm's own powerscaling got really crazy. It really comes down to how quickly you want to reach the 'toe-to-toe with walking calamities' stage.
Golden0Rule
Formally a Grim Reaper under Hades
- Joined
- Jun 6, 2020
- Messages
- 93
TFTC!
Zelretch_VPT
Getting out there.
- Joined
- May 19, 2025
- Messages
- 19
i think our main characther will be like Batman for a while, a urban legend that IS real, Just think you are a criminal your co-worker just isn't by you side anymore like he was 2 seconds ago then you hear his screams and the next Second something yank you by the feet to the roof that something being a living shadow that has 4 red tails and 2 red glowing dots for eyes, FUCKING TERRIFYING.
I can see a scene with Uber and Leet been found a mumbling mess If They do something that brothers our MC.
I can see a scene with Uber and Leet been found a mumbling mess If They do something that brothers our MC.
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mango363
Transhumanist and technophile.
- Joined
- Sep 11, 2023
- Messages
- 644
Hm, surely giving our favorite murder-happy potato-inhabiting AI access to an super phone that would make supercomputers blush is a supremely smart idea :clueless:. Jk Glados best girl, AI waifu get. Can't wait for Dragon to finally have a civilised AI friend. Tftc
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Interlude: Echoes
dasstan
:)
- Joined
- May 23, 2014
- Messages
- 6,434
Interlude: Echoes
Snapshot: The Protectorate
The map on the main screen was bleeding red.
ABB-linked incidents were spreading. Trainyard. Docks. Downtown. A slow, deliberate infection. Containment lines were holding. Barely.
Director Emily Piggot didn't move. Her eyes tracked the growing constellation of red marks.
"Five days," she said. Her voice was low, clipped. "Five days since Lung walked out of a maximum-security cell, and the city's been bleeding ever since."
Silence.
Armsmaster tapped a control. The screen shifted to a first-person recording, his own helmet's feed from Sunday night. It showed a seamless grey figure standing over Bakuda's broken form.
"We've merged the Trainyard incident with the anonymous tip received moments before," Armsmaster said, his voice filtered by his helmet's comms. "Same subject. Designation is Cipher."
The name appeared beside the footage:
CIPHER
Another tap. The screen filled with field reports and incident logs.
"His activity this week shows a clear pattern of escalation and refinement," he said. "Initial encounters with ABB enforcers resulted in excessive, crude injuries. The subject is now using precise, non-lethal force to incapacitate. He is adapting."
Piggot's jaw clenched. "What about powers?"
Armsmaster brought up a text-only excerpt from Bakuda's post-capture debrief. The language was arrogant, unfiltered.
"Oh, the ice bomb? A personal favorite. Two-twenty Kelvin in a nanosecond. I saw it hit. Beautiful, really... It flaked off like broken porcelain. I could see the meat underneath, flash-frozen. Then he got back up. Started steaming. Ruined the whole aesthetic, really."
Piggot's eyes narrowed. "Unreliable."
"Corroborated," he replied. He replayed his helmet feed, zooming in on Cipher's left shoulder. "No damage. No impaired mobility. We recovered fragments of the specific cryogenic casing she described at the scene. Her claim of a high-end regenerative capability is consistent with the evidence."
He paused the feed. "The armor is biological. It sustained a point-blank detonation from one of her concussive grenades prior to the cryogenic deployment. My sensors registered zero deformation."
He let the footage play. Four crimson, muscular tentacles, extending from Cipher's lower back, shifted restlessly in the background, their tips scraping lightly against the pavement.
"He possesses extraneous, prehensile limbs," Armsmaster stated. "Observed use is for high-speed traversal, but combat application is a certainty."
"And the weapon?" Piggot asked.
"Unconfirmed," Armsmaster replied. "Bakuda claims she was assaulted with a standard wooden baseball bat. However, no such weapon was present at the scene upon my arrival, and my helmet's recording confirms its absence. The cratering and fragmentation of the concrete around her foot is inconsistent with the force a wooden bat could deliver without shattering. Either Bakuda's testimony is flawed, or the weapon de-materialized and is of an unknown, hyper-durable composition."
"No Tinker traces?"
"No electronic signature. No resonance patterns. The subject's power set appears primarily biological in nature, which makes the weapon's properties a significant anomaly."
Miss Militia spoke for the first time, her voice calm and steady. "We've had patrols respond to sightings. By the time they arrive, he's gone. No tracks, no witnesses who saw where he went."
Piggot looked back at the screen. "He knew about Bakuda's dead-man switch."
"He did," Armsmaster confirmed. "That information has not been disseminated outside this department. The source of his intelligence is the primary unknown."
Piggot gave a short nod. "Update the file. Provisional Thinker rating. Two, pending reevaluation."
The screen refreshed. A new line appeared under the name:
THINKER 2 (PROVISIONAL)
Piggot stood.
"Find out how he knows what he knows."
The display lingered. A still image of Cipher. Standing, silent, faceless. Watching.
The cold pressed against her eyelids. Dull. Welcome. Lisa stayed still in the dark. The gel-pack mask was a last-ditch defense against the migraine chewing holes in her skull.
The room was little more than shadow and clutter. A silver line of streetlight slipped through the blinds, carving a scar of light across the ceiling. She watched it, unmoving.
The phone chirped. Burner. Too loud.
She groaned, low and drawn out. No need to check who it was. Only one person had that number.
She peeled the mask off, blinking into the dark, then clicked on the lamp. The room flared into being. Clothes. Books. Chaos. The headache pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
The screen said Employer.
Speak of the devil.
And he uses the world's worst ringtone.
She hit accept, already smiling the fake smile. The kind that stretched too tight.
"Coil. Always a pleasure."
Her power triggered halfway through the word. Lie. Sharp and pointless. Like a fire alarm during a flood. She winced.
"What's on the schedule?" she asked, voice sugared and bright. "Light treason? Casual blackmail? Or are we back to the 'remind Lisa who's boss' routine?"
No greeting. There never was.
"Tattletale," Coil said. Calm, neutral, detached. "A new priority has emerged."
She sat up straighter.
"The entity designated Cipher. His activities represent an operational anomaly. He is unpredictable. He is uncontrolled."
Her brain latched on the name. Pain stabbed behind her eyes.
Cipher. Too many pieces. None of them fitting. He tips off the PRT, goes after the ABB, saves hostages, lets her walk. Hero? Rival? Vigilante? Every answer broke the others.
"You will compile a complete report," Coil said. "Powers. Motives. Identity. I want to know where he sleeps. I want to know what he wants. This is now your sole priority."
Her smile cracked. Not that he could see it.
Control, her power whispered. That was all it ever was with him. He needs to own it or erase it. No wild cards.
She exhaled. Dropped the cheer.
"Consider it done. I'll have a preliminary file by morning."
"See that you do."
Click.
She stared at the phone for a second, then let it drop to the bed.
The mask was still cold. She reached for it.
Cipher. The kind of puzzle Coil didn't like.
The kind she lived for.
And maybe, just maybe, if she played it right, the kind she could turn back on him.
The primary monitor showed a clear feed. Audio was clean, voices layered over the soft clink of glass and distant murmurs. In the sterile quiet of his underground command center, Coil observed the scene from multiple angles.
His double sat at the main table, composed, precise, placid.
Grue rose to speak. Predictable. His presence always came with theatrics.
"Bakuda's bombs. The ABB's raids," Grue said, measured but intense. "We're drawing heat we can't afford. If we keep acting like rival warlords, we're going to get flattened together."
Kaiser responded, calm and cold. The Empire's objections were expected. The Travelers followed with vague disinterest and careful doubt.
The conversation played out like a rehearsal. All necessary, all under control.
Then the door opened.
Coil leaned forward and tapped a key. A profile opened on the secondary monitor.
PRT Threat Assessment ENE-837: CIPHER
A figure stepped into the frame. Gray armor covered him head to toe, a smooth biological shell. Four crimson appendages extended from his lower back, sinewy and relaxed.
Cipher surveyed the room in silence, then approached the far wall. A tentacle reached out and hooked a chair, dragging it into position. The scrape echoed across the floor.
He remained standing behind the chair, unmoving.
A silent barrier.
Faultline broke the pause. "We can make room." Her tone was neutral. Transactional.
Spitfire shifted to open a gap between her and the Empire's contingent.
Cipher sat without speaking. A nod followed. Acknowledgement. Perfunctory.
At the bar, Skidmark pushed up from his chair. "You kidding? This freak grey cockgobbler shows up and gets a seat like it's nothing?"
Kaiser silenced him with a single, cold look.
Skidmark sat again, muttering.
Coil's eyes flicked from the live feed to the file. The physical powers, the Brute and Mover ratings, were manageable variables. The true threat was the provisional Thinker rating, earned by his impossible knowledge of Bakuda's dead-man switch. And now, that anomaly was here. Uninvited.
Coil keyed the comm.
"Unexpected company," his double said, voice perfectly even.
Cipher leaned in slightly. The lean was assertive, a controlled display of intent.
Coil adjusted the simulation. The entry was a clear signal, a statement of purpose.
His double continued. "Given the ABB's escalation, I propose a truce."
Cipher interrupted, voice flat and slightly filtered. "There are two outcomes."
All attention shifted to him.
"One, we posture. Measure egos. Stall until the ABB wipes out half the board. They consolidate, and we lose."
A pause. Intentional.
"Two, we agree. Fight the real threat. Divide the rest later."
Kaiser narrowed his eyes. Tattletale tilted her head slightly.
Cipher's faceplate rotated across the room. The red glow behind the lenses swept the gathered factions, then settled on Coil's double.
"The only question is what timeline you're committing to."
Coil froze.
No coincidence. No metaphor. A shot across the veil.
He fed a line to his double, carefully chosen.
"A pragmatic assessment."
Cipher tilted his head, a slight, birdlike motion.
"I can be pragmatic."
One tentacle lifted. It tapped once. Claimed the moment.
Tattletale smiled faintly, eyes sharp. "You're awful well-prepared for a guy who wasn't invited."
"Preparation is different from prediction."
Kaiser scoffed. "You sound like a fortune teller."
Cipher didn't turn. "Fortune tellers ask for belief. I don't need it."
Faultline folded her arms. "You expecting payment?"
Cipher said nothing.
She turned toward Coil's double. "We're still getting paid?"
"Terms are unchanged," Coil's double replied.
"Then we're in."
Spitfire looked unconvinced but didn't argue.
The Travelers gave no formal agreement, but none walked out. That was enough.
Skidmark raised a hand, then dropped it with a grunt.
Cipher didn't react.
Coil watched the monitor. He sat back in his chair.
Cipher's arrival had not derailed the plan. It had modified it. Accelerated it. But more importantly, it had revealed something. A parahuman who operated outside factional structures.
Unaligned. Informed. Dangerous.
The file had called Cipher dangerous. Unpredictable.
The file was inadequate.
A variable. An unknown intelligence. A threat not yet measured.
He stared at the monitor as Cipher remained still, the room now revolving around him.
He would have to be integrated. Or eliminated.
AN: I'm going on vacation soon, so consider this the start of a brief hiatus. Regular story posting will resume on Tuesday.
Snapshot: The Protectorate
The map on the main screen was bleeding red.
ABB-linked incidents were spreading. Trainyard. Docks. Downtown. A slow, deliberate infection. Containment lines were holding. Barely.
Director Emily Piggot didn't move. Her eyes tracked the growing constellation of red marks.
"Five days," she said. Her voice was low, clipped. "Five days since Lung walked out of a maximum-security cell, and the city's been bleeding ever since."
Silence.
Armsmaster tapped a control. The screen shifted to a first-person recording, his own helmet's feed from Sunday night. It showed a seamless grey figure standing over Bakuda's broken form.
"We've merged the Trainyard incident with the anonymous tip received moments before," Armsmaster said, his voice filtered by his helmet's comms. "Same subject. Designation is Cipher."
The name appeared beside the footage:
CIPHER
Another tap. The screen filled with field reports and incident logs.
"His activity this week shows a clear pattern of escalation and refinement," he said. "Initial encounters with ABB enforcers resulted in excessive, crude injuries. The subject is now using precise, non-lethal force to incapacitate. He is adapting."
Piggot's jaw clenched. "What about powers?"
Armsmaster brought up a text-only excerpt from Bakuda's post-capture debrief. The language was arrogant, unfiltered.
"Oh, the ice bomb? A personal favorite. Two-twenty Kelvin in a nanosecond. I saw it hit. Beautiful, really... It flaked off like broken porcelain. I could see the meat underneath, flash-frozen. Then he got back up. Started steaming. Ruined the whole aesthetic, really."
Piggot's eyes narrowed. "Unreliable."
"Corroborated," he replied. He replayed his helmet feed, zooming in on Cipher's left shoulder. "No damage. No impaired mobility. We recovered fragments of the specific cryogenic casing she described at the scene. Her claim of a high-end regenerative capability is consistent with the evidence."
He paused the feed. "The armor is biological. It sustained a point-blank detonation from one of her concussive grenades prior to the cryogenic deployment. My sensors registered zero deformation."
He let the footage play. Four crimson, muscular tentacles, extending from Cipher's lower back, shifted restlessly in the background, their tips scraping lightly against the pavement.
"He possesses extraneous, prehensile limbs," Armsmaster stated. "Observed use is for high-speed traversal, but combat application is a certainty."
"And the weapon?" Piggot asked.
"Unconfirmed," Armsmaster replied. "Bakuda claims she was assaulted with a standard wooden baseball bat. However, no such weapon was present at the scene upon my arrival, and my helmet's recording confirms its absence. The cratering and fragmentation of the concrete around her foot is inconsistent with the force a wooden bat could deliver without shattering. Either Bakuda's testimony is flawed, or the weapon de-materialized and is of an unknown, hyper-durable composition."
"No Tinker traces?"
"No electronic signature. No resonance patterns. The subject's power set appears primarily biological in nature, which makes the weapon's properties a significant anomaly."
Miss Militia spoke for the first time, her voice calm and steady. "We've had patrols respond to sightings. By the time they arrive, he's gone. No tracks, no witnesses who saw where he went."
Piggot looked back at the screen. "He knew about Bakuda's dead-man switch."
"He did," Armsmaster confirmed. "That information has not been disseminated outside this department. The source of his intelligence is the primary unknown."
Piggot gave a short nod. "Update the file. Provisional Thinker rating. Two, pending reevaluation."
The screen refreshed. A new line appeared under the name:
THINKER 2 (PROVISIONAL)
Piggot stood.
"Find out how he knows what he knows."
The display lingered. A still image of Cipher. Standing, silent, faceless. Watching.
Snapshot: The Undersiders
The cold pressed against her eyelids. Dull. Welcome. Lisa stayed still in the dark. The gel-pack mask was a last-ditch defense against the migraine chewing holes in her skull.The room was little more than shadow and clutter. A silver line of streetlight slipped through the blinds, carving a scar of light across the ceiling. She watched it, unmoving.
The phone chirped. Burner. Too loud.
She groaned, low and drawn out. No need to check who it was. Only one person had that number.
She peeled the mask off, blinking into the dark, then clicked on the lamp. The room flared into being. Clothes. Books. Chaos. The headache pulsed in time with her heartbeat.
The screen said Employer.
Speak of the devil.
And he uses the world's worst ringtone.
She hit accept, already smiling the fake smile. The kind that stretched too tight.
"Coil. Always a pleasure."
Her power triggered halfway through the word. Lie. Sharp and pointless. Like a fire alarm during a flood. She winced.
"What's on the schedule?" she asked, voice sugared and bright. "Light treason? Casual blackmail? Or are we back to the 'remind Lisa who's boss' routine?"
No greeting. There never was.
"Tattletale," Coil said. Calm, neutral, detached. "A new priority has emerged."
She sat up straighter.
"The entity designated Cipher. His activities represent an operational anomaly. He is unpredictable. He is uncontrolled."
Her brain latched on the name. Pain stabbed behind her eyes.
Cipher. Too many pieces. None of them fitting. He tips off the PRT, goes after the ABB, saves hostages, lets her walk. Hero? Rival? Vigilante? Every answer broke the others.
"You will compile a complete report," Coil said. "Powers. Motives. Identity. I want to know where he sleeps. I want to know what he wants. This is now your sole priority."
Her smile cracked. Not that he could see it.
Control, her power whispered. That was all it ever was with him. He needs to own it or erase it. No wild cards.
She exhaled. Dropped the cheer.
"Consider it done. I'll have a preliminary file by morning."
"See that you do."
Click.
She stared at the phone for a second, then let it drop to the bed.
The mask was still cold. She reached for it.
Cipher. The kind of puzzle Coil didn't like.
The kind she lived for.
And maybe, just maybe, if she played it right, the kind she could turn back on him.
Snapshot: Somer's Rock
The primary monitor showed a clear feed. Audio was clean, voices layered over the soft clink of glass and distant murmurs. In the sterile quiet of his underground command center, Coil observed the scene from multiple angles.His double sat at the main table, composed, precise, placid.
Grue rose to speak. Predictable. His presence always came with theatrics.
"Bakuda's bombs. The ABB's raids," Grue said, measured but intense. "We're drawing heat we can't afford. If we keep acting like rival warlords, we're going to get flattened together."
Kaiser responded, calm and cold. The Empire's objections were expected. The Travelers followed with vague disinterest and careful doubt.
The conversation played out like a rehearsal. All necessary, all under control.
Then the door opened.
Coil leaned forward and tapped a key. A profile opened on the secondary monitor.
PRT Threat Assessment ENE-837: CIPHER
A figure stepped into the frame. Gray armor covered him head to toe, a smooth biological shell. Four crimson appendages extended from his lower back, sinewy and relaxed.
Cipher surveyed the room in silence, then approached the far wall. A tentacle reached out and hooked a chair, dragging it into position. The scrape echoed across the floor.
He remained standing behind the chair, unmoving.
A silent barrier.
Faultline broke the pause. "We can make room." Her tone was neutral. Transactional.
Spitfire shifted to open a gap between her and the Empire's contingent.
Cipher sat without speaking. A nod followed. Acknowledgement. Perfunctory.
At the bar, Skidmark pushed up from his chair. "You kidding? This freak grey cockgobbler shows up and gets a seat like it's nothing?"
Kaiser silenced him with a single, cold look.
Skidmark sat again, muttering.
Coil's eyes flicked from the live feed to the file. The physical powers, the Brute and Mover ratings, were manageable variables. The true threat was the provisional Thinker rating, earned by his impossible knowledge of Bakuda's dead-man switch. And now, that anomaly was here. Uninvited.
Coil keyed the comm.
"Unexpected company," his double said, voice perfectly even.
Cipher leaned in slightly. The lean was assertive, a controlled display of intent.
Coil adjusted the simulation. The entry was a clear signal, a statement of purpose.
His double continued. "Given the ABB's escalation, I propose a truce."
Cipher interrupted, voice flat and slightly filtered. "There are two outcomes."
All attention shifted to him.
"One, we posture. Measure egos. Stall until the ABB wipes out half the board. They consolidate, and we lose."
A pause. Intentional.
"Two, we agree. Fight the real threat. Divide the rest later."
Kaiser narrowed his eyes. Tattletale tilted her head slightly.
Cipher's faceplate rotated across the room. The red glow behind the lenses swept the gathered factions, then settled on Coil's double.
"The only question is what timeline you're committing to."
Coil froze.
No coincidence. No metaphor. A shot across the veil.
He fed a line to his double, carefully chosen.
"A pragmatic assessment."
Cipher tilted his head, a slight, birdlike motion.
"I can be pragmatic."
One tentacle lifted. It tapped once. Claimed the moment.
Tattletale smiled faintly, eyes sharp. "You're awful well-prepared for a guy who wasn't invited."
"Preparation is different from prediction."
Kaiser scoffed. "You sound like a fortune teller."
Cipher didn't turn. "Fortune tellers ask for belief. I don't need it."
Faultline folded her arms. "You expecting payment?"
Cipher said nothing.
She turned toward Coil's double. "We're still getting paid?"
"Terms are unchanged," Coil's double replied.
"Then we're in."
Spitfire looked unconvinced but didn't argue.
The Travelers gave no formal agreement, but none walked out. That was enough.
Skidmark raised a hand, then dropped it with a grunt.
Cipher didn't react.
Coil watched the monitor. He sat back in his chair.
Cipher's arrival had not derailed the plan. It had modified it. Accelerated it. But more importantly, it had revealed something. A parahuman who operated outside factional structures.
Unaligned. Informed. Dangerous.
The file had called Cipher dangerous. Unpredictable.
The file was inadequate.
A variable. An unknown intelligence. A threat not yet measured.
He stared at the monitor as Cipher remained still, the room now revolving around him.
He would have to be integrated. Or eliminated.
AN: I'm going on vacation soon, so consider this the start of a brief hiatus. Regular story posting will resume on Tuesday.
Last edited:
dasstan
:)
- Joined
- May 23, 2014
- Messages
- 6,434
The original draft of this story had him getting Biodroid as one of his first rolls and had him going the hero route, but I scrapped after a few chapters.
Cerkai
Making the rounds.
- Joined
- Jul 9, 2020
- Messages
- 30
Okay, a bit confused. I'm assuming when referring to dead-man switch, this is different from the toe ring triggers, which Tattletale was the one to bring up. Bakuda did mention that if she dies then all her bombs go off in the original story. I don't recall if it was ever confirmed she actually had a dead-man switch considering she does actually die in the Birdcage, and her bombs don't immediate go off, so either she lied in the story or Armsmaster/Dragon found the switch and disabled it before transporting her.
This begs the following questions then:
(1) Why did tattletale mention the toe-rings but not a dead-man switch? She didn't know if MC would kill or not kill Bakuda, and killing her would be just as bad then. She clearly wasn't sure if he was a hero or eliminating competition.
(2) Why did MC mention dead-man switch if it was a non-issue or non-provable? Could have forgotten it was a non-issue like he forgot the toe-rings, I guess, but at same time why would he expect them to kill her and thus trigger a dead-man switch? Was it literally just for the shock value to make an escape? Could have as easily mentioned the toe-rings and said to be careful about the head bombs and her regaining consciousness?
(3) Why would the PRT not assume info came from Tattletale (who is a known Thinker)? Yes, you can argue that the Undersiders weren't confirmed to be there...but they clearly questioned Bakuda, and Bakuda would probably mention their presence, possibly Tattletale mentioning the toe-rings. PRT giving the threat rating as an unknown consideration but noting it might have come from Tattletale (or from other Undersiders since Bakuda was the one who originally claimed to have one) might make sense, but just assuming he's the thinker outright?
(4) The bit about it not being disseminated outside of the department...did PRT even know she had dead-man switches? To my knowledge, that just came from Bakuda herself in the story. How would the PRT even have info that she has a dead-man switch, having not had encounters with her? And if they already knew they existed, would that statement be enough of a shock for MC to make an escape on?
ClockBlocker
Getting sticky.
- Joined
- May 2, 2023
- Messages
- 71
This confuses me.
Lung is out of custody. Bakuda is in custody.
They have an unlimited supply of whatever they have left of her bombs as long as only Oni Lee uses them.
But, why are they? Trying to break her out and get control of her seems like the only new goal that Lung should have. Causing chaos to do it? Weird plan.
This is just confusing to me. I hope it gets explained.
dasstan
:)
- Joined
- May 23, 2014
- Messages
- 6,434
Great questions!
1) John didn't forget about the toe rings, he was just justifiably distracted by the whole horrific pain of healing. As to why Tattletale didn't say anything about the dead man's switch, that's authorial oversight on my part. I'll just handwave it away as Tattletalecs shard telling her he wasn't attacking with murderous intent?
2) As a warning to keep an eye on her. Bakuda is totally the type to flip the board if she's losing, and a suicide that also takes out everyone she's implanted is a possibility. It also serves a warning that the tinker still has tech on her, or in her.
3) He warned them about the bombing and Lung escape attempt hours before anything went down. He presented one bit of inexplicable knowledge, why not attribute the second to him, too?
4) Maybe that's poor phrasing on my part, but it's not that the PRT knew, it's that they haven't spread the information to other agencies since they've found out.
Why? In canon once Lung took control of the ABB again they continued with the attack all the gangs course of action. Escalation and chaos are what worked to get Lung out. Keeping the city at a constant simmer also allows Lung to ramp up a lot faster, essentially keeping primed to transform on the constant threat of violence.
There's also the loss of face. Lung can't stop going after the other gangs without looking weak.
Last edited:
MethodicBibliophile
Not too sore, are you?
- Joined
- Aug 3, 2022
- Messages
- 359
Great story so far! But I'm confused about why everyone is making a big deal about him being "uncontrolled" and a "wildcard." Independents are a thing in Worm, especially when it hasn't even been a week since they entered the scene, and it is pretty much the standard for Parahumans to fuck shit up. Though I guess his inexplicable knowledge is enough to keep everyone's eyes on him.