Might and Magic (and Mirelurks)

[FantasticGouda]

Prologue: A Day Unlike Any Other​

That morning, I woke up curled in my sheets, my eyes bleary and limbs splayed every which way. It was just like every other morning. I untangled myself from the sheets, exposing my pajama clad form to the brisk morning air (I like to keep my room on the colder side). I trudged over to the window and shut it closed, then made my way over to the door and across the hall to the upstairs bathroom. Once inside, I began my daily morning rituals: Brush teeth, shower, wash hair, apply products (Miss Militia branded hairspray), apply makeup (light foundation, blush, and lip gloss). Indeed, it was just like every other morning. Everything was fine. There was nothing strange going on today. I am fine! I'm…

The overwhelming tide of foreign knowledge and memories that I had been desperately holding back since I woke up came crashing down. My mind flooded with thoughts and feelings not my own as white knuckles gripped the countertop in a vice. The world swayed, and I bent double over the sink, hyperventilating, lungs fighting for air. In a moment of clarity, it was as if all higher functioning shut down. My mind, which was racing just moments before, was now utterly and bizarrely calm.

I gazed at my reflection in the mirror. Bushy eyebrows framed brown eyes, flecked with green, stared back. Cheeks flushed on a peachy complexion, skin fair and mostly clear. Straight brown hair was pulled into a thick braid that hung over my shoulder down to my modest chest. I stood just a bit under 5'3", which was slightly below average height for a girl my age. It was the correct face and body of Samantha Brown. My face. My body.

I regarded myself feeling detached in that floaty sort of way where your body felt light, like you're a spirit inhabiting somebody else's corporeal form. It's called dissociation, I thought distantly. My emotions drifted far away, the panic replaced by an empty calm. Slowly, I came back to myself, everything beginning to feel less unreal. My arms and legs began to shake, and I had to take a seat on the floor lest I collapse.

For a long few minutes, I sat there contemplating what had happened to me. Thoughts raced as I processed the flood of information that had been unceremoniously dumped into my head.

Holy cow, my brain's too small to hold onto all this. I feel like my head's about to burst!

In my mind now sat the entire set of memories of a man called Samuel Brown, the complete life story of an unremarkable individual. Samuel was born to two loving parents (not that they were all lovey-dovey, but they certainly cared for one another). He grew up as the only child of a middle class family living in the suburbs of Des Moines, Iowa. From a young age, his parents encouraged the pursuit of his passions and interests, leading to his gardening hobby and eventual desire for a degree in biology. He was also an avid reader and videogamer, his tastes revolving primarily around fantasy or science fiction for the former and role playing games (or RPGs) for the latter. Samuel did not make friends easily, but those few he did befriend often ended up being close long term contacts. He excelled in academics, never dipping from a straight-A student record. After highschool, he attended Iowa State University on scholarship for their undergraduate genetics program, going on to apply and receive admission to the graduate program of the same area of study. However, before he could finish his master's, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Despite aggressive treatments and putting up a strong fight, Samuel Hayden Brown died on May 4th, 2024 at the age of 25.

All in all, his was not a particularly outlandish life. There were some highlights and eventful moments, but I didn't feel that his experiences were entirely incongruous to my own. It was interesting to note that this man apparently lived in a world devoid of capes. Not less capes. Not a few capes. No capes. None. Nada. That and the fact that he died 13 years ahead of the current year from my perspective ruled out both Earth Aleph and Earth Bet as possible worlds of origins. I had rarely contemplated other Earths before. Contact between us and Aleph is so limited that you only ever really hear about whatever new movie or video game is being imported. It was hard to keep my thoughts from rambling.

Now, if all I had received was the memories of some unfortunate soul from another Earth, I might have been able to brush it off without an existential crisis. Oh sure, I would have worried over the source of these memories and their implications, wondering at the differences in technology and culture of this separate reality, but I would have been able to go about my day without breaking down. I wasn't even worried about any personality overwriting or something awful like that; after settling, the memories felt distinctly separate from my own, more like a viscerally emotional movie than something that happened to me.

However, there was a concerning subset of Samuel's memories that had contributed to my mental breakdown. Samuel read a lot. Much of his favorite stories came in the form of web serials or from fan fiction sites. One story in particular resonated strongly with him.

Say it with me now.

Worm.

I shuddered and immediately made a pact with myself to never internally monologue to an imaginary audience again. Down that path lies madness.

This was the cause of my current existential crisis: The story of my world written out as fiction. My existence was reduced to less than a faceless, nameless, background nobody in another girl's heroic/villainous adventure. For all the cosmic horror that the entities entailed, nothing could have made me feel smaller and more unimportant than my nonexistence in canon Worm or any fanfiction Samuel had ever read.

Am I even real? No, I can't think that way! I have my own memories, experiences, and desires. Just because I wasn't important enough to write about doesn't mean I didn't exist! It helped to think about Worm as some bizarre dramatized retelling of events rather than as a fictional story.

I wondered for a moment if I was one of the students who protected Taylor at Arcadia when the Protectorate came knocking for her arrest. I would have been at the right time and place. Unless I was drowned by Leviathan, or blown up by one of Bakuda's bombs, or tortured by the Slaughterhouse Nine, or… Another involuntary shudder wracked my body, a small moan of terror leaving my lips. Let's not think about that.

Just because my personal musings on the nature of her existence took center stage did not mean that I forgot about all the other bombs dropped on me. Brockton Bay was in danger of widespread gang warfare and outright terrorism. A gosh darn endbringer was coming in less than five months! Scion/Zion/The Warrior or whatever you want to call him is going to end the world! And the shadowy organization with no scruples against committing the most heinous acts imaginable if it would grant them even a second longer against the entity controls the world with their super-Thinker.

Oh no no no No NO! I know too much. They'll kill me without a second thought, and remove any trace of my existence, and make my family forget about me! Thankfully, no portal opened up behind me, the fedora wearing boogeyman of Cauldron pointing a pistol at the back of my head. Nor did Alexandria crash through the bathroom ceiling declaring my arrest for stealing Cauldron's secrets. Logically, I knew that it was incredibly unlikely that Contessa would be running a path that required me to die or disappear. I had no intention to inform another soul about their dealings. Still, that did little to stop me from imagining the darkest possible outcomes. I took a minute to calm down again, and I was at least satisfied that I was not in immediate danger.

Although, I might be in danger for different reasons. A dead man's memories were not the only thing I had received. Now that I had been given some time to digest Samuel's memories and some of what they entailed, I turned my thoughts to the incredible mountain of knowledge lodged irrevocably in my brain. Pieces of information burst forth: Weapon and armor diagrams, alchemical formulae, spell tomes, anatomy of creatures both ethereally beautiful and disgustingly horrifying, a mixture of things born of magic and science. I held the sum total knowledge of all things present in the RPGs Fallout: New Vegas, and Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim.

Why those games specifically?! Then I realized that these were the games that Samuel had spent the most time playing out of any other. They were the ones he, and by extension I, was most familiar with.

In short, I had the ability to bring any power, creature, technology, or really anything found in these games at all into existence, either through tinkering or some other method. Hence, I was now a cape. Or parahuman? Wait, do I even count as a parahuman? I don't think my powers come from a Shard. I certainly don't have any desire to dress up in spandex and fight crime.

The scientific consensus and canon agree that parahumans have a compulsion to use their powers. Now, maybe I just hadn't given it enough time, but I didn't feel like I had to use my powers or that something was pushing me to use them. In fact, the thought of having this kind of power made me reluctant. I was almost afraid of it and the responsibility that came with it. I thought about Taylor's bravery in the face of insurmountable odds and the heroics of so many others who were probably just as afraid as I felt.

My home is in danger. My family and friends could die if I don't use my powers. I might die if I don't use my powers.

In the end, it was hardly a decision at all. If I wanted to keep everything and everyone I care about safe, I'd need to use my powers and memories both. With newfound resolve, I began to explore the intricacies of my power. Ideas began to form about what to create first and what I would need to realize my mental blueprints.

I'm a Tinker now, and the material requirements for a lot of this stuff aren't exactly common household items.

bang…bang…bang…

The worst thing would be to get caught by a gang because I brought attention to myself by buying too many tinkering parts. A lot of this would be immediately suspicious to anyone paying attention. Electronics, uncut gems, gunpowder… Wait. Where would I even get a diamond that large?!

Bang…Bang…Bang…

Hmm, I think I might be able to make my own materials for a lot of this, but I'll have to start at the ground level somehow. I wonder if…

BANG…BANG…BANG…

"Sam, open up!" My brother's shout brought me back to reality. Mentally shunting my power-driven thoughts into the corner of my mind, I collected myself. I took a deep breath, held it for a few counts, and then slowly released it. I think it helped. My heart wasn't beating quite so hard as before.

"Seriously, Sam! The rest of us need to get ready too! Saaaaaam open the…" The rest of his sentence was cut off as I swung the door open.

"Morning Cody. All yours," I spoke quickly, hoping to avoid any awkward questions.

"Uh-huh," came his unimpressed reply, "And what could possibly require a whole hour for you to get ready? Is there something happening today that I missed? You're rocking the same nerd look as always." As usual, Cody never failed to be blunt.

My older brother had two years on me and quite a bit more height. At 5'11", he wasn't exceptionally tall, but he towered over me. Cody inherited Dad's dark hair, light green eyes ,and his height. However, he had the same thick eyebrows that we both got from Mom. Cody worked out, and you could tell. His tall frame was built upon by very respectable muscle mass. He wasn't ripped, but he definitely leaned more towards the higher end of lithe. In other words, it was the perfect build for basketball. I'll give you three guesses what sport he played for school, and the first two don't count. The one physical trait that might run counter to what one would expect of the typical highschool jock was how he chose to wear his hair. The dark strands fell straight down almost to his lower back, even longer than mine.

I struggled to think of a proper answer to his questions. Apparently I had spent far longer locked in contemplation than I had thought or intended to. Not coming up with a great response, I decided to deflect.

"Girl stuff. And wearing glasses doesn't make me a nerd."

He was not impressed, "Whatever. Danny had to use mom and Dad's bathroom after they were done because you took so long. She might be late to her morning classes, and we're definitely gonna be late."

Cody was my ride to Arcadia, and my breakdown was gonna cause us both to be late. Great. Any thought of powers and monsters was thoroughly brushed aside as I rushed off to get ready. I quickly entered my room, closed the door, and cast off my bathrobe. I didn't stop to think about what I was going to wear today, putting on the first outfit I found. Graphic tee and jeans it is. A rather large portion of my wardrobe consisted of nothing but jeans and t-shirts. Today's shirt was dark gray with an album cover from one of my favorite bands displayed front and center.

That done, I re-exited my room and raced downstairs. Not having much time for a proper breakfast, I hastily grabbed whatever I could eat on the go (one overripe banana and a granola bar with chocolate chips and raisins).

It wasn't more than a minute later that Cody came downstairs. Not stopping to eat, he continued out the front door to his car (a 2005 Chevrolet Aeon; car makes and models diverged somewhat from Samuel's Earth). It was one of the things he was most proud of, having spent much of the last several years saving up money from his part time jobs. Not wanting to further exacerbate our lateness, I threw on my shoes and sped off to catch up to him. Once in the passenger seat, he barely waited for me to attach my seat belt before backing out of the driveway.

It turns out I couldn't quite hold off all the dark and turbulent thoughts once I had nothing else to focus on. I let out an inaudible sigh. These recurring fears were going to suck. I doubted I would be able to pay attention in school. The car ride passed in silence, Cody keeping his eyes locked ahead on the road, and me ruminating.

It wasn't until we pulled into Arcadia's parking lot that he spoke his first words to me since the bathroom incident, "What's really going on Sam? Are you sure you're doing ok?"

He was looking directly at me, and I couldn't find it in myself to look back at him when I made my reply, "It's really nothing."

I guess my brother really does care. He hardly ever shows it.

"Well whatever," he said, "if you feel sick or something, you should tell Mom or Dad. See you later." Apparently he didn't care enough to dig deeper than that after my brusk answer.

"See ya," I shot back.

Well, off to class it is, I thought. I pushed my braid back over my shoulder so it hung straight down my back and prepared myself for the reprimand that was sure to follow my tardiness. It turns out we had missed first bell by only five or so minutes, but the Arcadia staff weren't exactly lenient in this regard. I walked briskly over to the front doors.

Arcadia High was one of the nicer schools in the bay. It had a reputation as being the richy-rich school and was somewhat deserved. Many of the children from well-to-do families attended Arcadia because its status as a vocational school allowed them to participate in whatever family businesses or internships they had after the shortened school day. And of course, it was an open secret that the Wards all attended Arcadia. The PRT didn't advertise that fact, but my metaknowledge confirmed for me that it was true (with the exception of a certain overly aggressive, crossbow wielding Breaker).

Arcadia absolutely took first prize for the most unique architectural design however. From above the campus looked like a big H. Two large rectangular buildings, both four stories high, were connected at the middle by a shorter X-shaped pairing of hallways. The south building held most of the STEM adjacent classrooms, such as math and science, along with the cafeteria and the gymnasium. The north building extended a bit further in length than its partner and contained more classrooms, mostly for the humanities fields, as well as the auditorium.

As for the offices, the bulk of the administration was located dead center where the connecting hallways crossed to form the X. It sort of bulged a bit in the middle allowing for more office space at ground level around the hallways. There were also auxiliary offices at the main entrances to both the south and north side buildings, used primarily for secretarial purposes. This is the checkpoint I would need to pass through on my way to class.

Unfortunately for me, Mr. Hastings, the designated truancy officer, was already waiting, having just concluded a brief discussion with Cody. I let out another sigh internally.

"Miss Brown, it's not like you or your brother to show up late. I hope that everything is going alright for you," Mr. Hastings was a no nonsense sort of guy, but he rarely escalated to raised voices or hostility against a student.

"Everything is alright, sir. It just took a little longer than I thought to get ready this morning."

"Be that as it may, I will still have to mark down your tardy. It's only your first offense, so you'll get off with a warning today. No detention."

I knew the policy on tardies, but I was still relieved to hear those words.

"I'll have the office contact your parents later," and there goes my relief, "Remember that you can always have your parents contact the office to let us know about any unexpected situations."

"Yes, sir."

"Have a good day, Miss Brown."

"You too, sir."

I felt glad to get out of that situation relatively unscathed. Nobody had pushed too hard yet on my reasons for being late. Maybe I was assigning too much importance to it. After all, they didn't know about the awful revelations I received this morning and were very unlikely to jump to such outlandish conclusions so soon.

Note to self: Avoid Lis-Tattletail. Oh boy. Confusing civilian and cape identities might be a bit of an issue in the future. I'll have to clamp down on that hard.

With yet another problem weighing me down, I made my way to my first class of the day, only fashionably late. Arcadia's truncated schedule meant that there was no hope of fitting every class into a single day. Therefore, we had a rotating schedule with four shorter blocks on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and three longer blocks on Tuesdays and Thursdays. My short block days consisted of math, science, english, and social studies. My long blocks had just PE/health sciences, computer studies, and my favorite class, art. As it was a Wednesday, (February 2nd) I walked up to Mr. López' math class. Without further ado, I got started on my school day.

---

"Ugghhhhh," I couldn't help but let out an audible groan. Somehow, I managed to stay focussed for my first two classes of the day. It was a constant battle not to drift into thinking about the events of this morning or the tantalizing buffet of power-wrought fantasies hovering just outside the edge of my consciousness. My earlier hesitancy mostly forgotten, it turns out that the allure of superpowers can be pretty strong even without the interference of a mind altering parasite. But I resisted the wicked temptations.

My reward? The best school lunch Brockton Bay has to offer, which is to say, perhaps a bit better than passing but not great. My hunger had built up from the ordeal and lack of a decent breakfast. All that is to say that I was nearly ravenous when I finally sat down with my lunch. I was one of the first in line and to a table on account of having my previous class so close to the cafeteria. I dug into my meatloaf and mashed potatoes, which was not half bad for a school lunch.

It wasn't long before my small circle of friends found me in my little corner. Jasmine was tall with sharp asian features. I first got to know her from freshman year in art club, and we shared a few interests in that area. Ymena was even shorter than me, with a darker complexion and rounder features. She was a bit on the chubby side, and we all loved her. She was always ready with a quip or funny remark. Cassandra, or Cass as we called her, was white like me, maybe a bit paler but not pasty. Her hair had a neon green streak running through it, and she was a few inches shorter than Jasmine. She wasn't very serious when it came to schoolwork, but she was fun to hang out with.

After greetings and everybody getting some food in their bellies, we turned to idle lunchroom chatter. To my surprise, my minor tardy had made its way to our little friend group. Maybe the gossip mill was slow today? I suppose neither I nor Cody had ever been late before. My friends were mildly curious, but I was able to shoot them down with my generic explanation of taking too much time in the bathroom.

A bit later into our conversation, I was distracted by an outpouring of laughter from across the room. I quickly zeroed in on the disturbance. Ah, it was the Queen Bee's table of popular guys and gals. Oh, Vicky, Victoria, Glory Girl, Antares. Samuel's knowledge of Ward consisted mostly of osmosis from fanfics, but of course, that doesn't stop the events and characters from the sequel from being canon. From being real.

Victoria Dallon and her sister were a whole collection of issues just waiting to explode. There was the whole repressed incestuous desires thing going on with Amy, not to mention the fact that it was likely caused by long term exposure to Vicky's emotional aura. Then there was Amy's suppression of her powers. While the world at large knew her as Brockton Bay's preeminent healer, and she was even nationally famous for it, very few knew that her actual power was blanket biological manipulation. I doubt there was anyone else in the world besides me, not even Amy herself, who knew the extent of what she could be capable of if her power was leveraged fully. Seriously, even taking the most conservative estimates of her power's limits, Amy could probably take on the Triumvirate (all three at once) given enough preparation and imagination…

I was brought out of my musings by a gentle shake of my shoulder. I looked over to see Cass with her hand on my shoulder and a smirk on her face.

"What's up Sam?" she questioned in a playful tone, "You've been staring at the blonde bombshell for a hot minute. Got something you want to share with the class?" Her smirk deepened.

I rolled my eyes at her, "You know she's not my type." I hardly advertised, but it wasn't exactly a secret that I was bi. Everyone in my friend group knew (It might have been slightly awkward if they figured out that I had a tiny crush on Jasmine, but I don't think they know yet).

My response got the attention of the others, and the conversation devolved into playful teasing of my interest in Vicky. They were all nice enough to keep it friendly and not cross my boundaries. As usual, Jasmine participated the least in the gossiping.

We eventually moved onto other topics before the lunch bell rang. Ymena asked if I wanted to hang out with her after school, but I cited my need to catch up on schoolwork at home. It would even have been true if I hadn't spent time earlier in the week getting a head start on my essay. I was normally a responsible student after all, metaphysical catastrophes notwithstanding.

…Which is something that Ymena knows. Darn, I am a terrible liar. I don't know how Taylor handled all that cloak and dagger stuff!

I quickly appended to my terrible lie, "I really should have gotten started on my essay earlier, ugh. But if I power through, I should have some time later in the week. Say, does Friday work for you? We can go hang out down at the Boardwalk."

"Ha, make it a date," she replied with a jubilant smile, "Catch you later alligator."

Apparently my explanation sufficed. I hope this stops being so stressful at some point. Well, I only had two more classes to get through, and after class vocational, and the rest of the day, and the rest of my life… Frick.

---

By the end of my last class, I was just so tired. I found my attention slipping further and further towards magic spells and fusion cells. Half formed plans intruded on my note taking. By the time the last bell finally arrived, I was filled with a nervous energy once more. My shaking legs threatened to drop out from under me.

Breathe in. Hold. Release. It helped a little bit. I hurried myself through the halls, stopping only to gather the remainder of my belongings from my locker. Then, I was out the door and headed to my bus route.

There was still my vocational program to attend, so unfortunately, I would not be going home just yet. Arcadia had a program going with Brockton Bay University (BBU) where students could attend classes and club activities pertaining to their area of interest. It was in large part the reason I went to Arcadia over Clarendon or the other nearby options.

After class bus routes were carefully planned to have a route from Arcadia to the university campus. As far as I know, no other school had this privilege, marking Arcadia as the odd one out in yet another way. I clambered aboard the big yellow beast of a bus and shimmied my way to the furthest back seat. The rest of the seats filled up quickly almost to full capacity; not everyone here would be going to BBU, but there were other stops downtown along the way.

The bus rumbled into gear, and for the first time since this morning, I shifted my mind completely to my power. There was a lot to unpack, and the dearth of options available to me was momentarily overwhelming. Narrow your focus, I told myself. Despite the multitude of possible directions my power could take, there were only two real starting points. If I wanted to unlock all of Fallout's options, I would need to build a Pipboy first. Not wanting to draw attention to myself by tinkering on the bus, I canned that route for now.

As for Skyrim… I think I could do this one. My power suggested to me that I had to enter a meditative state. So, I closed my eyes, relaxed my shoulders, and focussed my mind. I wasn't exactly sure what I was supposed to be focussing on though. I thought back to Samuel's memories of his various playthroughs. I envisioned the skill trees, constellations of motes of power engraved upon the heavens. There was no response. It felt almost like I was jumping ahead or skipping a step.

I tried again, this time bringing forth the idea of magical power. Something stirred at this, a sensation in an organ my body didn't possess.

Was that my soul?

Despite the strange sensation, nothing else seemed to happen. This was starting to get frustrating. I thought harder, dredging up all of my memories of the game. There's the inventory, magic screen, skill trees, and map, but none of these felt right. Then I realized it. Samuel played on console. The individual tabs can't be opened up with a single controller button press. First, you open up that screen with the fancy UI cross.

A crossroads.

And like that, it all clicked into place. In my mind's eye, I envisioned it, the four pointed cross, embellished by Nordic design work, each point leading to a separate function of my power: North, East, South, West; Skills, Items, Map, Magic.

The stirring from before jumped a magnitude in strength. It was now a thrumming, coursing current through my metaphysical body. Channels analogous to veins and arteries hummed with mystical energies overlaid on top of my corporeal form.

There was no other way to describe this power but intoxicating. I longed to unleash my might, to enact my will upon the world. Taking more deep breaths, I managed to corral my emotions. It wouldn't do to set the bus on fire. Magic later.

I re-envisioned my crossroads and took the top option. My mental image blurred up and up past a layer of clouds until it landed in the heavens itself. Woah. Green and blue lightly glowing nebulae enveloped my vision, the ephemeral clouds of gas tapering off towards the top of my field of vision, where they gave way to a dark void filled with distant stars.

In the center of my vision, but still incredibly far away, floated a constellation of glowing orbs wreathed by a familiar design of glowing blue lines. The hand with fingers of flame and a swirling palm symbolized the Destruction school of magic. The constellations for the other magic skills stretched to my left and right, the skills of the warrior and thief further beyond those.

I was curious to know what my skill levels were, and I was greeted by a big fat zero. Zero skill levels in Destruction, and Restoration as well, and Alteration too. In fact, every single skill, all eighteen, were sitting at zero levels.

Well, I suppose that means I have more room to grow?

That was a thought for later, as I wasn't about to start testing my theories. As for my other info, they read off as:

Name: Samantha
Level: 1 (The experience bar was empty)
Race: Human

There were no magical race bonuses for me yet, unfortunately. I'll be stuck as a default human until I can figure that out. My other stats were intriguing.

Magicka: 150/150
Health: 100/100
Stamina: 90/90

Magicka seemed straightforward. I needed a certain amount to cast spells. Stamina likely indicated how much exertion I could put forth until I collapsed from exhaustion. I wasn't sure how Health would work. Would it go down based on how injured I was? Do I die if I reach zero Health? How does that work with Fallout's HP system? I needed a safe way to test my hypotheses, and I definitely would not find that on the bus.

Shelf that for now.

I mentally flicked back to the crossroads and took a right turn. Whereas my Skills screen took up my entire focus, my Items screen was much less distracting. It was less of a screen and more of a mental overlay. I could actually multitask, paying attention to my surroundings and inventory at the same time.

My inventory had all the usual subsections: Weapons, Apparel, Potions, Scrolls, Food, Ingredients, Books, Keys, Miscellaneous, and an All tab to browse every item at once. Oh, there was also a Favorites tab to place items that I wanted within easy mental reach. Currently, the only things in my inventory were what I was wearing. My blouse, jeans, socks, shoes, and undergarments were all listed as equipped under the Apparel tab. Incidentally, my shoes counted as two individual items rather than a single pair. The same was true for my socks.

That gave me an idea. Surreptitiously glancing around to make sure nobody was paying attention to me, I mentally pulled on my left sock. Sure enough, my left foot was now only covered by my sneaker. Belatedly, I realized that could have gone poorly if my power decided that drawing my clothing into and out of the ether should be accompanied by magical sparkles and a light show. Thankfully, there was no such fanfare. My sock was warming my foot one moment and banished beyond this mortal coil the next. I re-equipped my sock.

Alright, next up was the Map. I had no idea what I was expecting, but yeah, that made sense. My vision was once again completely encompassed. This time, I was looking down upon Brockton Bay from above. The city appeared to be semi-photorealistic with a few tweaks to the contrast that made landmarks pop out. Zooming as far out as I could, I saw that the regions outside city proper were occluded by dense cloud cover. Cloud cover which did not exist back in reality. I suppose my Map wouldn't cover anything outside of Brockton for now, but maybe that could change.

Before gaining Samuel's memories, I had a more positive opinion of my home city. Outsider perspective and a revealing bird's eye view have since soured my outlook. The city sat north of Boston and south of Portsmouth barely inside the New Hampshire state border. As far as I could tell, the bay for which our fair city was named did not exist in Samuel's Earth, replacing the coast near Hampton Beach, which did not exist on my Earth. The Bay got started as a colonial city all the way back before the Revolutionary War. The city planners of that time weren't quite so concerned with zoning laws. As a port city, the original docks and boarding houses all bled together to form a sprawling mass. This section became the area residents call the docks and boat graveyard. Far from its heyday, the docks are the most decrepit part of the whole city. Once proud colonial architecture now sat broken and graffiti covered. After Boston became the world's first rail hub in the 1830s, Brockton soon followed, expanding trade to both land and sea. Going further north past the docks would lead you to those same trainyards, now broken down from disuse and neglect. As the decades passed, the city's population continued to climb. Housing grew sporadically west from the docks and trainyard. Older neighborhoods that originated close to the docks gave way to suburbs and that grew sparser as you approached the city limit. Around this same time, the area south of the docks had grown into a full fledged downtown commercial district. Some of the buildings from this period were still recognizable such as the bank and library. By the mid 1900s, Brockton was a moderately large city. Communities spread inland and further down the coast. Captain's Hill, which denoted the city limit between a town of that same name and us, stood furthest west in my view. By the turn of the new millennium, the decline of Brockton's sea trade had marked the end of any prosperity north of downtown. With the fall of trade came the rise of new business. Brockton became something of a hub for the technology and medical sectors. Many of the tallest buildings downtown hadn't existed half a century ago. The rise of superpowered humans had of course affected more than just Brockton, but perhaps no other city had been so obviously influenced; the Protectorate Headquarters, home to the heroes of the PRT East-North-East division loomed unmistakably in the middle of the bay itself with its glowing forcefield and futuristic architecture. This was a city with history. And that history had not always been kind.

https://imgur.com/a/4Jqkd

From my viewpoint, the various districts were more distinct than I think they should have been. There was a subtle shading to each zone that terminated abruptly at designated boundaries. Makes my life easier.

I idly wondered how quickly I could find my house. Start at the residential zone. Use Arcadia as a guide. The School is at the northern tip of downtown. Go almost exactly due west. Zoom in. There's the pizza place on Kinzie Street. Just a bit north. That looks like my neighborhood.

I did not get to finish my scavenger hunt. Abruptly, I was brought back down to Earth by the rider in front of me who was lightly shaking my shoulder.

"Hey, this is your stop, right?" the unknown person asked.

I vaguely recognized him as an upperclassman I had seen a few times. They were a regular on this route.

"Uh, right. Thanks," My reply came out quiet and rushed, my head still dazed from the whiplash of being snapped back to reality.

"No problem," He smiled a little at me before turning back around.

Not wanting to miss my stop, I hurried to the front and disembarked after thanking the bus driver.

Brockton Bay University was a fairly old institute, established at the same time as Boston University. Red brickwork and sloped green roofs adorned the oldest buildings. Well-trimmed walls of ivy provided that mysterious allure that all older institutions liked to show off. These older buildings surrounded a green space on three sides with the fourth bordered by the street.

Walkable paths wound deeper into campus. I took my normal route around Evans Hall. The rest of the campus displayed progressively more modern structures of concrete and glass. Art installations dotted the various paths, and garden beds, barren in the cold of winter, lined walkways.

My destination was Gotthard Hall of Performing Arts. One of the more modern buildings, it had a multi-tiered design. Gotthard was much wider than it was tall, with an expansive base and a section that jutted out straight up where the main theater space was located. Portions of the first two floors lay uncovered by the floors above, corners forming obtuse angles causing the building to stand out from its nearby peers. A pattern of vertical alternating dark and light sandstone stripes complemented its tall windows. I once heard someone compare it to the Lied Center at UNL.

It wasn't long before I found myself inside, treading through the wide open lobby and into the softly carpeted halls. Making my way around the back of the theater, I came to the backstage section.

Other members of the stage crew were already working on a multitude of projects. Set backdrops were being painted, props built, lighting examined, and costume racks ordered.

Familiar faces called out greetings as I passed, and I gave back nods and "hellos". I stopped next to Sarah (the stage manager).

Blue eyes and white teeth in a bright smile met me, "Afternoon, Sam! We'll have you on painting duty today. The backdrop for the starry night scene. Gerard's on that one, let me know if you have any questions!"

"Got it," I walked over to the aforementioned backdrop.

After a quick back and forth with Gerard, I was caught up to speed on the style he wanted and got to work. The minutes and then hours passed by, the work occasionally broken up by small talk but mostly spent on my painting. It was liberating to give my undivided focus to this mundane task, the stress of today forgotten.

More than usual, I felt glad that I had chosen this for my vocational study. Members of the Arcadia art club generally split their vocational time between personal projects and working with other groups around the city, and at first I wasn't sure what I wanted to do.

Freshman year, back when I was considering who I wanted to work with, Danny had been the one to suggest looking into stage crew at BBU. At the time, my sister planned to attend the university for a degree in performing arts.

Fast forward to now, and she had a supporting role in the upcoming round of performances. It was nice that I got to see my sister from time to time, and I genuinely enjoyed learning all the intricacies that went into a play.

I barely noticed the other members trickle out as the day wound down, lost in my work. I was once again snapped out of my fugue when Gerard informed me that he was leaving for the day and that he'd be able to finish up the backdrop tomorrow.

What was this, the fourth or fifth time I'd been caught lost in my own head today? It was beginning to become a bad habit.

Checking my phone, I saw that it was a quarter past 5:00. Saying my goodbyes to Sarah, who was always one of the last to leave, I trekked out to the student parking lot. Danny was waiting for me like usual.

She greeted me with a big wave and a bigger smile. Daniel Brown was the eldest child in our family and her appearance took a midline approach between me and Cody. She had the same dark hair and green eyes as Dad, but her features were rounder like Mom's. Her eyes came up to Cody's chin level, and she had a figure. She may have shared my modest curves, but she knew how to use what genetics gave her. Years of religious dedication to dieting had granted her a slim frame. She rocked an hourglass figure with yoga pants and a crop top (I'm sure some of her classmates appreciated the way it showed off her butt). While her hair was naturally straight, Danny styled it with a little curl, wearing it down only to her neck. The shortest out of all us siblings.

"Let's get going Samwise. I'm staaarving," My sister had read the classics.

"Sure thing Fanny Danny," It was hard not to fall into a bantering mood around my sister.

She stuck her tongue out at me as she got in the driver's seat. I chuckled lightly, glad that things were feeling somewhat normal again.

"So what was up with you this morning?" my sister asked, "I'll have you know I had to drive recklessly after you cut into my morning time!" she said in a joking tone.

"Har-har. Things just took a little longer than usual. I'm fine."

She looked at me, an eyebrow raised in skepticism, "You look normal today."

"Cody said the same thing."
"Even a broken clock is right twice a day," she said sagely. She giggled a bit at her own antics, "Okay, what's really going on? I know you didn't take an hour just to put together your normal look," Her expression took on a shade of concern, "You can tell me anything you want, Sam. Sister solidarity."

Doubling down on my lie or staying silent would only deepen her concern. I didn't see a way out of this without telling something at least resembling the truth, "I guess I just got lost in thought. I mean, the state of the city always feels like it's getting worse, and I had some bad dreams the night before about it all, so that just sorta got me in a mood. But I'm fine now. Really. Pinky promise."

I tend to get a bit rambly when I'm uncomfortable. She seemed to buy it though. Or at least enough to leave the topic alone. The rest of the ride home was spent on more comfortable topics, telling each other about our days and what we would be doing the rest of the week.

---

We arrived before the end of the hour. Brockton Bay rush hour traffic wasn't too terrible.

Home again. The Brown family house did not stray far from the prototypical "American dream". Two stories of off white walls, a brown shingle roof, a three car garage with a wide driveway, and a picket-fenced backyard created the image of the ideal suburban home.

Cody's Aeon was parked on the far right, so Danny parked her car in the middle. Mom and Dad weren't home yet. We got out of the car and went inside, closing the garage door on our way in. You could never be too careful in this city.

"I'll get started on dinner. You go get your homework done," Danny helpfully informed me.

Once up the stairs and back in my room, I made sure the door was closed and locked. I collapsed in a heap on my bed. Wow, for a day where I hardly performed any physical activity, I sure am tired.

For a few minutes, I just let the outside world wash over me, recuperating my mental faculties.

Alright, priorities time. As much as I wanted to continue exploring my powers, a combination of an ingrained sense of responsibility and routine kept me on track. It was time to slog through my homework.

I took a seat at my desk and opened up my laptop. First things first, I'll finish that essay for social studies. Sophomore year social studies was called Current Events, and this semester had a focus on the emergence and impact of parahumans.

The goal of this essay was to research the intersectionality of parahumans and some aspect of broader culture. How have superpowers affected the economy? Or politics? What changes have capes made to tech sectors or the music industry? When presented with this prompt, I had jumped at the opportunity to write about parahumans in entertainment. About their influences on television, movies, books and the like.

Looking over what I had written so far, I felt a twinge of dismay. It seemed so… shallow. With all that I had learned this morning, my words felt incomplete. Like I was missing the point entirely. I had noted how the percentage of parahuman main characters completely eclipsed normals in recent years. The me of yesterday thought I had made an insightful remark about the popularity of parahuman couples pushing out normals with parahuman pairings. The me of yesterday was proud of my statement that parahuman portrayal had phased out normals as heroic action stars.

The me of yesterday didn't know about the full extent of the PRT's propaganda machine. How much of what we saw in media was a deliberate campaign by the PRT, and how much was artist intent? I didn't know for sure, but today I knew it was much more than I thought just 24 hours ago.

I wasn't about to rewrite the whole essay, lambasting the government organization for making their costumed employees look good while simultaneously conditioning the rest of the population into the mindset that there was absolutely nothing they could do in the face of villains and disasters. No, I was not bitter about my newly learned truths.

Instead, I just wrote a contrived conclusion to the paper I had already written, combing over it again to do some preliminary editing.

A loud sigh escaped my lips. It was done for now. There was no sense in being frustrated with my subpar essay. Not when it lacked any real world importance.

It was a few more minutes with some less divisive assignments (Oh math, I never thought I would be grateful for you) before the distinctive hum of the garage door reached my ears. Mom and Dad must be home.

Opening my door, the smell of tomato sauce wafted in from downstairs. Probably some sort of pasta tonight. I joined the rest of my family in the dining room/kitchen area, the table already set. There stood my parents. Dad was tall, short cropped black hair and sharp green eyes framing angular features. Mom was nearly a full foot shorter with brown hair and brown eyes. Her cheeks were softer than his.

"Hey Sweety," Dad interjected.

"How was your day?" Mom followed up innocuously.

"Good. Classes were fine. Got most of my homework done. Oh, Ymena and I were gonna go to the boardwalk after school. Is that okay?"

"Of course Sweetheart," Mom replied.

Were we not going to bring up the incident? I suppose they didn't want to interrogate me in front of Danny and Cody. Thank goodness for parents who respect the feelings of their children.

Dad walked over to the kitchen counter where my sister was making the final preparations, "That smells wonderful Danny. What's for dinner?"

"Spaghetti in Italian sausage meat sauce," she announced like a server at a high class restaurant reading off the daily special, "strawberries and blueberries for your side."

Cody chose that moment to arrive, and dinner began in earnest. We all served ourselves up and took a spot at the dining room table. Our parents believed in eating together as a family whenever possible, using the time in their otherwise busy schedules to get updates on their childrens' lives.

The food was well appreciated. Us siblings all helped out where we could. Cody and I knew how to cook, but Danny really went the extra mile in her dinner prep.

After hunger was satiated, questions were asked and answers given. Mom ranted about a frustrating case at work, Dad giving her a commiserating look. Cody had plans with his girlfriend this weekend. No, it was someone new. Not the gal from New Year's. They broke up. Danny talked animatedly about something interesting she learned in anthropology. I told everyone how preparations for the upcoming play were going.

I remained thankful that no awkward questions were asked over dinner.

Of course, all good things must come to an end. I blasted the last dirty dish with the sink and put it in the dishwasher. My siblings had retired for the night, leaving me alone with my parents. I don't think there would be any more escaping their concerned curiosity.

"How are you feeling Sweetheart?" an innocent enough question. Mom's tone indicated that she suspected I was feeling something other than "fine".

My heart rate increased. I prepared to give the same answer that I had given Danny earlier.

My dad preempted any possible diversionary tactics, "Sam, we're not upset that you were late to school. Sweety, we know that you're a responsible student who wouldn't be late without a good reason," his face morphed in worry as he spoke, "Your brother tried multiple times over a half hour to get your attention. He said it was deathly silent in there. Sam, if you have something, anything you need to tell us, we're here for you."

And I knew he meant it. Guilt and indecision burned within me. How could I tell them the truth? If I broke down and told them all the secrets floating around in my head, they'd be in immense danger. All of us would be.

Revealing the memories was out, but could I tell them about my powers? Most parents wouldn't jump to the conclusion that their daughter was a cape because she spent an hour of silence in the bathroom. My Mom and Dad were not most parents. Both my parents worked for the PRT, the Parahuman Response Team. They knew parahumans and they knew what signs to look for. Dad's job was nominally a PRT analyst. What he analyzed was never talked about. He had many amusing stories about colleagues and capes alike but nothing that revealed the exact nature of his work. Mom, on the other hand, was part of the marketing team for the Wards. She spent a significant portion of her time interacting directly with underage parahumans. The point is they were far more likely to suspect powers might be at play than the average parents.

Not that I was a true parahuman by the strict definition, but the intellectual differences hardly mattered when I displayed all the wrong signs. The greatest defense acting in my favor was that I had no plausible trigger event. I'm a happy enough child in a loving family that has not experienced a traumatizing event.

I don't think they suspect powers yet, and either way it's too soon to reveal them. Unless they ask me directly, I won't tell them. Yet.

I had to come up with an answer that throws them off the scent, "Everything just kind of caught up to me today," I couldn't look Dad in the eyes, "Um, you see all those horrible things about the gangs in the news and on PHO and stuff. And all the other stuff going on around the world," Every lie needs to have some level of truth to it, or it's easy to see through the deception, "It uh, it just makes you feel hopeless sometimes, you know. Like no matter what, things are only getting worse. That they won't ever get better even with all the heroes trying and doing their best. Like there's no reason for people to even try and everyone has just accepted that," Without meaning to ramble on for so long, part of my true feelings came spilling out.

SPEECH INCREASED TO 1

wut

"Oh Sweetheart, we didn't know you were going through so much," Mom was teary eyed, "We're here, and we'll listen whenever you want. Or if you don't feel comfortable talking to us, we can get in contact with a professional."

"No! I mean, no I don't think I need to see a therapist Mom. I don't have depression, and I don't feel hopeless. I just had to get all the emotions out of my system."

The mental skill increase notice had nearly given me a heart attack. I'm not sure they didn't notice me flinch and nearly miss Mom's heartfelt words.

"Just remember that the option is always open to you Sweety. We love you so very much," Dad reached out for a hug. I reciprocated.

"More than anything else in the world," Mom made it a group hug.

My words were muffled into Dad's chest, "I love you guys too."

After our heart to heart, I retreated back up to my room. I still had some homework left, but nothing was due imminently. It could be put off until tomorrow… Screw it, I can't hold back anymore. It is officially experimenting time!

The first order of business was to check out my updated Skills screen. A brief mental flick, and I flew among the stars once more. Checking. Yep, my Speech is indeed now at 1. The bar was three quarters of the way to level 2. I had been in and out of conversations throughout the day, but I hadn't been keeping tabs on my skill's progress. I had zero clue whether my last little monologue had been the only contributor to the level up or if I had been making incremental progress throughout the day, and my speech had shot it over the edge. Perhaps only persuasion attempts count towards my progress. I had no way to figure that out without a testing partner.

In addition, my Level bar had gone up by a bit. If I had to guess, it looked to be around a tenth full, which made sense if I got a level up every ten skill increases.

There were so many things I wanted to test. Too many. But there was one thing I had to check first. The last remaining direction of my crossroads. Magic.

With trepidation, I hesitantly opened the last remaining screen. This was it. The abilities granted to me by my inventory were incredible, but this was the flash. The pizzazz. The contents of this tab are what made me a bonafide superhuman.

Flames. Healing.

Just by default, I had been gifted a powerful offensive tool and a broken self regeneration ability. Of the two, Healing was without a doubt the winner. Flames was a cool spell if I felt like burning something down for some reason, but Healing… There was a reason why regeneration powers were held in such high regard. Perseverance in the face of damaging abilities and otherwise crippling injuries was often the trait of a top tier cape. And what a regenerative ability this was. If my Healing was analogous to the game's, then I could expect to have rapid removal of any physical injuries short of dismemberment.

I had to try this out. Every little boy or girl dreamed about one day having cool powers. Of flying like Alexandria or blasting lasers like Legend.

Going off of in-game knowledge, Healing would be accompanied by a bright glow and sound. I closed my blackout curtains all the way, and just to be safe, I wedged a jacket in the small gap between the door and floor. If the sound from the spell was too loud, I would immediately cease casting.

I equipped Healing in my right hand. Golden orange light popped into existence, the shimmering translucent orb warbling and centered on my outstretched palm. From the central orb, rays speared off, dissipating into the air. I readied my cast, the upraising and clenching of my hand an instinctual instruction from the source of my powers. Gold light flared. A force was exerted on my spiritual body pulling on my Magicka channels. Swirls of light encircled me from head to toe. A sound like white noise was overlaid with a gentle high pitched tinkling. It was not much louder than a quiet conversation.

I was enraptured. I don't know when I had last felt such childlike wonder. Without my input, the spell abruptly cut off, dimming to precast luminosity.

Of course. Spells cost Magicka. At 12/second, I could cast for 12.5 seconds until I ran out of juice. And at a Health gain rate of 10/second, I could heal for a total of 125 Health. More than my current maximum.

While I had been computing some mental math, my Magicka bar had refilled approximately a quarter. It was not mentally taxing to split my focus between the slowly refilling blue bar and other thoughts. And, aha, I can turn it off and on at will. Magicka bar on. Magicka bar off. Magicka bar back on.

I needed to get a better sense for how long it takes to refill to full, so I waited impatiently for it to top off. For my next experiment, I would time exactly how long it takes to refill. Phone in one hand and spell in the other, I cast Healing again until my Magicka was drained. The moment I felt the spell cut off, I tapped start on my stopwatch app.

While I now knew that I could multitask watching my Magicka and doing other things, I kept my full focus on the blue bar. I didn't want to muddy up my data after all.

150 seconds. The stopwatch read 150.33 seconds, but I figured that a rounding to make it a nice, even rate of 1/second made sense. Time to check the reliability of my data.

After repeated testing, I had confirmed a few facts. One, repeatedly emptying my Magicka did not seem to make a difference in the regeneration rate. Two, casting with both hands drained Magicka at double the rate, but still did not affect the regeneration. Three, casts in the left and right hand could be staggered so that they didn't have to begin or end at the same time (kind of obvious, but it's good to know). Four, it is not necessary to cast in the same pose made instinctual by my power; it's only necessary that I have the requisite mental focus. Five, Magicka did not regenerate while a spell was being cast.

Six, I don't actually have to heal off any damage to level up Restoration. I got the notification RESTORATION INCREASED TO 1 after my latest run. This was wonderful news. It strongly implied I no longer had to worry about the ethics of leveling Destruction on living targets. Images of dousing an innocent animal with Flames as my family looked on in horror flashed through my head.

I mentally repeated the numbers I had learned tonight. There was no way I was going to keep physical or digital notes on something this incriminating.

It was well past 9 o'clock now. I was a bit surprised that I had been experimenting for so long. The time had flown by.

I wanted to test another aspect of my power before I succumbed to my tiredness, so I settled on a brief examination of Stamina. I hadn't noticed the green bar appear at any point today, indicating that I probably hadn't done any activity that required stamina (and therefore, Stamina). Not wanting to create a racket alerting my family to my shenanigans, I decided against sprinting through the halls. Let's see if push ups can get the job done.

I dropped to the carpet with my hands spread shoulder width against the ground and my back straight, nearly flush with my legs. I did one pushup. Yep, that sure felt like I did one pushup. My Stamina had dropped by a nearly imperceptible amount and quickly refilled. Clearly, I needed more extensive testing. I got back into position and began doing pushups.

One. Two. Three. Four…

177. 178. 179. 180. The Stamina bar flashed green. I finally ran out! This was amazing. Every repetition all the way from the first to the last had felt identical to push up number one. But I didn't see why I couldn't keep going. I wasn't suddenly plagued by exhaustion when I ran out of Stamina.

How far could I push myself past an empty bar? There was no need to wait for a full refill. I got right back to my exercise. Another couple dozen pushups later, my green juice was empty again, but this time I continued on. I instantly recognized what was going on. A mere ten reps later, my arms were shaking violently, my back was sagging, and my muscles were burning (I was not a very athletic person).

I concluded that Stamina served as a sort of overcharge on my body's real world fatigue. So long as I had Stamina, exertive physical actions were "free".

I didn't let my time go to waste. Thinking ahead, I had prepared my stopwatch app ahead of time. 90 seconds. Stamina recharge rate of 1/second. Simple.

I performed a few more qualitative tests. Other basic exercises depleted my Stamina at more or less the same rate. My room provided little space for more adventurous actions. Sprints and parkour would have to come later.

My brain latched onto a crazy idea. If I was going to save the world from a god-like eldritch being, I would need to exploit my power for all it was worth. I walked up to my bed, bent down, and placed my hands underneath the frame. With my Stamina at full, I poured every ounce of willpower into my arms and lifted.

The bed did not move.

Darn.

No herculean feats beyond my body's strength. This was disappointing but not unexpected. Oh well, I'd just have to get creative.

I'll have to get creative tomorrow, I thought as I realized how late it was. I functioned best with a full eight hours of sleep.

Today had been an adventure full of towering peaks and abyssal lows. My emotional state had fluctuated wildly throughout the day. I had felt emotions I wasn't aware it was possible to feel. My fears were not entirely abated, and the future remains uncertain. All I can do is prepare for what's to come.

So, I made myself ready for bed, washing my face and unbraiding my hair. Minutes later, laying under the covers, my mind drifted through half formed ideas: Magic and inventories, maps and collapsing cities, getting more and more chaotic until, at last, sleep came.

 

[FantasticGouda]

Interlude One: The Shattering of Reality's Barriers Does Not Go Unnoticed​

In a sealed room in an underground base on a far off planet, a woman frowned. The numerous Paths she maintained had grown longer. Now it was not unexpected for the Paths to fluctuate on any given day. They could not predict the effects of trigger events any more than other precogs could, after all.

What was concerning was the sheer magnitude of the changes and how widespread they were. The number of steps had increased by at least 10% across the board. Every Path was now longer and more cumbersome. How? What happened?

Had there been an endbringer attack? It was a little early, and she was sure somebody would have told her something if that were the case.

Maybe David had done something terminally stupid? That was always an unfortunate possibility with his blindspot status.

Or perhaps Scion finally snapped and blew up a country.

Whatever the case, the Paths all agreed. She would have to call a meeting with the rest of Cauldron.

She felt a headache forming in the front of her skull. Today was going to be a long day.

---

{Unit 3 Internal Update: Energy Expenditure Check => 910 EJ Detected @ Uptime=2959:03:59:56}

{WARNING: Energy Expenditure Outside Operational Parameters}

{Unit 3 Internal Update: Simulation Density Reduction Check => 80% Detected @ Uptime=2959:03:59:58}

{Outgoing Signal: Request DATA // Unit 1 & Unit 2 @ Uptime=2959:03:59:59}

{Unit 3 Internal Update: Local Reality Search Query => Inconclusive @ Uptime=2959:04:00:05}

{Unit 3 Internal Update: Extradimensional Search Query => Inconclusive @ Uptime=2959:05:55:16}

{Incoming Signals: Unit 1 \\ DATA @ Uptime=2959:04:21:40& Unit 2 \\ DATA @ Uptime=2959:04:23:11}

{Unit 3 Internal Update: DATA Collation => Inconclusive @ Uptime=2959:05:56:34}

{Unit 3 Internal Update: Initiate Local Space Simulation Search Grid @ Uptime=2959:05:56:35}

{WARNING: [LSSSG-PreFunction] Indicated Probability of Extreme Energy Expenditure; Expected Excess => 5 ZJ; Override Required #Y/N#}

{Unit 3 Internal Update: #Y# @ Uptime=2959:05:57:05}

…

{Unit 3 Internal Update: [LSSSG-Function] => Probable Anomaly Coordinates [42.2:42.9 ,-71.3:-70.8] ; Designations "Boston Metropolitan Area" & "Brockton Bay Metropolitan Area" @ Uptime=2962:23:09:12 & [LSSSG-AuxFunction] => N/A @ Uptime=2962:23:09:12}

{WARNING: [LSSSG-AuxFunction] Returned Value=N/A :: Indications for Out of Context Problem Possible :: Conservation Measures Necessary}

{Unit 3 Internal Update: Initiate Standby Mode @ Uptime=2962:23:09:42 & Initiate Simulation of Countermeasures @ Uptime=2962:23:09:43}

40,000 kilometers above the Earth Bet's surface, somewhere over the Southern Ocean, the third conflict engine entered geosynchronous orbit. Long range sensors alerted think tanks in the PRT and around the world to the development. Despite the efforts of numerous Thinkers and analysts, no conclusion was drawn from this new behavior. The panic passed, and operations returned to normal when it was evident that The Simurgh was not preparing to attack yet. Weeks passed with no observed changes. Image and other esoteric data feeds were maintained. Hopefully, the world would be ready for when the Killer of Hope left her standstill.

 

[FantasticGouda]

Chapter One: I Do Not Have a Savior Complex​

I awoke to my alarm: The sonorous renditions of Bad Canary. Consciousness chased away hazy dreams of hulking monsters, dark storms, and the uncaring face of a gold-enwreathed god.

Groaning, I slipped out of my warm sheet cocoon, pausing to luxuriate in the cold of early morning that spilled from the window. No reason to have a repeat of yesterday's events. I closed my window and started on my morning ablutions.

One shower and hair care treatment later, I was ready to face the new day.

Ha! No crisis this time!

My internal jubilation at surviving this perfectly mundane morning routine went unnoticed by Cody waiting down the hall as I stalked out of the bathroom. Or maybe he did. The smile on my face wouldn't go away, and I was humming along to my favorite Bad Canary song. Sue me, I was happy today. Despite the trials and tribulations coming my way, despite the ramifications I still needed to come to terms with, despite yesterday's stress, I was optimistic.

Hopefully, my family didn't think I was bipolar or having bouts of depression.

I caught Mom and Dad on their way out of the house. They normally rode together in the van to the PRT building.

"Morning Sweetheart," "Have a good day Sweety," quick hugs were exchanged before they had to be off.

Alright, it was breakfast time. Today, I was going to have a real breakfast (I am a proponent of hearty egg based breakfasts).

Pan out. Eggs, sausage, spinach, onions. The ingredients were arranged and the burner set to a medium heat. Ten minutes of cook time produced an acceptable plate of scrambled eggs. Now for the coup de grâce. A generous dose of hot sauce from the burnt orange bottle labeled "Volcanic Hot Sauce".

It wasn't long before Danny and Cody joined me at the dining table. I had, of course, made enough servings for the three of us. Seeing the extra portions, my siblings took up my unvocalized offer, filling up their own plates with some eggy goodness. Sans the hot sauce. More for me then.

Beyond the clinks of silverware on ceramics, the silence in the room was a comfortable one born of many companionable breakfasts spent between us.

Danny left first, "Have a good day you two!"

She got a chorus of "You too!" and "Mhm" in response.

We finished not long after, tidied up the kitchen, and set off.

---

It's only the first class of the day, and I'm already facing a dilemma. It should be apparent by now to any outside observer that athleticism is not one of my strong suits. Outside of PE, the most strenuous exercise I did regularly was operating stage equipment.

Now Mr. Johnson, my teacher for Health Science and Physical Education, is a firm believer that students in his class should push themselves. He did not expect anyone to exceed their limits, but students caught slacking in the effort department were liable to receive a markdown on their semester grade.

All that is to say, it would be mightily suspicious if little ole me, who flagged after just a couple of warm up laps, suddenly showed the endurance of a professional athlete. For you see, my Stamina would let me breeze through the entire class, and I don't know how to turn it off.

I tried any phrase and mental trick I could think of to no avail. I was the last girl in the locker room, and if I didn't hurry, I would be late to class.

Ok, plan B. I'll pretend to get tired. I had no idea how to convincingly fake exhaustion beyond breathing harder, and a great actor I was not. What could possibly go wrong?

---

Well, class started off fine. Warm up stretches are no big deal. Nobody gets winded from those. Then came the laps. Do I always run this fast? Should I slow down? It was difficult for me to judge my speed relative to my past self because this felt so effortless.

A joyful, childlike part of me wanted to let loose all inhibitions and sprint at full speed. To really press the limits of my Stamina. I took that part of myself and slapped it about the head until she keeled over dizzy. I will not out myself in PE.

Instead, I gradually reduced my speed and forced myself to breathe harder. A wave of lightheadedness threatened to strip me of my consciousness.

Maybe don't breathe that hard, Sam, I admonished myself while slowing my breathing to non-hyperventilation levels.


Mr. Johnson called a stop. You know, for us to catch our breath. Ha ha. Nobody called me out, so I'll take that victory for now. The Stamina bar wasn't even below the halfway point!

We spent the rest of class doing today's activity/sport which turned out to be dodgeball. This was perfect! Plan C: Play recklessly and get hit.

The shrill tone of the whistle pierced the air marking the start of the match. A mad rush to the center line ensued. Determinedly, I pushed my leg muscles as hard as they could go. This was it. I was the first to reach the middle. Scooping up the foam ball of doom, I took aim at the other team's nearest target. His look of surprise brought a smile to my lips.

My arm swung back, bicep tensed. It will be so satisfying to kamikaze the other team before going out in a blaze of glory. I whipped the ball forwards and released.

The dodgeball slammed into the ground in front of my target to his stunned surprise, bouncing harmlessly away just as another came hurtling into my side.

"Oof," I stumbled to the left.

"Brown, out!" came the teacher's referee call.

Hehe, turns out Stamina does not make me any better at dodgeball. Plan C was successful.

---

It turns out that no exertion equals no sweating. Goodbye after-gym showers. I could take a shower to keep up appearances, but… Nah. Nobody was paying that close attention to me, and it isn't like I'm the only girl to skip out on them.

Computer Studies was next up on the agenda. As one of only two classes I shared with any of my friends (the other being Art), I looked forward to it.

Cass was already seated at our corner workstation, so I took the chair next to hers. Unlike Winslow, our school had money to spend on educating students; the sleek desktops did not represent state of the art, top of the line hardware, but their computing power outstripped the ancient machines poor Taylor had been subjected to several times over. Also unlike Taylor's computer class, there would be no time to browse PHO or any other sites. Mrs. Wellager kept unruly students on task. Tasks that were not trivial but rather posed a challenge to lazy students.

In this unit, we were constructing a website using the programming language we had learned the previous semester. Convenient website building software like Squarespace did not yet exist on Earth Bet the same way they do on Samuel's Earth. Instead, the vast majority of projects were created entirely on the backend.

"Alright Sam, I think we should get started on the UX elements," I was grateful that Cass took classwork as seriously as I did. Playtime could come later, "Can you handle the GUI?"

At the start of the project, we decided that Cass would handle more of the backend functionality while I handled the design elements.

"No problemo."

Cass blew a strand of hair out of her face and I tugged my braid over my shoulder. Yup, we meant serious business.

---

The lunch bell rang, dismissing us from our furious coding. Side by side, we walked to the cafeteria.

The selection today was… fine I suppose. Money can't solve every problem. School food will always be school food.

Looks like today's topic of conversation is Ymena's latest boy band obsession. She and Jasmine were gathered over her phone looking at posts Ymena had saved. For such a small girl, she sure had a powerful squeal. Cass joined in, looking a bit interested. Meanwhile, I was only paying half attention.

Forcing myself not to look over at the other table, my mind was consumed by the Dallon sisters. What could I do to help them? What should I do?

There was nowhere for me to even begin. We are not friends. We are not acquaintances. Amy and Vicky do not know me, but I know them. How much do I really know though? Second hand snippets originating from a dramatized version of an alternate timeline of events did not a thorough or conclusive character study make. Disregarding the many fan fiction portrayals, Wildblow's retelling of events never covered Amy or Vicky in their daily life. Worm contained their darkest secrets and most vulnerable moments but nothing that could help me connect with them as people. And most of those moments weren't even from their own perspectives! Taylor Hebert was not exactly a reliable narrator at the best of times, so add in her adversarial relationship with New Wave and the heroes, and you get the worst possible representation of the Dallons.

No, shoving Amy's shameful secrets in her face wouldn't endear me to Amy or her sister. But I felt like I had to do something. What do I know about them? Not Samuel. Not some community of shippers from another reality. What do I know?

Well, Victoria, Glory Girl, has an outgoing, exuberant personality always at the eye of the hurricane that is Arcadia gossip. She patrols regularly, fighting crime with her brute strength, invulnerability, and flight. The quintessential Alexandria package. And she's in an on again off again relationship with Dean Stansfield.

Her sister is the polar opposite. Quiet, introverted, and blunt are all words that people would use to describe Amy. Her powers are nominally to heal any injury as long as it's not brain related. The Bay's beloved healer spends volunteer hours in rotating shifts at the city's various hospitals. When she's not in the ER or at home, you can usually find her not far from Vicky.

Okay, not a lot to go on for building a rapport. What did Worm have to say about the Dallons? Firstly, Amy Dallon's birth name was Amelia Claire Lavere. She was adopted by the Dallons after a raid by New Wave sent Marquis, her father, to the Birdcage. Carol Dallon, known under her hero name as Brandish, was Amy's adoptive mother. Why she chose to adopt Amy, I'm not entirely sure. Samuel's memories seem to recall that there was potential reprisal from Marquis' enemies. In either case, Carol chose to adopt a child that she did not want and did not love. Thus, Amy grew up knowing her mother mistrusted her.

Secondly, the girl had some serious issues with her own power. It seemed to me that a combination of Carol Dallon's paranoia and the societal pressure placed on anyone with a power remotely approaching biotinkering are the causes of Panacea's power insecurity.

Last but not least, Amy's incestuous love of Victoria amplified her other problems. She hates herself for loving her sister, so she restricts the use of her power to curb the temptation to use it on Vicky. Not using her power in novel ways causes her Shard to flood her brain with negative emotions, causing Amy to hate herself. And on and on in a vicious cycle. A negative feedback loop that remains inescapable until her psyche snaps. Not to mention that while Wildblow never confirmed the fact, it is highly probable that Vicky's emotional aura is responsible for Pavlovian conditioning Amy into loving her!

Urgh! The deeper I dive into Amy's awful life, the angrier I get. She does not deserve the treatment she got in the original timeline. Where does Carol get off punishing Amy when Vicky is the irresponsible, collateral damage causing, blatant master power abusing nuisance, and Amy has to clean up after Vicky's messes?

Okay, okay, I'm being unfair to Glory Girl. There's no doubt that she cares about her sister and being a hero. She just… needs to learn control before it's too late. For herself and her family.

And Amy needs to learn to let loose in productive ways. Those sisters are truly polar opposites.

Decision time. Do I interfere or not? Knowing what I know, how it all goes down without me in the picture, how an entire family of heroes is ruined by the fallout, there's only one answer I could give: I'm going to save New Wave.

Or at least the Dallon sisters. Carol, Sarah, and Neil should have done better, and Mark has severe clinical depression.

Since when am I on a first name basis with the New Wave adults? Eh, worry about that later.

I should get back to the conversation before my friends start thinking I'm acting weird again. Back to the gossip mill. Aaaaaand they're all looking my way.

"Pay up," Ymena rubbed her fingers together in the penny pinching universal sign for "gimme the money", a smug grin on her face.

"Ugh," Cass handed over a five dollar bill.

Jasmine hid her giggles behind her hand, although not very well as her upper chest was shaking with mirth.

"Um, what's up?" I tried lamely to reinsert myself back into the group.

Jasmine doubled over in laughter. The virus spread to the rest of my friends. It infected Ymena first, her face scrunching up as hyena cackles echoed out into the lunch room. Not long after, Cass's lips twitched. Alas, her immune system must have been compromised, as the virus morphed the twitch into a full on smile.

Nearby tables were turned our way, curious to what could have caused such raucous laughter. My cheeks heated up. I'm sure everyone within twenty feet could see reddening like a tomato.

"What's so funny guys?" I'm not socially inept. I could tell they were laughing because of me. I just didn't know what was so funny. I had missed some vital part of the conversation.

Jasmine was the one to respond, sputtering out an explanation, "I'm sor- I'm sor-sorry Sam," more giggles, "It's just-j-just that you were staring off at-at the p-popular table," intersperse uncontrolled giggling, "with this look on your face. So-so s-serious and," Jasmine broke down unable to continue amidst the giggles.

"You were totally eyeing up buff blondie!" Ymena blurted the whole sentence before her volume tripled into hysterical cackling.

"Ymena bet me you'd eye fuck Dallon again today. I lost the bet," not Cass too!

When did I turn towards their group? I can't remember at all. Gosh, my absentmindedness was becoming a full on problem.

I covered my face with my hands before sputtering out sounds resembling English, "I just-I-I mean-you guys-mrph urghhhhh."

This of course was a mistake because Jasmine and Cass just laughed harder. Ymena had already surpassed the limit of normal human laughter. The PRT should classify her cackles as a Blaster 1 rating.

That got some attention. At least half of the cafeteria was tuned into our table now. Ohmygosh, how embarrassing.

After far too long, many apologies from my one and only friend Jasmine, and enough embarrassment to power a nuclear plant, the two stooges finally calmed down to a level where polite discussion was possible.

Hoping to not set off another round of amusement I spoke in my defense, "I was not eye f.. I was not eyeing up Victoria Dallon," Good start me. Plausible deniability is great, but now what? "I was just-I was just thinking about how lonely Amy looked," Hold up, I feel like I'm moving into dangerous territory.

"Ohhhhhhh myyyyy," Ymena took my words the wrong way, pretending to fan her cheeks. The grin on her face could give a certain blonde haired, green eyed, know it all supervillain a run for her money.

As if she could feel shame about anything.

"It's not like that!"

"I think the lady doth protest too much," Not Cass too!!! "Pay up," she mirrored Ymena's earlier mocking pose. Ymena begrudgingly tore $10 from her wallet and slapped it into Cass's waiting palm.

"You think Amy looks lonely?" Jasmine's question caught me off guard. Her face was serious.

The shift in the atmosphere spread to my other friends, joviality leaking out and replaced by ponderous expressions.

Not seeing any way to back out of the topic now, I pushed forward with a partial truth, "Yeah. I don't want to intrude on her or anything, but doesn't it just seem like Amy doesn't fit in with the rest of the group? I've never seen her say more than a sentence to anyone besides her sister. I think maybe she only sits with them because Vicky's there?"

I got a litany of responses, "So you're not into Amy?", "Since when is she 'Vicky' to you?", "You're serious about this."

I responded to Jasmine, "Yeah, I am."

"So, and I really don't mean to come off as condescending Sam, but what are you planning to do about it? What if she wants to be left alone. Will you try to strike up a conversation with her? Invite her over to our table?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know."

"It's admirable to want to help others when you see them suffering. It's one of the traits I like about you Sam. But not every situation requires your interference. You're making assumptions here that she's unhappy without really getting to know her. Maybe she is miserable, or maybe she's just a quiet person by nature. Perhaps there are other stresses in her life that we don't know about."

Dang it Jasmine. How am I supposed to rebut such a reasonable argument? When you don't know what I know…

"Okay, yeah. You have a point. But. It can't hurt to just talk to her?"

"It can hurt if you enter with the wrong attitude. If you go in there with the expectation that she'll open up her heart to you, it will be all too easy to alienate her. She'll see you as patronizing even if you have pure intentions. And if you try to start an innocent chat but end up pushing her too fast, you'll run into the same troubles."

"So what, I don't have any in? I should just drop it right?"

"I'm not saying that Sam. I think you need to find the right approach. Try to find some other point of connection between the two of you, and work from there."

Cass interjected with her own suggestion, "Why don't you sit with their group sometime? If you act polite and interested in their whole drama mill schtick, you can get in at the preppies table. Worm your way next to Amy and bam, now you get to talk over lunch. Don't worry, we'll always reserve a spot for you and Amy when you woo her away from their demented clutches."

Ymena butted in, "Not a bad idea, but you should attack from a higher angle. You gotta go after the other sister first. The Dallons are real close. If you can convince Victoria that you're on the side of the angels, then she'll convince Amy and, presto, you've got her ear."

I wasn't so sure about that strategy for reasons Ymena couldn't possibly know, "I'm not so certain about that plan. What if Amy thinks I'm using her sister just to get to her?"

Or that I'm taking her sister away from her.

Ymena responded, "Are you going to use her sister? There's no reason you can't befriend both of them?"

I am defeated yet again by reasoning and logic.

"Alright. I'll see if I can catch both of them together sometime. Get a three way conversation going so Amy feels involved," This was probably the best plan I was going to come up with.

SPEECH INCREASED TO 3

My life is a cosmic joke.

 

[FantasticGouda]

Time for my last class of the day, and my favorite in the whole schedule. Art II is the aptly named second year of the Art track. The school lacked specialized art classes, instead opting for a wide but shallow breadth of artistic disciplines. That was fine by me as I got to sample many different techniques and see what clicked.

The past few weeks had been all about sculpting, a fact reflected in the classroom's current state. Several stations contained pottery wheels. The three legged table like structures replaced their tops with a deep set plastic bowl housing a dinner plate sized metal disk, a pitcher of water, and a set of tools for shaping clay. An engine visible on the underside of the bowl wired to a foot pedal controlled the spinning of the wheel.

Jasmine and I scoped out our options, settling on the potter's wheel next to the far window. There's nothing better than chilling with one of my best friends, working on my art and gazing out at the city. Arcadia resting on a hill combined with the fourth story window provided a decent view of Downtown.

After a brief lesson from Mrs. Jensen on the principles and history of pottery, I let Jasmine have first dibs at the wheel. She practiced watercolor painting and charcoal sketching in her spare time and was unfamiliar with pottery.

Mrs. Jensen flitted from station to station instructing her struggling pupils on proper hand placement. Seeing no reason to wait for the teacher, I helped Jasmine get started.

"Here, curl your fingers like this to pull the walls," I guided Jasmine's delicate hands with my own, "Gently and smoothly. It helps if you brace your arms. You won't require so much strength that way."

The finished product was more bowl than pot shaped. However, there were no lumps or lopsidedness. She managed a smooth and symmetric first attempt.

Jasmine started on embellishment and design work while I gathered the clay I would need. My turn. Pottery was more in my wheelhouse than drawing and painting. Sculpting, whittling, carving, I loved the three dimensional nature of adding and removing material to reveal my creations.

The vessel took shape beneath my ministrations. The foot flush with the body. Gentle widening of the belly. I want it taller than it will be wide. Apply more clay. The body narrowing at the shoulder. Up into the neck, digits shaping a rounded concave curve. A pull at the top for a wide lip. Done.

My work bulged roundly in a standard jug design, the thickness of the walls at half an inch to support its abundant size. I'd have to make sure it dried evenly to avoid cracking.

I had my pot, but where do I want to go from here? A clay ball became two small ropes that looped and attached to my jug an inch below the shoulder, forming the handles. And now I was stuck with a fit of artist's block. Mrs. Jensen had stated clearly that our pots needed at least one example each of both additive and subtractive design.

A spark of inspiration struck like a bolt of lightning from a blue sky. First came the additive elements. Leftover clay formed sinusoidal ridges separating the jug's body into five distinct bands. In the second and fourth band, flowing embellishments reminiscent of ocean waves or wind eddies were gouged into the surface with a chisel and wedge.

Contrast can be a powerful tool. Into the top and bottom sections I carved shallow jagged rents. The symbols flowed freely from my subconscious, sharp and vicious claw marks rent into the earth.

I was startled to realize that the symbols formed words. Words I can understand. I should have recognized them sooner. I had hundreds of memories of similar markings after all.

Dovahzul, "Dragon-Voice". And I can read it. And speak it. A gift given freely by my power. I suppose that was a blessing for me, as I had little hope of learning the language on my own, especially without access to an online translator.

The words encircled the pottery at the top and bottom, forming phrases that tickled some memory in my brain.

Dovahkiin Dovahkiin naal ok zin los vahriin
Wah dein vokul mahfaeraak ahst vaal
Ahrk fin norok paal graan fod nust hon zindro zaan
Dovahkiin fah hin kogaan mu draal

"Dragonborn, Dragonborn, by his honor is sworn,
To keep evil forever at bay!
And the fiercest foes rout when they hear triumph's shout,
Dragonborn, for your blessing we pray!"

Aha, they're lyrics! This was the opening chant from Skyrim's main theme. How and why my brain latched onto the song without conscious input was mildly concerning, but I didn't feel like I had entered a tinker fugue at any point. I was fully aware of my actions but not the thought process behind them, as if it was… instinctual.

That left only the middle band empty. Instinct did not take over this time, leaving my stumped once more. At least I had a direction I wanted to take now; the last design element would be in the language of Dragons.

In Skyrim, Dragon-Voice was most commonly seen in the form of Dragon Shouts, Thu'um, that usually consisted of a series of progressively escalating related actions or subjects. The most famous shout, Unrelenting force served as a perfect example: Fus Ro Dah, "Force Balance Push". With each new word, the Shout grew more powerful from a weak force barely stronger than a strong breeze up to a gale force that could hurtle enemies off of mountainsides. My goal was to capture the essence of a Shout with my final design.

I need themes. Something with growth and movement. Right now I'm like a newborn, grounded and learning about the wider world. As I explore my power, I'll grow stronger until the day I'm able to soar above the clouds.

I got to carving.

Kiin Paagol Ru Bo, "Born Walk Run Fly". The heroic journey foretold in four words, a promise to myself. It was perfect.

SMITHING INCREASED TO 1

My sense of pride and accomplishment was bolstered by the notification. Although…

Not to question you, power, but I think you need to check your definition of smithing.

Eh, no reason to look a gift skill increase in the mouth. If Smithing applied to more than just metalwork, weapons, and armor, then it was to my benefit.

All of this begged the question: Was I Dragonborn? Could I learn Shouts? My power helpfully supplied me an answer. Yes, on both counts. I would need something much bigger than pottery to carve on. Dragons were not small creatures, thus neither were works derivative of Dragons. A proper Word Wall was a shrine unto itself, granting worship unto those mighty beings. It was a place of meditation and introspection, and it would require a lot of stone. Literal tons. Worse, it would need to be of a single piece. There would be no cobbling together a Word Wall from disparate rocks. A Dragon is a monolith, and so too is a Word Wall.

I cut myself off before I could get too lost in thought. I don't want to be caught zoned out for the fourth? Fifth? Sixth time? Doesn't matter. No more spacing out if I can help it.

I glanced around the room. My classmates were all packing up, and sure enough the clock read less than a minute to the bell.

"It's gorgeous, Sam," Jasmine's comment stoked the flames of pride in my chest.

"Indeed," How long had Mrs. Jensen been watching? "You have some fascinating detail work. These markings in particular scream deeper meaning to me," she pointed to the Dragon-Voice words, "I can tell you put a lot of thought into your work. I'm looking forward to seeing your finished piece."

With that, she walked off, leaving me blushing. Wait a minute. I had just exposed my closest friend and my art teacher to Dovahzul, a language that I planned to incorporate into my future power development plans. A very distinctive language that would point to an obvious connection between my future cape persona and Samantha Brown.

Shizzle sticks.

I did not think this through. Again! I can't afford to be this careless over and over again! New rule, no more showing other people power related anything without a good reason.

 

[FantasticGouda]

Chapter Three: More Experimentation​

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. For stage crew, Sarah had me shuffling between testing lighting equipment and helping out with some of the props. While not the most exciting, it was nice to hang out and talk with the older college students. I've learned so much about frat parties and hangovers from them.

Danny ended up staying late for theater practice, so I took the bus home, the closest stop only a couple blocks away.

Throughout the rides both to and from BBU, I texted my friends in our group chat. Evenings spent power testing were hardly conducive to social interaction, and I didn't want to seem like I was completely blowing them off.

I was first to get home. Cody must have still been at the clinic, his vocational studies involved shadowing veterinarians at the combined clinic/shelter in Downtown (Don't let his aloof facade fool you, he's a softie at heart).

Normally, I would take the time before dinner to do my homework, but this presented an opportunity too good to pass up. No one is home. I am alone. I can test my power without risking getting caught by my family.

I had a few options. Any crafting or tinkering was out of the question. My parents were just too observant, and they would notice if appliances started going missing around the house. Whatever I wanted to build, the parts would need to come from what limited items I already had lying around my room, or from what I could smuggle in from a clandestine shopping trip, but that's not an adventure I was willing to embark on tonight.

My first idea for an experiment might be monumentally stupid. I had to test my Health bar at some point, and now was the best time to do it when nobody could see me look like an idiot beating myself up.

Test one. I took a breath and slapped myself in the face. Ow. It felt like I slapped myself in the face. Go figure.

My Health did not go down, yet I still felt pain. Either I had not done enough damage to myself to warrant one whole point of Health, or it functioned differently than I thought.

I should probably stop slapping myself because going to school tomorrow with a bruised face would look bad to the administration. What's the least debilitating way I can harm myself?

…

The depth of depravity my power had already drawn me into was concerning. Self harm is not the answer, kids. Seek out help if you need it.
I wracked my brain for any palatable options.

Ohmygosh I'm an idiot.

I have a healing spell. I can heal myself. Why am I worried about showing injuries when I have a broken as heck healing spell?

Sighing, I walked to the kitchen and grabbed a steak knife from our knife board. Okay, stabbing myself is a little much for me. Instead, I braced myself and slashed across my palm. There was a flash of heat and pain that felt like, well, like a knife slashing my palm, but no blood spread from the cut. And more importantly, my Health bar appeared! I had done at least one point of damage to myself.

It had disappeared again by the time I finished my observation. Checking my status, I noted that I was back to full Health. If my power was following Skyrim logic, then Health regenerated just like my Magicka and Stamina.

Now I had to figure out the rate of regeneration and other statistics…

This was not going to be fun.

In the end, I could only handle five minutes of testing. Maybe I'm a wuss, but continually tormenting myself with phantom pain was not my idea of a good time. I measured just enough data to ascertain the most important number: Health's regeneration rate is a molasses slow 0.25/second that only moved in integer values, so I got one Health back every four seconds.

I learned that no matter how many times I struck with the knife, my body did not actually receive any injuries. A light slash caused only one point of damage, but a solid stab on my arm chunked a whopping twenty points all at once (and hurt significantly more). My tentative hypothesis based on the lessons I learned from Stamina testing is that Health acts as an overshield against harm; attacks will cause pain and lower my Health but not cause physical damage until it hits zero, at which point attacks will injure me the same way they would anyone else. For obvious reasons, I would not be testing my hypothesis anytime soon.

It took some convincing, but I decided that the pain feedback from lowering Health is beneficial. It's a reminder telling me not to mess around because losing Health is not to be encouraged.

Thank you for looking out for me, powers.

I wasn't sure that they were sentient, but it felt right to thank them for all that I'd been given.

Moving on, it's time to see what other uses I can get out of my map and inventory.

First up, what kind of things can I place in my inventory, and how easily can I do it? I rapid fire touched random objects scattered about the house to see what worked.

Couch – Nothing
Pen – No result
Apple – Nada
Dinner plate – No can do

I really expected at least one of the last three to work. I thought about the problem for a minute, my limitation might be that I have to pick up the object first before it can be inventoried. Sure enough, the pen, apple, and plate all vanished when I lifted them. I was unable to lift the couch.

Just like with my sock, the required mental effort was minimal. A simple thought of wanting to store the item, and it was gone in an instant.

Checking my inventory, the apple was classified as food while the pen and plate were both under miscellaneous items. No surprises there. I also noticed that I had an encumbrance limit of 295 pounds currently sitting at three pounds of weight including my clothing.

The possible uses of my inventory were manifold. Firstly and most obviously, I could keep any item I want in storage and remove it later when needed. I could also transport heavy items over great distances so long as I can lift it initially. I might be able to solve my tinkering supplies problems as well. If I can browse stores unobserved…

No, bad Sam. Stealing is wrong.

Okay so my tinkering problem isn't solved unless I want to be an amoral jerk.

Hmm, I should test to see if there is a size or weight limit. The television was probably the largest item I could lift within easy reach. Or… No. I need to think outside the box. I instead nabbed the blanket hanging off the back of the couch and unrolled it to full length. It was now larger than the TV in every dimension except width, and sure enough, I could inventory it.

Alright, let's put that back. I sent a mental signal to replace the blanket to its rightful perch on the couch.

It instead spawned in a heap at my feet. There's a distance limit, good to know. I manually replaced the blanket, taking care to fold it back up.

For testing the weight limit, I knew just what to grab. I bounded up the stairs, turning the sharp 180 degree corner at the top and jogged to Cody's room. I opened the door (it was unlocked), and searched around for my goal. Cody kept his room far cleaner than you'd expect from a teenage boy. The bed was made with sheets tightly tucked in, not a crease to be found. Belongings were arranged evenly and precisely on his shelves and desk. Walls were obscured with posters of his favorite capes and sports teams. I chose to ignore the large pinup of Narwhal (The Guild member's choice of garment, or lack thereof, was a bold choice). And in the corner, stacked neatly, was Cody's weights set.

I jumped straight to the heaviest dumbbell, a 50 pound monstrosity that I had to lift with both hands.

"Hrrk," I got the weight to chest height and activated my inventory. Success! I can store objects of at least 50 pounds.

I made sure to stand near the weight rack and uninventoried the dumbbell. It appeared directly onto the rack. Another success, I'm on a roll.

Satisfied for now with what I had learned, I made my way back downstairs and plopped onto the couch. Let's move onto the Map. Samuel's memories of playing Skyrim reminded me that I should check for a compass. The familiar transparent gray bar materialized. Turning in a full circle showed that the compass displayed the cardinal directions accurate to Earth's magnetic North based on the direction I faced. Facing to the east, in the direction of the front door, there appeared a stylized house marker.

Verifying on my Map, I saw the marker for my current position overlapped with the house. Hovering my mental cursor over the symbol revealed its name as "The Brown Household". Two identical markers caught my attention, a pentagon with a tower-like component running up the middle. If I recall correctly, this is the symbol used for the College of Winterhold. The marker closest to me was labeled "Arcadia High" and the other further south "Brockton Bay University". Try as I might, I could not get the fast travel prompt to appear. Guess I'm stuck with standard methods of travel. For now.

Okay, so the Map will be useful for orienting myself if I get lost but not much else. Everything I could think to build required more than what I had on hand. I was sorely tempted to tear apart my laptop in order to start construction on the Pip-Boy, but I didn't have the tools. I'd at least need some kind of heating element for the casing and a soldering iron for the circuitry. Even if I did have the tools, I would not be able to explain a missing laptop to my parents.

Tools this, parents that. My lack of tinkering was becoming increasingly frustrating while at the same time, alternative options were looking more attractive. The only thing preventing me from going on a thieving spree was my own moral scruples, even though it could be argued that stealing to build tools to help save the world was a worthy cause. But that wasn't me. I couldn't start down that slippery slope lest I start justifying worse crimes. I know all too well the atrocities Cauldron has committed and will continue to commit in the name of the greater good. Stealing would be my last resort.

I could come clean, tell my parents about my powers and join the Wards. Pros: I get government level access to resources, I don't have to lie to my family, and I have a team to back me. Cons: More regulations are placed on me, I have to operate in the public eye, and the PRT is a corrupt organization with the backing of Cauldron. It was worth considering. Operating as an independent didn't hold much appeal anyways. Reliable backup was incredibly attractive to me.

Sigh, for now I can train Restoration as a way to make concrete progress.

---

Spamming Healing repeatedly had leveled Restoration to 2 by the time Cody got home around six o'clock.

He entered through the front, stretching his arms above his head, "Hey, Dad called. Mom's on the way home, but he's staying late. We're scrounging for dinner tonight."

"That's fine," I replied, "Wanna share a frozen pizza?"

"Sure."

With that settled, I preheated the oven and retrieved my backpack to do homework while we waited. I was well over halfway done when the oven timer went off. Cody must have popped the pizza in the oven while I was working. As was our ingrained habit, we ate together at the dining table, sparing a few words to each other about our days. While we were washing dishes, I heard the van pull into the garage. Mom was home.

She changed upstairs before entering the kitchen and grabbing the remaining slices of pizza, "How was your day, Sweety?"

"Fine," I said, "I had fun in art class today. We made pottery. How about you?"

"Oh, it was alright. I was working with one of the Wards on promotional material. I'm not technically allowed to tell you the details, but just between you and me, there's gonna be some great new products coming out featuring a certain adorable space warper."

Oh gosh, Missy hates my mom, doesn't she? "Can't wait to see it," I lied.

The rest of my evening was spent secluded in my room power leveling Restoration, intermittently texting my friends and finishing homework while waiting for my Magicka to refill.

Several hours later and a notification of RESTORATION INCREASED TO 4, I decided that it was time to go to bed. I was close to a true Level up, needing only two more skill increases which I'd maybe obtain tomorrow. Sleep found me quickly.

 

[FantasticGouda]

Chapter Four: Boardwalk and Perk Talk​

Friday morning passed uneventfully into the afternoon. Practice spent tracking my position on the Map during the drives to and from school served as the extent of my power interaction. Using the Map in an active situation would be disadvantageous, the full field of view obstruction distracting me from my surroundings, but I was getting faster at switching back and forth.

I sent a message to my parents that I had arrived safely and veered off to the predetermined meetup spot for our hangout.

The Boardwalk was busy, no surprise for a Friday evening. Brockton Bay's prime tourist destination bustled with activity from shopgoers and sightseers, a throng of humanity providing vital lifeblood to the economy of a dying city. Shops, boutiques, and stalls of all varieties lined the broad wood plank walkway on both sides, and behind the eastside buildings stretched the city's sole section of beach unsullied by used needles or broken glass bottles. The Protectorate Headquarters shimmered out in the bay, a reminder to the populace that this area was under the protection of heroes, a warning to villains that their dastardly deeds should be kept well clear. Burly men in dark clothing watched from corners and storefronts, enforcers paid to remain vigilant for petty thieves and pickpockets. Woe to any who incurred their wrath for the enforcers delivered swift and brutal punishment to those caught red handed, unsuspecting or careless criminals leaving with more bruises and broken bones than they bargained for. A microcosm of the Bay, the Boardwalk was a separate world within the city, kind to those upstanding citizens who carried cash for the vendors and street performers, or at least those who could pretend to be the kind of citizen the Boardwalk tolerated.

Samuel's memories seemed to dye everything I cared about in somber colors. A part of me had always been aware of the wealth disparity that the Boardwalk represented. Here was a shining jewel in the bay, frequented by the affluent with the means to make to afford the marked up prices, and a mere couple blocks away, a few minutes of walking, the decrepit warehouses of the Docks sat abandoned by all but the homeless and destitute. I knew this, but I never knew it. Not like those suffering from the economic depression knew it in their broken spirits. Perhaps I still didn't understand beyond the intellectual level, that until I experience the worst of the Bay, I have no idea what the other half of this city lives through on a daily basis. There is, after all, a reason why so many self-inserts find themselves dreading ending up in Brockton Bay.

Now I've gone and put myself in a sour mood. This was supposed to be a fun outing. Well, I bet Ymena can cheer me up, I thought, spotting her off to the side of the crowd. There's a gal with some spirit in her.

"Heyyy, over here cutie~ Donchu ignore me~" my friend wildly gesticulated as if to get my already rapt attention.

Yes Ymena, I see you, I thought, a smile cracking through my melancholy, "Oh? Are you gonna treat me to a good time? Take me out to dinner?"

"Mhm. Why, for a gorgeous gal like you, I'll treat you to dinner and more~ Wink wink. Nudge nudge."

This elicited a deepening of my smile, "Alright, what are we doing today?"

"How about we hit up the boutiques first? We can find a nice blouse to pair with your closet full of jeans. Then we'll go wherever you want and decide where to grab a bite after."

"Sounds good to me," I was not a big spender on clothing, but I could shill out for a single top to humor a friend.

Our shopping trip could be broken down into one quarter window shopping, another quarter trying on outfits, and the rest goofing off, all the while making the type of meaningless chatter that close friends can and not feel awkward.

My token blouse, white with blue floral patterns, only set me back $15. The treasury could bear such expense. Ymena was much more excited than me during the whole affair, having a greater interest in fashion.

Now it was my turn to choose our destination. I decided on The Gilded Crest, a metalworking-centric arts and crafts shop. Their artisans smelted metals on site to be worked into jewelry, emblems, and other trinkets. The shop's claim to fame lay in the fine filigree painstakingly worked into prohibitively expensive items.

The Gilded Crest also advertised public viewing of the crafting process. Suffice to say this would be more window shopping.

We joined a small crowd gathered watching the smiths at work. Tongs extracted a crucible from the blasting heat of the furnace, molten metal glowing white hot. Using deft movements, the smith poured the crucible's contents into a series of ring casts, metal flowing like water. At the other workstation, a jeweler was etching into a ring with a set of high precision tools.

Something about the display called to me, to shape metal with a hammer and tongs, to bask in the heat of the forge. My Smithing skill gatekeeped a huge selection of the most powerful artifacts from Skyrim, many requiring a grandmaster level talent. I was beginning to catch glimmers of Smithing's true potential, for beyond swords and shields and breastplates, Smithing granted the power to bring to life the greatest wonders of Skyrim.

Ymena jostled me, "Wanna go check out the shop?" I think she may be getting bored of watching the smithy.

"Sure," I agreed.

Yep, this was much more her style. That rambunctious rascal flitted from display case to display case eyeing the jewelry the way a magpie eyes shinies.

"Oh Sam, how do you think this would look on me?" Ymena pointed to a prominently displayed (behind reinforced glass) brooch with some kind of white metal worked into flower petals and a large citrine gem in the center.

I glanced at the listed price, "Hmm, tell you what, if you start making approximately six more figures than you do now, we can find out."

"Pbbbbbbt," Did she just blow a raspberry at me? "Pbbt pbbt," Yes, she did.

"You are so immature."

"You love me for it. And you're a massive nerd."

"And you love me for it too."

"Yes we do Sam. Every group needs the smart one. The straight man."

"I am not straight, nor am I a man."

"Fine, from now on you'll be the gifted bicurious woman of our group," she paused, "with no sense of humor."

"I have a sense of humor!" I exclaimed in mock outrage, "I even find you funny once or twice a year."

"Oh you find me funny? That's great news! I'll step up my game just for you."

"Har-har."

We stopped our little impromptu skit to look over some of the items within our price range, and by that I mean we had enough money to buy a piece if we didn't want to eat afterwards. Unfortunately for Ymena, this was not an establishment where trying on the wares was accepted etiquette.

We ended our browsing once one of the shop clerks began to hover around us. It was a little rude to treat customers like potential criminals, but then again, we live in Brockton Bay.

It was late enough to go eat anyways, and we decided on a cafe down by the beachside, ordering coffee with a tray of scones and muffins. Indulging in sweets and pastries every once in a while was fine right? Besides, there has to be some sort of magical or scientific solution for my figure somewhere in my catalog of powers.

As we sat at our table making small talk and partaking in the sweet delights, I noticed a peculiar person a couple booths over. Actually, labeling them as peculiar might be the wrong description. Something about her just jumped out to me in my head. Blonde with green eyes and a cute dusting of freckles on her upper face. I wouldn't say that she was supermodel-gorgeous, but she was very pretty with a strong girl next door vibe.

She was talking with a slender framed boy (or they could have been a girl too) with their back turned to me showing off dark curly hair.

I couldn't get rid of the nagging feeling that I should have known this person. She was uncannily familiar to me. I swear it's on the tip of my tongue.

Ymena took that moment to interrupt my train of thought, "Sooo, checking out another blonde huh? I see you have a type."

"You know I was looking at Amy, not Vicky," I protested, realizing far too late that I had handed her not just ammunition but the whole loaded gun.

"Ohhhhhh, so it's the freckles that do it for you," Her smugness could shatter mountains and fell empires.

"Shuddup shuddup shuddup."

"Alright, alright no more teasing," she placated me, "until the next time I catch you checking out some hot guy or gal."

"You're impossible."

"Thank you."

"Not a compliment."

"I take what I can get."

"Uh-huh."

We polished off the rest of our plates. Officially done with our outing, we walked a block inland to where Ymena's mom was waiting to pick us up. It wasn't safe for two girls to walk alone or ride the buses in the city at night, especially when one of them had the "wrong kind of background" according to Empire skinheads.

Mrs. Sayadi dropped me off at our driveway, and I wished my friend a good night. I called out to Mom that I was home and rushed to sequester myself in my room.

Let's finish all of my homework before the weekend.

After three days of having powers, I'd acclimated to my new routine of Restoration leveling sessions broken up by chunks of homework and texting. I'd figured out that I could check on my progress from the Skills screen, but I didn't bother to look more than a couple times an hour, feeling that there was no reason to distract myself more than I already was. So I was mildly startled when I got a double notification.

RESTORATION INCREASED TO 6

LEVEL UP

It had happened at last! I was now Level 2. In my eagerness, I practically threw my mind into the Skills screen where I was greeted with the choice of advancing my Magicka, Health, or Stamina by 10 points. Unlike Samuel's playthrough of the game, I did not immediately discount Stamina as an option. All three attributes provided important utility. Did I want more firepower, survivability, or maneuverability? When I broke them down into their fundamental essences, the choice seemed clear. I wanted to be able to survive more attacks, and Health would let me do that. However… there were many subtleties muddying the waters. For instance, the warding spells from the school of Restoration and flesh spells from Alteration provided enhanced durability while healing spells could rapidly regenerate Health. On the other hand, there's a chance no amount of defenses can stop the most powerful parahuman abilities from draining all my Health in a single hit. In that case, it might be more beneficial to have a larger maximum Health pool.

Agh! Indecision! I have to make a choice, and I'll dump my points into Health as general coverage for now.

That done, I needed to make yet another hard decision. Which of the eighteen Skill Trees should I put my perk into? Every Skill Tree had one zero level requirement perk at the base. This was the first time I had bothered to read the perk descriptions, and I was startled to find they differed from the in game ones. Every perk retained the original description but appended an additional effect that would grant general benefits. For example, the first perk in the Smithing Skill Tree, named Steel Smithing, read, "Can create steel armor and weapons at forges, and improve them twice as much. Gain mastery over the forging and crafting of mundane metals to smith with Skyforge-trained skill."

The extra benefits were game changers, turning what would be an otherwise pointless waste of a perk blocking the path to higher tiers into a useful pickup.

The surprises didn't stop there however, new features I missed upon first inspection uncovered by further digging. There were extra stars between the constellations, perks that did not exist in Skyrim at all. These isolated stars were connected by wispy trails to multiple skill trees, a fact reflected in their multi-skill requirements. From their high skill level requirements and flowery descriptions, I got the sense that these would end up being my most powerful capstone perks.

I mean just look at this ridiculousness, five separate skill requirements, Alteration, Enchanting, Speech, Smithing, and Illusion all at level 100! With prerequisites that insane, it had better be a Triumvirate tier power.

What the heck even is Tonal Architecture? That ludicrous name popped up nowhere in Samuel's memories, so it must not have been featured prominently in Skyrim. If it wasn't mentioned once in hundreds of hours of playtime, then it must have been hidden in the background lore. Hmm, there is that mission to Blackreach where Septimus Sigmus gives the player those Dwemer artifacts. I recall the strange sphere and cube being connected to music or attunement. Are they related to Tonal Architecture? For once, my power refused to inform me. Not even a hint.

Consider my curiosity piqued, oh mystical powers.

That's enough ogling at future developments. It's time to choose a perk.

Novice Restoration was nice. In addition to halving the cost of Healing, I would receive a basic understanding of the biology of wildlife from Skyrim. Combo-perks between the Restoration and Conjuration constellations promised summoning of all manner of beasts.

Very interesting, but my heart was stolen by Steel Smithing. There might be perks with more immediate benefits, but my artistic side drooled at the creative possibilities of the Smithing perks.

I confirmed my perk choice.

I was expecting information to be shoved into my head akin to the Wednesday morning fiasco. Instead, I was enveloped by a cloud of energy. The fog absorbed through my skin, passing muscle tissue and organs without effect until the intangible streamers reached my Magicka channels.

Inside, the energy cloud condensed coursing around the magic delivering canals, redispersing into my physical body after circulating through my core. This was accompanied by a fuzzy feeling concentrated in my arms and brain. Almost like the pins and needles felt from waking up a numb limb.

Then it was finished, and I was forever altered. I knew the forge. It was an old comrade sharing his roaring heat to shape metal and his smoldering warmth against the cold tundra. A lifetime of experience rolled not into memories, but a surety that I could pick up a blacksmith's hammer and weild it with confidence.

What the perk did not do was manifest the necessary tools into existence. I'd have to source those myself, and I let out a despondent sigh lamenting the lack of resources available to me. Government sponsored tinkering had never looked so appealing.

My choices were made and the excitement was over. I could stay up late grinding experience, but I would be busy tomorrow morning, and I wasn't ready to give up on a good night's sleep.

Tomorrow, after chores and grocery shopping, I'd finally purchase the materials to build a Pip-Boy.

 

[FantasticGouda]

Chapter Five: Caught Out​

In our household, Saturday mornings are reserved for cleaning, and with everyone expected to chip in, the process was fast and efficient. Danny scrubbed countertops while Cody dusted the window sills and high to reach nooks. Dad was busy applying toilet bowl cleaner with Mom wiping down mirrors. My current task was to vacuum the carpet.

We were a practiced, well oiled machine completing the list of chores in a fraction of the time it would take for an inferior family.

With that done, we had the rest of the day open for our individual plans. Dad left first, informing us that he would be putting in a few extra hours at the office. Dad's job paid well, but the on-call hours were brutal.

As for me, the Pip-Boy sang its siren's song, but I had another commitment before I could secure the supplies. Ever since we were kids, Mom made it a tradition to take us out shopping with her on Saturdays. Said tradition is slowly dying out, my brother and sister having outgrown it, but I wasn't too cool to spend time with my mom.

So, that's how I found myself riding shotgun in the van to Target. To an outside observer familiar only with Worm's versions of events, namedroping the widespread chain superstore might come as a surprise, but contrary to popular opinion, Brockton Bay wasn't so far gone that we had none of the signs of civilization (that included Targets and Walmarts). I suspect the reason it never got mentioned from Taylor's point of view was because the superstores were located well away from her neighborhood near The Docks. Or perhaps it just never mattered to her.

We pulled into the busy parking lot, got out, and requisitioned a shopping cart. Harsh incandescent lighting, bland white and red color scheme, overworked and underpaid employees, these were the things that defined a Brockton Bay Target.

The store would be entirely familiar to Samuel but for the differing brands. When cape culture has been normalized your whole life, it's easy to miss how heavy handed and ubiquitous hero advertising is. It. Was. Everywhere.

There was branding on cereal boxes and pickle jars, on cookie containers and beer cases, on Miss Militia brand gardening gloves and Battery endorsed phone chargers, on Armsmaster themed nail boxes and Legend's Lightbulbs that promised a longer lasting, brighter light, on panties and condoms and medicine and toys, oh the toys, every hero imaginable represented in miniature through figurines and lego sets, video games and consoles, collectibles and memorabilia. It seemed that for every three items on a shelf, at least one featured a Protectorate or corporate hero in some shape or form.

Well now I know how the government funds all those Tinker budgets.

Mom and I wound our way efficiently though the store, not fast mind you, but we never backtracked, working through the shopping list.

"You've been awfully quiet today," Mom said.

"Does it seem like there's a lot of cape themed products to you compared to when I was a kid?" If she was caught off guard by the non sequitur, she didn't show it.

"Hmm, I suppose nowadays you get a lot more of that stuff, yeah. Even just ten years ago, you didn't used to see this amount of cape marketing. It's the job of people like me to get those heroes' names out there into the public consciousness. I'd say it's not too dissimilar to brands having mascots or celebrity endorsements, just one form of celebrity replacing another. It's nice to see you taking an interest, Sam, not many kids your age realize how different the landscape is from a decade ago. What got you thinking about cape marketing?"

I already had a plausible explanation lined up, "Current Events assigned an essay about one part of culture and how it's been affected by the rise of parahumans. I chose to write about capes in the entertainment industry, and that got me thinking about how often they show up if you pay attention."

"I'm glad you're putting that mind of yours to good use. If you ever wish to break into the cape marketing industry with artistic talent of yours, I have many contacts you know. Or you can go wherever your passions take you. It's entirely up to you. Your father and I are here to help support you after all, so don't ever be afraid to ask for advice from either of us."

"Thanks Mom," My heart was warmed knowing that my mother meant every word she said, "Love you."

"Of course, Sweetheart. I love you too."

Half an hour later, we were loading groceries into the car, my ambitious plans for the Pip-Boy not forgotten. I made my play.

"Hey Mom, I forgot to tell you that I had plans with my friends at the mall today. I'm sorry to spring it on you just now, but do you think you can drop me off at Hillside? Sorry again."

Mom's face remained neutral, revealing no clue to her inner thoughts, "Sure Sweetheart, but make sure to tell one of us beforehand in the future, okay?"

"Yes, understood."

"Alright, let's get going."

The ruse worked.

Mom drove me south to the Commercial District out near the border between Brockton and the neighboring jurisdiction. Hillside Mall was one large semicircle, several restaurants, businesses, and a movie theater arrayed in an outer arch surrounding the shopping center. Everything I needed, I'd be able to obtain from the middle area, so I told Mom to drop me off in front of the plaza fountain.

"See you later, Sweetheart. I expect to hear from you before six, and I don't want you out any later than eight, understood?" she asked.

"Yes, Mom."

"Bye, Sweetheart."

"Bye-bye," I got moving.

The shopping center was three stories tall and circular, the eye at the heart of the mall. Shops surrounded the central floor on two levels connected by stairs and escalators. Hillside had a blue color theme to go along with the generic mall-white plaster.

My first stop was at an arts and crafts shop. There, I bought some of what I'd need for the Pip-Boy casing: Plastic pellets for the materials, pads for ergonomics, and a one time use mold case for injecting the plastic. I also found some cute penguin stickers (for aesthetics).

I left the store with a wallet $90 lighter and out of cash. I'd have to dig into my checking account funds to pay for the rest of what I needed.

A grumble from my stomach signaled a pause to the shopping. One food court gyro solved my problem, and I soldiered on.

Next on the list, I visited the hobbyist electronics store, acquiring wiring and a cheap programmable microcontroller for the internals. The circuit board was reminiscent of the products Arduino created for digital device prototyping on Samuel's Earth. To go along with that, I picked out a small LCD screen, a rechargeable battery pack, a soldering kit to hook everything together, and a hot plate to serve as a heating element.

Despite my sincerest budgeting efforts, I was out another $140, and I still had no way to safely melt my plastic. Experts generally recommend not heating plastic to its melting point, the resultant byproducts being hazardous to human health. One procedure is to weaken a non chemically resistant plastic in acetone while heating to below the melting point in order to soften up the material.

I couldn't find acetone anywhere in the mall, no chemistry shops or generalized hardware stores nearby. I was about to give up and see if I could find someplace downtown when I realized there was one location that would sell acetone at the mall: The beauty shop.

One 16 fluid ounce bottle of maximum strength nail polish remover and $3 later, I had everything ready to go.

At this point, my arms were laden with multiple heavy bags of eclectic origin, but thanks to my Stamina, muscle fatigue had not set in. I rather enjoyed the benefits my powers provided in everyday life.

The trip had taken surprisingly long, searching for what I needed while balancing cost and quality, and it was nearly dinner time. I sent a text that I was on the way home and caught the bus back to my neighborhood. I couldn't help but be self conscious of the other passengers. Was I receiving more looks than normal? Did anybody think my shopping bags were suspicious? There's nothing to see here, just a perfectly average teenage girl carrying perfectly normal tinkering supplies, move along.

I called myself a Tinker, but I actually understood what I was doing and how all the components worked. There was nothing impossible about a kludged together wrist-worn computer, although I had yet to figure out where all of New Vegas's other abilities fit in.

The bus arrived at my stop, and my worries abated as I disembarked, no one having accosted me on the trip. After a block of distance, I quickly looked around and seeing no peering eyes nearby, I inventoried everything except the stickers. Mom and Dad might think it unrealistic if I had bought nothing while out.

Opening the front door, I was greeted with a tangy aroma, "Hey Mom, Dad, I'm home. What's for dinner? It smells good."

"Stir-fry," Dad called out, "How was your mall trip?" his tone was subdued. I hope nothing bad happened at the PRT building today.

Curiosity guided my response, "Is everything alright? Was there an emergency?"

My dad hummed, "Nothing to worry about, Sweety. They just needed us pencil pushers on hand for a few hours. But you didn't answer my question Sam."

"Oh, it was lots of fun," Shopping for Tinker supplies is fun.

Mom entered the kitchen and stood next to Dad.

"Sounds like it," she said, "Did you pick up anything interesting there?"

"I found the most adorable penguin stickers," I proffered the sticker sheet so they could see, "I'm totally gonna put these little guys on all my stuff."

"That's nice, Sam," Dad said.

Mom cleared her throat and followed up, "Who did you say you went with again?"

Her speech was clipped, arms crossed and shoulders tensed. I was getting a bad feeling.

"Um, I went with Cass today. We had an absolute blast."

I had to pick one of my friends to use for my alibi. It couldn't be Jasmine as she was busy at the shrine today, and Ymena and I hung out last evening. Cass usually spent her Saturdays out and about, and was the most likely to play along with my sham. I'll have to text her in case my parents question her parents and somehow convince Cass to lie to both of them.

"Are you sure about that?" her tone was terse.

I doubled down, "Yes. I'm sure."

"That's very interesting. I wonder why I got a call from the Yoshidas, asking if you would like to join Jasmine and the other girls for afternoon tea."

Oh no. My heart rate spiked, cold sweat broke out on my forehead. My cone of vision narrowed, the edges darkening and blurring. If this was my fight or flight response activating, then I chose the third option, shut down. I was frozen, lost for words that could salvage this worst case scenario. Why did I have to tell such a stupid lie? I could have said I was going to the mall alone, or I could have Mom drop me off at the library and left from there, or a million other lies that are all better than my liability-ridden fabrication. But it's too late now.

My mother looked like she was about to speak again when Dad chimed in, "Honey, let's stop beating around the bush. Samantha, we know you lied to us," his calm demeanor did little to stop my mom's rising anger.

Mom's face was red, utterly apoplectic "You lied to me, right to my face," There was barely contained fury and not so hidden exasperation in her voice, "You'd better have a good explanation young lady, or I swear to-"

"That's enough," Dad interrupted whatever she was going to say next, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. The two exchanged a meaningful look, and Mom took a deep breath. Dad continued on, "We want to hear your explanation, and we'll reserve judgment after that."

I was honestly hoping that Dad would keep talking or that Mom would explode at me, something, anything to give me another few seconds to come up with a response that didn't land me in hot water. Instead, they stared at me in silence, a silence that dilated time a hundred fold, those few seconds the longest of my entire life. And I could do nothing but stand there, floundering, struggling to come up with even a single word in my defense.

Lies would do me no more favors here, only dig me a deeper grave, but the truth wasn't any better. I had planned on revealing my powers only after I had explored them more thoroughly. I wanted to tell them on my terms. I wasn't ready.

My dad threw me the barest lifeline, "Would you care to tell us what you spent one hundred and forty four dollars on?" He enunciated the number carefully as if to drive in the point that the amount of money I had spent concerned them.

In retrospect, my response was not well thought out, "You're spying on my card?! I have a right to privacy! You can't just do that." "Samantha Brown, don't you dare-" Mom yelled over me.

"Stop, please."

Dad didn't yell. Dad never yells. Nonetheless, his authoritative tone carried across our outbursts and quieted both of us. Mom looked upset with him, but let Dad continue.

"Samantha, you are a minor, and your account is co-owned under my name. We have every right as parents to inspect your transaction history until you turn eighteen and are legally able to open an account under your own name. We have not abused this fact but felt it was prudent to check after we caught onto your lie. According to the bank statement, you spent three dollars at Tracy's and more concerningly, one hundred and forty one dollars at NorthEast Circuit and Solder. I'm sure you can imagine why we might be worried about you spending a significant sum at a hobbyist electronics store when you haven't previously shown interest. If you have a reasonable explanation for your actions, now is the time to tell us."

There is no reasonable explanation, Dad. I'm all out of those.

Not even three days into having powers, I had already sunk my plans with my own incompetence.

I stared at the floor between my feet. What could I even say? Based on their reactions, my parents were all but certain I had triggered as a Tinker. What would happen if I confirmed I had powers?

Well, at least it won't be the end of the world. Ha…

My words choked and cracked as I forced them out, "Mom, Dad, I have powers. I'm a Tinker," you could hear a pin drop.

Please say something, anyth-

Oof. I was caught off guard when Mom hugged me. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she cried into my shoulder.

Her words came out muffled and a blubbery, "Oh Sam, I'm so sorry. We weren't there for you. I should have noticed. As your mother, I should have noticed that something was wrong. I'm sorry, Sweetheart."

Dad turned it into a group hug. We stood there, the three of us, for several minutes as the tension flowed out of my body. I recognized now that Mom's anger stemmed from her worry and desire to protect me. If she thought I was putting myself in danger and lying to them because of my powers… it's no wonder she was upset.

"When?" Dad asked tentatively, like he was walking on eggshells. Trigger events were serious matters, and he had no way of knowing how atypical my situation was.

"Wednesday morning."

"If you feel comfortable telling us, how did it happen? Sam, Sweety, we had no idea. We…" Dad trailed off.

I'd have to lie again. I hated myself for it, but I had to. This time, it really might be the end of the world.

"There's nothing you could have done. I was lost and outside myself. In my mind, the world was ending, and nothing mattered anymore. But I'm fine now. I promise you. I haven't had another episode since I gained my powers," kernels of truth.

"You had a -a dissociative episode?" Dad asked uncertainly.

"I don't know, that morning is a blur."

Mom broke off from the hug to blow her nose over the sink, "You're sure nothing else happened? If someone hurt my little girl, or -or is attacking my family," Her words trailed off, but the glint in her eyes promised violence to any who would dare to harm her children.

"Nothing like that happened. One moment I was fine, and the next, everything hit me all at once. Don't people get powers randomly?" I wasn't supposed to know about the intricacies of Trigger Events.

My Dad hesitated on the heavy topic but explained for the sake of his daughter, "Sweety, when people get powers, they go through what is called a Trigger Event. Capes commonly describe it as 'the worst day of their lives'."

That description -might- fit with what I experienced. A shattered worldview was not pleasant, but in relation to other capes' Triggers? I certainly wouldn't compare it to Taylor's harrowing nightmare or the life and death struggles many others overcame.

Mom's sharp voice cut into my contemplation, "Henry, you're scaring our daughter."

"She has to learn the truth sometime," he rebutted, "would you rather she be forced to find out on her own?"

A deep intake of breath from both parties.

"Alright, we can continue this conversation after dinner," Mom said.

"Actually," I said, "I'm tired, and," tell the truth, "I kind of maybe want to build something with my powers?" At their incredulous looks, I clarified further, "It's not anything dangerous, I swear! Just a little wrist mounted computer."

A bout of whispering ensued, my parents' voices too low to make out, but I caught the word "Tinker" several times.

They apparently reached a decision, Dad turning to face me, "Alright, Sam. You can tinker in your room, but we're laying some ground rules. One: Always tell us what you're planning to build before you start. Two: You can keep your door closed, but please keep it unlocked; if there's an emergency, we need to be able to reach you. Three: If you need materials, ask us first. Do you think you can follow those rules?"

"Yes, I can do that."

"Okay. Now, I'm going to ask a few questions about what you want to build, and I need you to answer honestly." Dad's tone was serious.

"Okay."

"Will your 'wrist mounted computer' contain or facilitate artificial or machine intelligence?"

"No." I declared with confidence.

"Will this project involve tinkering with biological materials either living or nonliving?"

"There's no biotinkering involved, Dad."

"Okay, thank you, Sam. We'll let you go now. And don't forget about the door."

"I remember," Keep the door unlocked, "I love you both."

I received affirmations of love from my parents.

"And don't forget about dinner!" Mom interjected.

"I'll eat later," I was already halfway up the stairs.

"Wait," Dad's voice, "where did you put the supplies you bought at the mall?"

In response, I inventoried the bags into my waiting hand, "I have them on me."

He blinked, "You already built a storage device?"

"Actually, it's a part of my powers. It's, uh, kind of complicated to explain."

"Alright, we can discuss the particulars of your power later."

With that dismissal, I finished my run up the stairs and zoomed into my room. Not bothering to close the door as I wasn't expecting Cody or Danny home until later tonight and not minding my parents seeing me tinker, I emptied the bags full of Pip-Boy materials onto my bed. Time to get started.

The hotplate plugged into the outlet, temperature set to 50℃, far below the melting point of the plastic I was using. The pellets were unceremoniously dumped into the metal dish, and nail polish remover was poured, submerging the plastic.

While the heat and chemicals worked on dissolving the pellets, I brought out the blank mold. Carving tools dug into silicone on autopilot, my hands guided by power granted instinct. The casing mold was completed in a matter of minutes, the curves unnaturally smooth for manual labor.

The plastic was smearing out but not quite at the point I wanted yet. I grabbed the microcontroller and my laptop. With the circuit board connected via USB port, I downloaded the company's proprietary software and got to programming.

Honestly, it was not very complicated. This function here directs board to screen connectivity while this section converts analog input into digital signals. A little menu navigation functionality here, a splash of Random Memory Access configuration there, and a dash of color personalization for good measure. This section of storage can hold the sprites, and the drive next to the capacitor can be used for language parsing.

Satisfied with the state of the operating software, I checked on the progress of the dissolving plastic. Seeing that the mixture had homogenized into a thick goop, I upped the temperature to 90℃ just a hair below the melting point of the plastic, but well above the boiling point of acetone. A Pip-Boy full of yucky chemicals was unappealing.

After I felt enough of the acetone had boiled off, I ramped up the temperature to get it molten. However, I would not leave it melting for long since BPA and other nasty byproducts would begin to form. When it held the consistency of a thick syrup, I very quickly moved the tray over the mold. Liquid plastic filled the hollow casing mold and a few dial and button molds.

Having a 3D printer do all of this work for me would have been amazing, but unfortunately, they were not affordable yet here on Earth Bet. I simply did not possess the funds to purchase even the most basic models.

As the plastic cooled, I realized there was nothing more I could do until the mold set.

In my fervor to build, I had nearly forgotten my promise to eat dinner, and temporarily ignored the hunger pangs that now roared back at full force. I need sustenance.

Back in the kitchen, I dished myself up a hearty bowl of the now cooled stir-fry. Dad had cooked it with lean chicken meat, green beans, mushrooms, and water chestnuts in a zesty orange sauce. I mixed it all up with rice from the stove pot and heated it in the microwave to recover a warm meal.

"Mmm," a sound of appreciation. Nobody ever mentioned how hungry tinkering makes you, or maybe that's the result of being emotionally drained.

"Find the food okay, Sweety?" Dad asked me from the kitchen doorway. I hadn't bothered to move to the dining room, instead immediately stuffing myself at the counter.

"Mhm," I swallowed, "It's excellent. Thank you for cooking tonight Dad."

"Of course. It's the weekend, and I thought I'd whip up something special for the three of us."

We were content to stand in silence (besides the sounds of my eating) as I finished up my food.

When I was finished, I got up to wash off my bowl, but Dad stopped me with a gentle hand on my shoulder, "I'll get that. You should talk to your mother, she's still rightfully upset."

"Yeah, I- I need to apologize for lying to her," I may have had my reasons, good reasons even, to lie, but that doesn't change the fact that in doing so, I had hurt my mom's feelings and caused her no small amount of worry.

Mom was lounging on the couch and watching the evening news at low volume with a vacant expression.

Plopping down in the adjacent spot, I wrapped her in a one armed hug, "I'm sorry I lied to you, Mom."

She recomposed herself, putting herself more in the present, "Us mothers can't help but worry about our children. We go crocodile mode when their safety is threatened, snapping at those who would dare to cause them harm," she let out a long breath, "What I'm trying to say is, I'm sorry too, Sam. I shouldn't have gotten so combative with my own daughter, my anger was misplaced, and I hurt you because of that," Her eyes shone wetly.

I did not want to make my mother cry twice in one day, "Apology accepted. Um, I'm sure it can't be easy dealing with the fact that your daughter is now a parahuman."

"Hah, no, the books on parenting never covered this, and working with the Wards didn't prepare me as much as you'd think," sniffle, "We've been positively spoiled by you, always the most straight-laced of your siblings," she blew her nose, "You were bound to have your rebellious phase sooner or later. God knows I put your grandmother through Hell on occasion."

"Really?" I had never imagined what my mom was like as a teenager.

"Oh yes. There was this one time, I snuck out past curfew with my friends to go see Queen live, I was only 14 at the time, younger than you! My parents were livid. My mother did not respect Freddie Mercury for all the wrong reasons, and she thought that concert was a den of drugs and sex," Mom had the hint of a mischievous gleam in her eye, "Now, she wasn't wrong, but most of that stuff happened backstage. Although I did make out with Carson Reynolds that night. Your grandmother did not like him."

"Mom!" TMI, I didn't want or need to know who my mother had gotten with at Queen concerts.

"Oh don't think I can't remember what being a teenager is like. I know you all get up to more than I could possibly imagine. Well, maybe not you, Sweetheart, but I know all the boys and girls won't be able to keep their eyes off of you."

"Moooom," I whined. It was completely unfair for my mom to tease me like this.

"It's the right of parents everywhere to embarrass their children in their adolescent years. Think of it as recompense for the suffering we went through." She chuckled at my unamused glare.

Her light manner faded, "I'm worried for you, Sam. You don't deserve to have your youth stolen, and I- I just wish you could hide away and live a normal life," she paused, "But I know you'll put yourself out into the wide world. Others might think you're a wallflower, but your mother knows better. You're so full of life and passion, never hesitating to share your art with anyone who will listen, and I don't foresee your Tinker creations being any different."

I let Mom's word sink in. She was right of course, I wanted to share my creations out of pride. Beyond that, I could not stay hidden in the shadows forever. Direct action, not subtle manipulations, would be how I changed the world.

"So did you finish your computer thing," Mom brought the conversation back to a lighter topic.

"Not yet," I replied, "I still need to wait for the plastic to cool and do all the wiring."

"You're burning plastic in the house?" Mom pursed her lips.

"Of course not," I said defensively, "I kept the temperature well below the melting point of Polyvinyl Chloride in controlled conditions. There's no chance of significant leaching."

"Don't think you can distract me with scientific jargon young lady," Mom reprimanded in a mock stern tone, "but I'll trust that you know what you're doing."

---

I spent the evening channel surfing curled up next to Mom, hopefully reassuring her that I was not planning to do something dangerous like go out and fight criminals or plan a crime spree to fund my lab. At half past nine, I bid goodnight, making no attempt to hide my desire to return to my project, but sparing another comforting hug.

Our conversation had reassured me, I would still have my parents' support despite my dumb mistakes. I swore then and there that I would strive to always tell them the truth so long as I was not putting anyone else in danger by doing so.

Newfound resolve accompanied me as I prepared for the final construction steps. The molds housed hardened, matte-white components ready to be assembled into the casing structure, or almost ready, as some filing would go a long way in smoothing out the unevenly formed edges (A perfectly carved mold means nothing to an imperfect material injection system).

The pieces fit together ingeniously, a 3D puzzle of dowel joints reinforced by metal screws from the garage. The LCD, five inches by three, slotted into a hollow rectangle. On the opposite side, the battery chamber was left open, and first the circuit board was affixed to the underside, followed by the battery pack locking into a shallow groove.

It was time for the soldering kit. Window open for ventilation and iron in hand, I grabbed a handful of wires and started weaving a rainbow through the inside from battery to board to display and back again completing the loop.

The plush pads adhered to the inside of the wrist guard fitted to my slender arm, ensuring a comfortable user experience.

My Pip-Boy was not a preponderance of mechanical or electrical engineering, but it was my first foray into Fallout's technology, and it was mine. A single step remained before the completion of my first Tinker creation.

My focus locked onto the Pip-Boy, the room around me growing distant as I carefully anchored the Higher-Dimensional Functionality & Reinforcement Nexus.

And just like that it was complete!

Wait no, hold up a minute, go back! I did what with the what now?!

Tracing the whole process from start to finish, I was unable to recall the last thirty or so seconds, a whole section of my memories made blank. I know I did something with… a thing, or it might not be a thing? It was eerily reminiscent of a Tinker fugue, which I was not happy about, as I thought my power wouldn't be blackboxing technology from me.

Well, no use crying over spilt thermal paste, I wanted to see how well it functioned. I pressed the power button, and the Pip-Boy 3000 Vault Tec OS booted up, text flashing across the screen in classic New Vegas Barren Desert YellowTM​.

Uhh, I definitely did not program all this in.

What I coded was some basic image sprites and placeholder text boxes. Instead I was greeted by the sight of all the default tabs the player had access to in the game.

Items. Perks. Status. A radio? How does that even work? There wasn't anything built to receive radio signals. My Fallout tech was supposed to be grounded in zany but laws-of-physics-abiding principles, gosh darnit!

Ah, I shouldn't complain if my power wants to hand me freebies, I suppose if I wanted to get all the game mechanics, my power had to cheat somewhere.

There were so many new avenues to explore. I'd definitely be staying up late tonight.

---

Henry James Brown watched as his wife poured a glass of wine, an expensive 1978 vintage that had been a gift from a friend in Boston's PRT branch years prior. Gabriella pushed forward another glass, the unspoken gesture clear. Henry shook his head -he would need a clear mind for this discussion- and took his seat in his study's office chair. His wife took a sip and followed suit, taking the armchair in the corner.

"What are we going to do, Henry? A Tinker. Our daughter's a Tinker."

Henry inwardly shared in his wife's despondency -the statistics on parahuman life expectancy could charitably be described as apocalyptically low, heroes and independents both- and he was afraid for his daughter.

He was a man who always reached for the pragmatic solution however, and so he would act to keep his little girl as safe as possible in a world that would be actively hostile to her.

"She needs to be pushed to join the Wards. We cannot afford to allow her to act as an independent. You know the statistics as well as I do. In this city, for a Tinker? The gangs would have her picked up off the streets in under a week if they don't outright violate the unwritten rules and kidnap her from our own home."

He let the words sink in for her. Tinkers in this city had a pointed track record of not remaining independent for long, and when he imagined what the ABB or Empire would do to have a Tinker of their own? It's a good thing there were no gangsters before him, or he might have engaged in very unprofessional behavior.

Gabby tended to imagine the worst possible scenarios, "What if we end up alienating her? If she feels that we're signing her life away or-or taking her freedom, she could run away from home, join one of those rogue groups, like Toybox."

He could see her spiraling again, his normally level-headed wife falling apart when the safety of her child is threatened. He needed to show her that things weren't quite as bad as she feared.

"Sam is a good kid with a strong sense of justice. I hardly think she will take much convincing at all, the way she idolizes the heroes, and either way, we will roll out the red carpet for her. I'm talking about private tours and one-on-one conversations with whichever heroes she wants. You know I have the pull to swing favors for a potential recruitment," and he did, his influence within the PRT extended beyond the office jockeys and data analysts. The higher ups in the Boston division remembered his exemplary employment record, and Velocity owed him a favor for the Bladeström incident. All that is to say, Sam would have a very easy time being inducted into the Wards, "And we will not be 'signing her life away'. The PRT can and will move mountains for a capable Tinker. Once Sam tells us more about her powers, we can form a negotiating plan. Honey, we'll have the director begging our daughter to join. Yes, she will have to deal with the regulations that all Tinkers face for the safety of themselves and those around them, but we'll bargain for the best possible conditions."

She sagged into the armchair, eyes closed in either contemplation or resignation. Whatever internal debate she had with herself, a conclusion must have been reached. She reopened her eyes, a steely glare present that had been missing since the confrontation with Sam.

"You're underestimating the impulsiveness of freshly triggered parahumans. So we ask her opinion first, gauge her reactions." she said.

"That's prudent," he agreed that they needed Sam to feel like joining was completely her own decision, "and what if she says 'no'?"

"Softsell. Remind her she'll be working at the same place as her parents and alongside some very bright kids her age. We go in hard on access to resources for her tinkering, and we deliver on those promises. I'm willing to argue against the PR head too, make sure Sam gets whatever stipulations she wants on scheduling and image."

Image was more his wife's ballpark, so he was uncertain how much they would be willing to budge in that department, but he was willing to let her give it her best shot.

"Okay. We have a plan. Tomorrow, we need to find out the limits of her power. We know she either already built some kind of storage device or it's built into her powers," Henry inhaled to buy time for thinking how to phrase his next statement, "There's no two ways about it, we'll have to ask her some uncomfortable questions, and we'll need honest answers."

"You're not worried about our daughter being a horrible biotinker, are you?" his wife was indignant. To say biotinkers did not have a positive standing with the community at large would be an understatement, and the mere suggestion that his little girl could number among them carried horrific connotations.

"I'm not worried about Sam being a horrible anything, but unless we know the extent of her capabilities, we could be blindsided by something in power testing that raises concerns with the director."

Henry had opinions about Emily Piggot, director of the Parahuman Response Team East-North-East division. Piggot was undoubtedly capable -proven by a track record of keeping the powder keg of a city from burning to the ground over her decade of tenure- but she was also a professional paranoid, someone who placed far too much distrust on the heroes who worked under her. If she caught a whiff of anything biotinker related, it could weaken Sam's excellent bargaining position.

"Let's get some sleep dear. We'll need it," Gabby said, taking the last sip of her wine glass.

She wasn't wrong. It would be a long day tomorrow.

 

[Syrasar]

Oh boy Caring and Competent Parents
thats a Rarity
its already been watched but i have to say this may turn out to be a favorite of mine
i am a sucker for Tinker/Tech stories and competent adults are a rarity on its own

 

[FantasticGouda]

Oh boy Caring and Competent Parents
thats a Rarity
its already been watched but i have to say this may turn out to be a favorite of mine
i am a sucker for Tinker/Tech stories and competent adults are a rarity on its own

Click to shrink...

Ha, yes! I scratch my head at the depictions of some of the adults in fan fictions (and occasionally in canon). It's fine if you want to go for comedic effect or a different tone, but you have to admit that it's out of character and not very in line with canon.

I will always strive to have my characters act in a way that makes sense with what I envision their personalities and beliefs to be.

 

[FantasticGouda]

Chapter Six: Covering Bases​

I woke up late hanging halfway over the bedside, trawling fingers through my bedhead and rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I emerged from the covers, feeling the cool morning breeze blow over my limbs. On the desk before me sat the reason for my late night escapades.

Hello Beautiful, I greeted the Pip-Boy 3000 Sam Edition. Whatever process that had introduced the unintended functionality had also altered its outward appearance. Dull white had been replaced by a glossy, military dark-green after I did the thing, although I had since changed it to a vibrant orange and cream color. Yes, my Pip-Boy comes with a paint job feature.

Speaking of features, I went over a summary of what I learned the previous night while I got ready for the day.

Firstly, I now had a second inventory, although it behaved very differently from my Skyrim inventory. This was more of a pocket dimension -or maybe it would be more accurate to call it a collection of pocket dimensions as every item had its own separate space- and it came with more limitations. I had to manually operate the Pip-Boy to open a portal so that I could then shove items through. Retrieval was slower, taking into account the time to navigate the menus.

From now on I'll need to differentiate my two inventories for sanity's sake. I'll leave the Skyrim inventory as is, and I'll call the other one my pocket dimension (PD for short).

Presumably, there was no limitation on what objects I could put into the PD beyond the weight limit and my ability to bodily force it through the portal opening. Thankfully, the device was smart enough to spawn the portal in sensible locations without having to input precise coordinates, seemingly reading my intentions. Interestingly, I could inventory my Pip-Boy, essentially double layering my storage. That was a nice little trick to hide my Pip-Boy if I ever needed to, but I could not retrieve items from the PD while it was inside my inventory.

But pocket dimensions were just the tip of the massive iceberg of exciting, new powers, as I was now S.P.E.C.I.A.L.

And what a distribution it was.

Strength: 4 (Lightweight)
Perception: 2 (Senile Mole)
Endurance: 5 (Stain Resistant)
Charisma: 5 (Substitute Teacher)
Intelligence: 8 (Know-It-All)
Agility: 7 (Knife Thrower)
Luck: 9 (21 Leaf Clover)

I can only guess that my power is making fun of me by including Vigor Tester descriptions. The numbers generally felt like they fit my natural traits -Strength and Endurance both being 4 made sense with my weak physique- but Perception seemed a few points too low.

Then there's the elephant in the room: Luck. Why is my Luck stat so high? I certainly haven't felt all that lucky over the past few days after being met with endless teasing and then getting caught by my parents (even though that was entirely my fault), or perhaps I haven't been in a situation where Luck plays a factor. There's one way to know for sure. Vegas, watch out! Yeah, that'd go great with Watchdog inspecting every ledger line and account balance in the country with a magnifying glass the size of Texas.

That wasn't all though. My S.P.E.C.I.A.L. attributes were accompanied by the expected stats.

Level 1
HP: 200/200
AP: 86/86
XP: Hidden

Testing of HP had at no point yielded results as pummeling myself only ever depleted Health instead. I could however get AP to decrease if I used up all of my Stamina first, at which point AP did not act as an additional overshield. I instead became more tired as AP decreased, and it regenerated painfully slowly. I tentatively concluded that HP and AP didn't grant me any powers at all, but rather quantified my current physical condition.

As for XP, what was the point of including it if the value was hidden from me anyways? If it was supposed to clue me in that I have the ability to level up, then, No duh, power, I can see my level right there.

Next up, the skill list (I really need a way to differentiate Skyrim powers and Fallout powers in my head, when they share the same name. Alright, I'll make a little mental partition where Skyrim can have powers and Fallout gets powers. I will surely never confuse anyone if I have to explain the difference) which miraculously were not all set to zero. In keeping with the theme of reflecting my inborn talents as I existed before the creation of the Pip-Boy, my skills lined up as follows:

Barter: 10
Energy Weapons: 0
Explosives: 0
Guns: 0
Lockpick: 0
Medicine: 10
Melee Weapons: 0
Repair: 15
Science: 20
Sneak: 0
Speech: 10
Survival: 5
Unarmed: 0

I had never handled a weapon of any sort in my life, so it was not at all surprising that every combat skill would be at zero.

Moving on, my perks screen was currently empty, but the General tab contained some interesting information. Not necessarily pertinent or useful, but interesting. Did you know I've drunk 2160 gallons of water since the date of my birth, or that I've exploded zero pairs of pants? Well now you know. Seriously, I do not need my power telling me how many things I've killed (It's eight. Look, sometimes, you just need to remove a bug from the house, and said bug does not survive the removal).

I'd already summarized the pocket dimension earlier, but as a reminder for myself, I have a carry weight of 2.0/190 pounds -equipped items don't count towards the encumbrance, but the remains of my tinkering session I portalled away last night certainly do- I can access stored items though the Pip-Boy menus, and the categories were broken down into Weapons, Apparel, Aid, Miscellaneous, and Ammo. Some of the PD category names overlapped with my inventory's, but it was fine so long as I could keep them organized in my head.

I covered my bases under the Data tabs. I had a Local Map and a World Map. The Local Map, which was not included in Skyrim's half of the power, limited itself to displaying only the layout of whatever structure I was inside of at the moment, and it was further limited by proximity. Basically, it only revealed new regions that fell inside the roughly 5 meter radius circle centered on my Pip-Boy, and if I hadn't been there before, it was blank.

The World Map had the same restrictions and marked locations as the Map, the differences being entirely visual. The wireframe aesthetic was a downgrade in my opinion, losing out on details. Though I admit that the roads were easier to trace.

There was no Quests tab, and the Miscellaneous Data tab was empty of any stored hard drives, holotapes, or other data storage files.

Last, but most certainly not least, the Radio tab stood innocent and unassuming. You could be forgiven for believing it to be the least important function of my Pip-Boy, but you would be sorely mistaken.

The Radio picked up every frequency being broadcast in the Bay. Let that sink in. I had access to every radio station, every cell tower signal, every open access and encrypted channel in the entire city.


Unfortunately, this did not make me omniscient, as the encrypted channels remained encrypted, all the cell tower frequencies relayed indecipherable nonsense, and furthermore, channels only listed their name as the intercepted frequency. If I wanted to become undisputed operational intelligence master of the Bay, I would need a greater understanding of both science and Science.

Also, I'm 90% sure that intercepting radio communications is illegal in the United States. Whoops.

A select few channels stuck out of place, bearing both familiar and unfamiliar designations "Mojave Music Radio", "Mysterious Broadcast", "Samuel's Playlist", and "Interdimensional Music Station".

The second to last heavily featured metal tracks from my (Samuel's) memories. I was ambivalent to his choice of music -my tastes leaning towards pop, rock, and indie genres- but I gained a modicum of respect for metal because of how it positively influenced other Sam's life.

And that was everything I tested. With that review over, I was finished with my morning ablutions, fresh faced, and ready to face whatever challenges the day threw at me.

Downstairs, Cody was standing at the kitchen's island counter partaking of the most important meal of the day (breakfast consisted of toast with jam and hard boiled eggs) while browsing social media on his phone. From the yawn that broke its way over his face, I deduced that he, too, stayed up late last night .

"Sleep well?" I applied tried and tested morning pleasantries.

"Mhm," a very Cody response.

"Well I also had a wonderful night of peaceful sleep, and I'm feeling fantastic and prepared for a productive day. In fact, I'm feeling downright Lucky," None of my cheer had to be faked. The fact was I simply felt amazing this morning, and while I wouldn't go so far as to say I was unstoppable, it would take a major catastrophe to strike down my optimism after the double whammy of greatness of not having to lie about my powers to Mom and Dad and the completion the Pip-Boy.

Cody was stunned speechless, half-eaten toast forgotten in his hand and jaw in mid chew as he stared incredulously at me. He swallowed, "Ok."

Initiate topic change!

"So when did you get home?" I asked with mild curiosity. I hadn't heard him arrive last night even though I stayed up well past one in the morning.

"I got back ten minutes ago," his answer confused me.

"Wha- I thought you were at your girlfriend's last night?"

"I was," He looked at me the way an older teen looks at a particularly dimwitted toddler.

"Then why did you get home so late?"

"I stayed the night at her place." he said like he was explaining rocket science to a precocious child, a hopeless endeavor that you force yourself to do anyways because they won't stop asking.

"Aw, fall asleep on the couch watching a movie together? That's cute."

"Actually, we slept in her bed together."

Bluescreen. Rebooting.

Response, "What?! And her parents were just okay with this?"

"Yeah, they're pretty chill."

"So, d-did you, ya know. Wink wink… uh nudge, uh nevermind," I blame my overconfident mindset for my abysmal attempt at emulating Ymena's candid shamelessness. It was much funnier when she did it.

I gave him an unwavering stare.

"Have some toast, sis," Cody slid the plate and jam jar over to my side of the counter.

I consumed my pity toast… It was tasty.

---

The light tone from breakfast was not meant to last. I harbored no illusions that the day would be carefree since we had yet to finish the discussion from last night. However, I was not dreading the conversation to come, my determination rearing to meet the challenge head-on.

Dad called me to the study. I marched into the room, dark red wooden bookcases lining the walls stacked full of manilla files and books on various subjects. He sat behind an impressively wide desk, cleared of work and sporting his metal desk lamp and some paperweights, while Mom was off to the side in a plush burgundy armchair. Mid morning sunlight bathed the room from between the window slats (At least the ambiance wasn't set to doom and gloom).

Time to put your money where your mouth is, Sam. Face it smiling with your head on straight, I psyched myself up.

I had put a lot of thought into my future last night, weighing the costs and benefits of various approaches. No matter what, I would be giving up the advantages of the options I didn't pick, and I had to live with that. Live with it, those were the words that had guided my decision. I had to choose an option that would put me in a position to save as many lives as possible, and I needed to ensure I wouldn't feel guilty about it for the remainder of my mortal life. Independence held allure. No regulations, the freedom to set my own goals, PR wouldn't get in the way. But no man is an island. Nobody, no matter how powerful, can save everyone alone. With every power in my vault brought to bear, every weapon and artifact and violation of physics, I still doubted my odds against a god. No, my best hope was to combine my powers with other parahumans' abilities, with their resources that would help accelerate my own progress and create something greater than the sum of its parts. When I thought about it like that, I knew what my choice had to be.

I declared my intent, "I'm going to join the Wards","Sam, what do you think about touring the War-" We spoke over each other.

"Sorry, what did you say?" my father asked.

"I said I'm going to be a Ward, and I want to know if you'll support me." There, I got out what I needed to say.

"You are?" Mom was incredulous.

Why is it so hard to believe I want to sign up with the nominal good guys? Do teenage parahumans normally resist joining? I thought that was just a Taylor/Sophia thing. Seriously, why is it more suspicious to you guys that I want to be a Ward?!

Dad was as diplomatic as ever, "That's good to hear, and of course we fully support you in this, Sam. We were going to suggest it as one option moving forwards, but if you've already made up your mind, then we can move onto the details."

Yeah right, do you think your daughter was born yesterday? I know you were gonna push me to the Wards no matter what I said, it was another factor in my decision to get ahead of the game and just declare for the Wards immediately. The child of two PRT employees go independent? Not likely.

"I'm ready, where do we start?"

"Well, first, we need to understand your power better. No testing in the house," (Sorry Dad, too late for that), "but tell us what you know so far."

I figured it would be best to give my report in terms a PRT analyst would understand, "Okay, I'm definitely a Tinker, as you know, but my specialization is kind of weird. I unlock diagrams and get more skilled in my tinkering ability with practice. The theme of my creations is split between your typical Tinker fare -think laser guns and forcefields- and more esoteric D&D stuff like potions and spell scrolls. The might of science and the mysticism of magic. Well, magic themed anyways," Only crazy people and Myrddin actually believed their parahuman powers were magical in origin, and I didn't want to be lumped into the former camp.

I continued on, "So that would make me maybe Tinker 5 or 6?" Dad was making notes in a journal as I spoke, but from where I was standing it wasn't legible to me. On second glance, it didn't even look like a real language. Was he writing in code? Smart.

"I also have a minor Brute rating of 2 or 3 from a shielding effect and regeneration," my Health and Healing spell, "a very minor Mover rating that lets me run for a long time without tiring that you would probably categorize as Mover 0," my Stamina, "I can shoot fire from my hands, so that gets me at least Blaster 2", Flames spell, "Um, Shaker 3 for my pocket dimensions, but I can't really use those offensively."

"And I suppose Thinker 1 or 0 as well? I can visualize the layout of Brockton Bay pretty well, and I'm good with directions," I clarified. I then pointed to the window, a smidgen north of east, using the markers on my compass as guidance, "Arcadia High is in that direction."

"Okay, time for the big one. Like I said, my Tinker power will get stronger over time, and that'll give me more powers that also get stronger alongside training my skills at a superhuman pace. Oh, I'll also straight up gain new powers if I train those skills long enough. I'm not really sure what the number would be, but that's probably a high Trump rating."

My parents were stunned into silence. I didn't think my list was too overwhelming.

"That's… more than we expected," Mom's pregnant pause made me think she was curbing her natural reaction.

She shared a nonverbal conversation with Dad, seemingly conveying her meaning with nothing but eye contact. It was a skill I had yet to learn, so whatever passed between them was lost on me.

Dad nodded, "The PRT was already guaranteed to accept you into the Wards, but if you can demonstrate all of what you told us during power testing, then you'll be able to push for some very satisfactory contract conditions indeed."

I knew from both metaknowledge and common knowledge that Tinkers got big government paychecks and fat budgets, but it sounded to me as if I'd be able to set stipulations beyond even what your average Tinker could swing at the negotiating table.

For the first time since I had walked into the study, Dad's composure slipped, an uneasy grimace on his face, "Now Sam, I need to ask some follow up questions about your abilities, and it is important that you answer honestly. Neither I nor your mother will divulge your answers to anyone -in the PRT or otherwise- unless you wish us to."

His uneasiness spread to me with those words. There were all sorts of questions I would not be able to answer regarding memories and metaknowledge, but there was no way he'd know about that right?

"Do you have the capability to create self-replicating lifeforms?" The question was asked plainly, just another box to check on the list even though I knew he must have felt turmoil inside.

This was not one of the questions I was dreading.

I was relieved, happy to give my honest answer to them, "Yes," Mom's eyes became saucers, and Dad shifted uncomfortably. I cut them off before they could start making assumptions, "I fully comprehend the gravity of what I just said. You told me to be honest, and this is me being honest. I bear this responsibility with a duty to uphold both ethics and the rules of the PRT. Playing God with the creation of life both sentient and non sentient would be completely irresponsible of me, endangering the lives of the general public and those of the lives I was supposed to nurture. I am not ready to face that responsibility, and I don't need to; my power is diverse enough that I can explore other facets without touching on self-replicating lifeforms."

That was perhaps a tad more solemn than I had intended, but I hope it got the point across: I wasn't ready to create and provide care for new life. Not yet anyways.

One of the central themes of Fallout: New Vegas was the need for science to be held accountable, and nowhere was this more apparent than in the Old World Blues DLC. The great minds of Big Mountain, the most intelligent men and women of a generation, invented wonders that would have altered the trajectory of an entire world, but all that power, all that potential to do good was squandered when they could only see the use of their technology in war and destruction, reduced to ash and ruins at the hands of those self-same geniuses turned madmen.

I took that lesson to heart.

The same as my parents appeared to take my little speech to heart.

SPEECH INCREASED TO 4

Dad closed his eyes and let out a breath, "Alright, thank you for being truthful with us. We think it's best if none of us mention this to the PRT. Can you promise not to do any biotinkering for the time being?"

"I can do that," it was best to keep it under wraps for now.

With that "difficult" question out of the way, Dad moved on to other concerns of a similar vein, "Can you produce Artificial Intelligence, and in particular, AI that can replicate itself or create subordinate AI?"

I thought about it with a frown. There was a plethora of examples throughout the broader Fallout universe including synths that could mimic human behavior to the point of indistinguishability -In fact, I was of the opinion that they are indistinct from humanity; if it feels emotions like a human, loves like a human, and has desires like a human, then it's human enough for me- AIs housed in supercomputers, like Eden, AI appliance interfaces, and more. These AIs were theoretically capable of self-replication, although Samuel had no knowledge of such occurring in-universe.

That was the broader franchise, however. Because my power had specifically latched onto Fallout: New Vegas, my options were significantly limited. There was nary a hint of any synths, and supercomputer AIs would be more difficult, but the low level intelligences present in Securitrons and other robots fell well within my reach.

In short, the reality was complicated, but I needed to answer succinctly, "Possibly. I'm not sure I'm capable of making a General Artificial Intelligence, but personality-matrix driven machine intelligences are on the table," at my parents' questioning look, I expanded on my explanation, "Um, think AI linked to specific appliances, like a smart toaster or a light switch that can talk to you. As for self-replication, any program could hypothetically be coded to copy itself onto new systems, but I wouldn't be able to make an intelligence that can reliably crack modern security measures. So, I won't build any AI overlords to take over the world any time soon."

That joke was supposed to be reassuring, but my Mom's eyes had widened with every statement.

"That's good to note," Dad said, "We can play it off as you being able to build smart devices."

"Any blueprints for death lasers or superweapons of doom up in that head of yours?" Mom's tone was sarcastic. Funny she would say that, as I could in fact build a literal death laser.

Ideas jumped into my head: Archimedes II, The Eye of Magnus, Forced Evolutionary Virus, resurrecting Alduin the World Eater, The Cloud, blocking out the sun with Auriel's Bow, the list went on. Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles were the least of the weapons of mass destruction at my disposal, provided I could level my skills enough to comprehend how to begin to go about creating any of them.

Mom realized her mistake too late, my silent contemplation a bad omen, "Sweetheart, you can't actually build superweapons right?"

"Wellll… The current time and resource costs would be prohibitive, and my Tinker power hasn't unlocked any of the schematics yet, so I don't have to worry about it," a very reassuring statement, I am sure.

Dad took more notes, "Let's not mention that to the PRT either, and no building death lasers without our approval. Last question, can you build devices capable of human mastering?"

Definitely, "Yes. Believe me when I say I have no desire to touch that section of my powers with a ten foot pole. Buuut, it might interest the PRT that I could potentially build anti-master tech," if the Dwemer could do it, maybe I could too?

"Really?" Mom asked, surprise evident on her face. Rare was the power that could counter human mastering, and even rarer was the Tinker who could build that into their technology. It was a product sorely needed and in hot demand.

"Yes," I replied, "Not right away, but if you give my power time to grow, I might be able to reach it in the not-too-distant future."

"Okay," Dad said, "that covers the most contentious powers. We need to move on to discussing expectations."

What followed was a lengthy conversation about the rules my parents wanted to set and how we would handle the situation going forward. Beyond the aforementioned off limits technologies, I had been drilled about responsible power use. In summary, no use of excessive force, be very careful with power use on civilians because the legal wording for what constituted "assault with a parahuman ability" was intentionally vague, no unsanctioned patrols (I'm not a moron, Mom!), and other legalities that could trip up an unsuspecting new cape.

That last condition would be less of a worry once I was integrated into the Wards as they were taught and expected to follow the law anyways. It turns out that beating up thugs for money is actually illegal. Almost nobody pressed charges, but the Vigilante Act only covered crime fighting, not looting criminals. Who knew?

I was also given coaching on how to approach the PRT, topics to avoid and professional courtesies to observe, and most importantly, how to haggle over contract clauses. Mom and Dad would be doing most of the legalwork, but if I had anything extra I wanted to bring up at the meetings, I needed to know how to present myself.

"So, when do we meet the director?" I asked.

"Someone's eager," Mom chimed.

"Well, the sooner I'm in the Wards, the sooner I get access to those deep government pockets, the sooner I can save lives," the sooner I get to build world changing technology.

"Your mother and I still need to draft some preliminary paperwork. What do you say to us picking you up for the meeting after classes tomorrow?"

"Yes! I mean, of course, that works for me."

It hadn't sunk in earlier, I was going to be a Ward. A bundle of nervous energy set off butterflies in my stomach at the thought, I was practically giddy.

Samantha Brown, a Ward. A hero.

Yes, the heroes have problems. Sophia Shadow Stalker (can't forget to use cape identities) is a terrible person with severe anger issues, and Armsmaster is a bit of a gloryhound, but the rest are true heroes through and through (I'd have included Armsmaster on that list if he wasn't such a massive jerk to Taylor).

Yes, the organization was corrupt at the top. The Triumvirate and many other heroes were Cauldron assets, but most of them didn't let that diminish their admirable intentions.

And yes, the PRT, particularly the PRT-ENE, was all too often entrenched in the status quo, merely maintaining a balance of power rather than bringing the fight to the villains, reactionary rather than proactive.

But, for all that, forgetting the childlike excitement at being "one of the good guys", I still thought they were my best option.

Cody was lounging on the couch, phone in hand when I exited the study.

He didn't look away from his phone screen as he asked, "So, what was that about? Mom and Dad ground you or something?"

I pulled a retort out from Samuel's repertoire, "Wouldn't you like to know, weather boy?"

"Excuse me?"

My normally unflappable brother was left utterly baffled by my response.

Ha, I can see why that was one of Sammy's favorites, it's even funnier when nobody else gets the reference.

"Whatever," he gave up on trying to figure out what I meant, "If you're not grounded, wanna tag along? Danny got extra tickets to the Celtics game."

"You know what, sure."

Cody rolled swiftly off the couch onto his feet, "Alright, gimme five, then let's get going."

 

[Bowburnit]

You didn't mention Coil. Also, I'm sad shes joining the PRT

 

[Frostynips]

She should negotiate some kind of cause in her contract so that she doesn't have to fight and can just tinker.

 

[FantasticGouda]

Chapter Seven: Testing, Creating, Becoming​

"-and the Celtics lost, so Cody was kind of upset, but I didn't really care either way. It was awesome to hang out with Danny's friends though, they're a riot."

Jasmine leaned on the vending machine opposite me. We were out back behind the south building, right where the band room exits into the greenspace.

I missed lunch with my friends because I had to go to a meeting down at the main office -my parents had shown up to explain that I would be "shifting my vocational studies to a different area focused on cape costume design and merchandising"- so I was catching Jasmine up on my weekend, sans the power/Wards related topics.

"It was awfully nice of Danny to offer the tickets to her siblings first. My sister could learn a thing or two about family loyalty from yours."

Er, yikes, avoid that topic, Veronica's relationship with Jasmine and her family was… strained, and drama had unfolded at the shrine over the weekend while I was indisposed (on a shopping spree), as Cass and Ymena had let me know.

Luckily, I didn't have to skirt around talking about Veronica, as Jasmine changed the topic herself, "So, where were you at lunch today? We missed you."

"Well," I gathered my response, "You know how my mom works for the PRT? In the image department?"

"Yes? You've caught my interest with that opening. Do go on."

"Yeah, so, she and I had a discussion about her job on Saturday," a completely true statement, "and it got me thinking about the impact cape merchandising has on society. You don't really think about it, but it's a multi-billion dollar industry, basically just from branding deals alone!" still telling the truth and nothing but the truth, "I thought to myself, 'wouldn't it be awesome to apply my talents in a cape-related field?'," truth, even if I'm omitting critical information, "So I asked my mom, and she suggested that I could intern for the PRT's image department," mostly true, Mom suggested I use that as a cover for the Wards, "How cool is that? I might get to work with the Wards, the heroes. Anyways, to make a long story short, I was at the office during lunch so I could register to change my vocational study. Today's gonna be my first day."

End it with a winning smile, not that I had to fake the very real excitement bubbling up.

"Wow, that's great Sam! I'm so happy for you!"

She approached for a hug, and I didn't hesitate to hug her back.

Oh wow, Jasmine's hair smells great today. She's so tall, and soft, and amazing…

I snapped myself out of my reverie before intrusive thoughts took over. We separated, but the faint scent of cinnamon lingered in the air.

"Mom's gonna be picking me up soon," I said, "I can't wait, I'm like a kid on Christmas."

Seriously, I was vibrating -several of my classmates may have gotten annoyed by my leg tapping in Current Events- and I couldn't stop.

"I can see that," ah, there's that melodious laughter, "Before you get going though, I've got an important question for you."

Important question?

"Have you had a chance to talk to Amy yet?"

Oh shoot, with all the distractions and discussions of the past few days, I hadn't spared the Dallons a second thought.

"Er, not yet. There hasn't been a good opportunity to talk to her where I felt like I wasn't intruding," not that I had been looking for opportunities.

"The perfect moment won't magically fall into your lap," she was right again, but did she have to chastise me for it? "If you're still serious about what you said on Thursday, then don't be afraid to take your chance. It's alright to be nervous, but you can't let that stop you. Just be yourself, give it your best shot, and even if it goes horribly wrong, it won't be the end of the world."

Says you.

I hated this part. The lying. The disconnect that hiding my metaknowledge was causing. She didn't understand, couldn't understand that this was about more than just trying to make a friend.

But I can't blame her for that, it wouldn't be fair.

"If I catch Amy and Vicky alone, I'll go for it."

"Good to hear. I actually had some more advice for when you talk to her. I was thinking that you should try-"

Fate chose that moment to cut Jasmine off, when from my pocket came Mom's cheery ringtone. I answered the phone.

"I'm at the north parking lot, in front of the trees," her voice carried over the cell.

"Okay, I'll be there in a few," I tapped to end the call, "Mom's here, gotta go. I'll talk to you later!"

"Bye."

"Bye-bye."

I took off at a jog, eager to reach the meeting as soon as possible. Rounding the bend by the gym, I saw the van parked in all its cobalt blue glory. I opened the passenger door and jumped in.

"Hit the gas, we've got destiny to catch," I cringed internally.
Wow, that was a terrible one liner, why would I think that sounded cool?

Mom rolled her eyes at my antics, "Glad you're excited, Sweetheart. Now put on your seatbelt."

We then drove at the speed limit while following traffic laws, as we should. There's no reason to endanger others with reckless driving just because you have a meeting to attend.

From departure to arrival, the ride took just five minutes, Arcadia being relatively close to the PRT building. My nervous energy had dialed up the whole time to the point where I was fidgeting with the van's upholstery and moving my seat back and forth. I don't think Mom appreciated it.

"Remember your lessons from yesterday, be professional, know when to push and when to back off," she would brook no nonsense.

I simply nodded in understanding.

As we reached the building, Mom drove past the parking lot out front, turning the corner into a ramp leading underground. PRT vans lined the center aisles, confirming my suspicions that this was employee parking only. We pulled into a spot along the far wall next to a row of civilian car models.

Mom and I disembarked and made our way over to an entrance that resembled an elevator door, a slit down the middle indicating where the two stainless steel halves would slide apart.

Flanking the entrance on either side were two uniformed individuals unmistakably identifiable as PRT troopers. Their uniforms were very riot-trooper-chic, all bulky black body armor with kevlar and bandoliers attached for an assortment of equipment, but with a soldier-of-the-future twist present in chest plates and arm guards with rivets and plated ceramics. On the upper chest was emblazoned the insignia of the PRT, a winged shield with crenulations, a statement of design that said "We may be guardians of peace, but we will not hesitate to topple the tower down upon you. Don't step out of line" They carried a stubby flamethrower like weapon that I identified as a likely candidate for a containment foam device -the fluid packs worn on their backs were not as large as you'd think, smaller than a diver's air tanks for instance- and the soldiers kept the tubes pointed away from us while remaining at attention. In most of the interactions Taylor had with PRT troopers, their outfits came complete with riot helmets and blank, dark face shields. While they were wearing the helmets, they had forgone the face shields, perhaps in an attempt to appear less intimidating to incoming guests and workers.

"Please present your identification," The guard on the left said the command non threateningly, but with a monotone authority that allowed no argument. You will follow this trooper's orders, or you will find yourself having problems.

Mom swiftly lifted her wallet and showed the trooper the documentation they required.

It must have been satisfactory, as the guard -she had a feminine sounding voice- told us to step up to a screen for a retinal scan. They really take security here seriously with this James Bond type stuff. Good.

I was expecting a laser to flash across my vision, but we apparently live in a world too lame for something that cool, and the verification was over in a metaphorical flash rather than a literal one.

"You may proceed," the female guard said, swiping a card into the reader by the door.

The steel halves silently separated, pulling into recesses and revealing that the entrance was in fact an elevator. We got inside, and Mom pressed a button that read "3F" which I assumed means we're headed to the third floor.

Before the doors closed all the way, the female trooper spoke up, "Good luck, Brown."

"Heh, that was pretty cool," I said to Mom, getting a snort back from her.

"You'll get used to it," she said.

"What if I don't want to get used to it? Why let the magic fade?" Sci-fi soldiers will never not be awesome. Images of NCR Ranger gear and Brotherhood of Steel power armor were brought to mind.

Our conversation was cut short as the doors reopened to a generic office hallway. These elevators of theirs move fast to go from basement level to here in a matter of seconds.

Standing just to the side of the door was none other than the leader of the Brockton Bay Protectorate himself, the one and only Armsmaster, as always accompanied by his silver and blue power armor -vaguely reminiscent of the Power Rangers shows that Samuel had watched as a kid- and the iconic halberd strapped over his back. The lower half of his visor was withdrawn, revealing a sternly lined expression framed by a meticulously groomed beard.

That is quite possibly the squarest facial hair I have ever seen.

"Mrs. Brown, Miss Brown, follow me to conference room 3A. Put on this mask," He handed me a thin domino mask, "It will conceal your identity," There was the blunt language Armsmaster was famous for. Hearing it and seeing him in person, he didn't come off as socially awkward or robotic like in Samuel's impressions of the man. Rather, his refusal to use more words than strictly necessary to convey his meaning came off as (and I hate to say this) egotistical. More than anything, the proclaimed greatest Tinker in the Bay radiated a surety of self almost to the point of arrogance. To him, I was a waste of time, as was everything else not related to his hero career or his tinkering. Maybe it was my bias of knowing that he had acted very un-heroically in the original timeline, but my first impression was not a positive one.

Regardless, I pressed the domino mask to my face, assuming it was one of those Tinker created masks that generate an optical disguise.

We followed him through the hallways. The layout of the floor was easy to understand, being essentially one large rectangle with rooms both on the interior and exterior of the loop. I noticed indentations set into the floor and ceiling at regular intervals, Are those for blast doors?

Office workers moved about here and there, nobody sparing more than a glance in our direction. They must be so used to capes that this doesn't register.

We stopped in front of another door, this one hewn from a solid wood with a plaque that read "Conference Room 3A" just as Armsmaster had said. He knocked on the door and opened without waiting for a response.

Dad was already seated at the short conference table, closest to our side. At the other end of the table sat a woman I could only assume to be the director, heavyset with trimmed blonde hair and a gaze that could wither flowers. Emily Piggot retained the hardened comportment of a career soldier even with all that her service had taken from her.

"We're all here, so let's get started," The director's voice held that jowl-induced quality that being overweight sometimes causes, but she sounded no less commanding for it, "It's good to meet you, Miss Brown."

Yeah right, I know you're just saying that to show professional courtesy.

She continued with her spiel, "You've made the correct choice in joining the heroes. We'll go over the initial paperwork, you can voice any questions you have, and then we'll get you in for power testing. Before we begin, Brown, you said you have some documents that should precede the meeting?"

Dad produced his small leather bound journal from his coat pocket, rifling through the pages and withdrawing a stack which he handed over to the director.

"When we learned about our daughter's powers, we had a talk with her about responsible power use, during which she disclosed the extent of her abilities as she understood them at the time. These documents contain descriptions of said powers in her wording in addition to my own notes. I have not copied the contents of these pages to any other format, digital or otherwise, and if I may, I would suggest that Level-5 security protocols be engaged for all information pertaining to the new parahuman disclosed within, codename undecided."

There was a lot of bureaucratic formality thrown around in that statement, and apparently I warranted Level-5 security clearance, I have no idea how high that is.

"Requesting permission to transcribe notes to Power Armor v.2.0.31 internal database," Armsmaster said it more as a statement than a request.

His suit must have been considered secure enough because Piggot gave him an affirmative and nobody else objected.

Both hero and director read through the documents without comment, faces schooled, betraying none of their inner thoughts. The only reaction either gave was a single raised eyebrow from Piggot near the end of her perusal.

Once finished, she made to speak, "I find myself agreeing with your assessment, I'm instituting Level-5 security protocols for parahuman codename: Dimension Pull, effective immediately."

Color me surprised, that codename wasn't too terrible, although not at all what I wanted to call myself.

"This is going to be unorthodox," she continued, "but I think we should do things out of order. If it's alright with the both of you," so she was only considering my parents' opinions here, "We can proceed with power testing right away. I want verification of the contents of these documents before we discuss contract clauses. Brown, we can get the paperwork all laid out and ready to go."

Dad nodded.

Okay, no one asked for my opinion, but I'm fine with this anyways. Power testing sounds fun.

I looked to my parents for guidance. Mom seemed uncertain, on the verge of speaking up to Piggot, but Dad gave me a nod and told Piggot, "My wife should accompany her during the testing process."

"Of course, that was our intent," Piggot didn't hesitate.

Seeing no reason to hold, I consented.

"Excellent," the director said, "Armsmaster, please escort Dimension Pull and Mrs. Brown to the main power testing lab."

Mom and I got out of our seats to follow the armor-clad hero as he set off at a brisk pace. She shut the door behind her, leaving Dad and the director alone for what I belatedly realized might be an animated discussion. I hope Dad doesn't get fired for this, talk about a conflict of interests.

"Uhh, so that was strange right? I didn't expect that all to happen so quickly," I wasn't sure if I was searching for a response to my open ended statement or if I just wanted to make some small talk, but Armsmaster took it as a chance to comment.

"No. Wards power testing is generally completed after some signatory paperwork, although supervised testing is available to all parahumans without a criminal record," his language was clipped. He didn't sound upset or frustrated per say, but there was undeniably a tension to his bearing. What does he feel after reading about my powers?

Our route backtracked exactly along the path to the conference room, all the way to the elevator. We got off back at the garage. Why would we be led to the garage, I thought we were going to the testing lab? Oh duh, I forgot that the lab was at Protectorate HQ, also known as The Rig.

Unfortunately, I did not get to ride on the Armscycle, instead being shuttled with Mom onto one of the black and green PRT transport vans. Mom and I shuffled into the back of the transport, two troopers taking the driver and passenger seats. This pair had their face plates up, increasing their intimidation factor.

The van pulled out of the garage, Armsmaster following behind on his tinkered up motorcycle.

Mom hadn't said a word since the drive from school, more nervous than I was. I searched for a way to break the tension, not wanting to suffer the whole ride in awkward silence. She did say to maintain strict professionalism, but surely that was just for the meeting with the director and didn't count in this situation.

"Excited for all the merchandise you'll get to make of me?" I blurted out.

Mom blinked rapidly, coming out from her thoughts, "I'm sorry, what was that?"

"I asked if you were excited to make some me-themed merch."

She shot a glance over to the troopers, "S- Dimension Pull, I don't know if this is the best time to discuss that," she said my codename with every syllable on stilts.

Okay, now she was just being paranoid. I was the one who had to worry about Coil's plots and gang moles, and even I thought this was too much. I just want to lighten up the mood, gosh darn it!

So I did my best, "I wonder if I'll get my face on some panties like Armsmaster."

That got a response out of the passenger side trooper, "No no, you're going about this all wrong. You gotta think about your target demographics," was that a Spanish accent? "Obviously, you go for the boxer briefs market."

"Absolutely not!" "Méndez." Mom yelled out at the same time that the driver-side trooper chastised his partner.

This could work now that I had someone else to bounce off of.

"You're right Mrs. Brown," I need to at least maintain the illusion that I'm not talking to my mom, "I should at least wait until I'm in the Protectorate for that."

"Eh, but you'll be missing out on those royalties in the meantime," Méndez bantered back.

Mr. Driver just sighed in resignation, muttering about NDAs and disciplinary training.

Mom stared crossly at the back of Méndez's head, a complete improvement from her earlier mood in my opinion.

"Wards get age appropriate merchandising," Way to call me out, Mom.

I was smiling now, "Fine, fine. Sooo, how do you feel about putting my image on ceiling fans?"

"Why ceiling fans?" Mom, you make the setup all too easy.

Méndez beat me to the punch, "Cause she's gonna blow away all the competition."

This guy is a natural.

Mom groaned, face in her palms, commiserating with Méndez's misfortunate partner.

"That's it, young lady, you will be getting the blandest PR campaign our team is capable of. I'm talking about your hero name on tees in comic sans and a C-list voice acted guest appearance in the Wards cartoon levels of boring."

…

"Look on the bright side, kid. You're gonna be so famous they can't even afford your time in the studio."

I nodded sagely, "Comic sans is in with the post-ironic crowd. This'll be a huge boost to sales for my demographic aged 13-25."

"She forgot to mention your action figure. Everybody gets an action figure."

"True. I think I saw that mentioned somewhere in the Wards introductory pamphlet."

Mom was spared the horror of more banter when Mr. Driver called out, "We're on approach to PHQ."

Living in Brockton Bay, I had of course seen the hard light bridge that connected The Rig to the mainland, but I had never ridden over it. Looking out the front window, a wave of vertigo washed over me, quickly passing as I adjusted to the disconcerting view. A glowing blue path less than a millimeter thick was all that kept us from a watery grave.

It's really awesome up close, I thought, What I would give for a personal inspection of the technology, really get into the nuts and bolts of how it works.

I considered how I would implement forcefield technology. Fallout's forcefields worked using a principle called projected photonic resonance, essentially a method for trapping specific wavelengths of light using electromagnetic fields. However, my understanding of both science and Science was lacking, so I would need to put more points into the skill before I gained the know-how to build a working model.

Science for understanding the advanced physics, biology, chemistry, etc. behind Fallout's greatest inventions and Repair for the engineering practices required to build it all. Those two Skills would be what I dumped my level up points into for the foreseeable future, assuming it worked the same as in the game.

Focusing back on The Rig, the architecture had a lot in common with a modern art piece, defined by sweeping arches and pointed spires seemingly meant to impose a grandeur rather than facilitate any functionality. Then again, the missile platforms and forcefield bubble were functionality enough to deter all but the most hardened of villains.

A wide metal door gaped open at our approach, a maw of metal teeth that led into a large indoor hanger.

We climbed out, and I bid farewell to my new favorite PRT trooper.

I got a "knock 'em dead kid" in return.

Armsmaster pulled up alongside the van. He took off with a gruff, "Follow me."

We were led deeper into the structure, descending a few stories below what I thought would have been the bottom level. I was a Brockton Bay resident, so of course I had taken the tour before, but they clearly curated what the public saw. Last time I was here, I had taken the ferry to a landing on the opposite side of The Rig.

The tour immediately greets you with the giftshop, followed by a trek down sleek metal hallways leading to Armsmaster's tinkering lab and the hero training facilities.

This route was decidedly less exciting. Generic plaster walls. Office rooms. Living spaces? Not nearly as incredible as the exterior would have you believe.

After what felt like several minutes of walking, we circled back around to a familiar section. If I recalled correctly, we were nearing the training rooms, a more than plausible location for power testing. Indeed, we stopped at a room that was recognizable as a gym, with rows of treadmills, an assortment of weights, and some machines that I couldn't ascertain the purpose of.

A man and a woman, the former dressed in business casual, holding a clipboard, and the latter in a lab coat, were looking expectantly at us.

"This is Doctors Kasumi Watanabe and Kent Rivers of the parahuman research division. Please follow their instructions for the duration of the testing. If you have any questions they cannot answer, I will be observing the procedures as well."

And with that implied dismissal, Armsmaster marched off to the observation box, leaving me and Mom alone with the scientists.

"Yes, as he said, I am Dr. Kasumi Watanabe, but you may call me Dr. Watanabe or just by my family name," She was older, I placed her at maybe mid 40s.

"And you can call me Dr. Rivers, or Mr. Rivers, or Kent, I'm not too picky," he was younger than his partner, unlikely to be a day over 30, and he spoke with a joviality to contrast Dr. Watanabe's flat tone.

"So, Dr. Rivers, I see lots of gym equipment, are we testing my physical fitness first?" I asked.

"Aha, you're an observant one."

Why yes I am, see powers, my Perception should be higher than 2, I agreed with the good doctor.

"We'll start off with a series of baseline tests before getting into active power use," Dr. Watanabe explained.

"Um, there might be a slight problem. I actually have passive abilities that would interfere with getting a normalized reading."

"Not a problem at all," Dr. Rivers said, "by baseline, we mean without generating any forcefields or wind currents or what have you that you need to actively engage to use. We can't expect every parahuman to be able to deactivate innate superstrength on command."

"Oh, right," I said sheepishly. Duh.

"By the way, what do you want to be called?" he asked me, "I can't keep referring to you as 'kid' of 'you' the whole time."

"I don't have a name for myself yet, but the PRT has me provisionally codenamed as Dimension Pull. It's not a bad name, but it's not gonna be my hero name."

"Pull, it is," he said.

What followed was a series of tests that wouldn't be completely out of place in a high school standardized fitness exam.

First up was the treadmill. They had me begin at an even jog, the speed slowly increasing at regular intervals. As the pace ramped up, I had to pump my legs harder and harder to keep myself from flying off the treads. It was both tiring and not tiring at the same time, my body functioning at constant maximum output but without muscle fatigue or getting winded. My Stamina was draining fast, however -I had never tested this amount of strain- and I worried I'd run out if this kept up much longer.

I had no idea how fast I was sprinting, but even with Stamina, my lungs and legs were burning, and it was becoming impossible to keep up. The speed increased again. If I could push just a little farther…

I lost my footing. Ground rushed up to meet my face (or my face rushed down to meet the ground), slamming into my nose and jaw. At the speed I'd been running, I couldn't get my arms up in time, and they were awkwardly pinned beneath my chest during the collision, resulting in another painful point of contact.

Mega-ow, I never want to know what it feels like to hit the teeth first ever again.

Apparently, my slip up was damaging enough to cause severe physical harm because my Health bar was cut in half, Yikes.

"Sam!"

I think you're forgetting the whole secret identity thing, Mom.

"Oh my God, are you okay, Sweetheart?"

"Pull, are you alright? Why didn't you tell us we were pushing you too far?" Glad to see that the doctor is concerned as well.

"I'm fine. It just hurt," the pain response was still fading, "My um, my overshield protected me from injury," I tried to reassure the two mother hens and Dr. Watanabe, "I didn't realize that I couldn't keep up with the treadmill until it was too late. My- I suppose you would call it an energy overflow, keeps me from getting winded," Although I had been close to hitting empty when I took that fall.

"You're really fine?" Mom was still dubious of my safety.

"Really," I wiggled my fingers and flashed my teeth in a smile. I didn't even get a bloody nose, "Um, could we perhaps take a break to let my overshield recharge, unless we're on a tight schedule or-"

"That's perfectly fine," Dr. Watanabe assured me, "Let us know when you're ready to continue, and we'll more closely monitor your limitations from now on."

Five minutes later, I got back to it. The next few exercises were much less likely to result in a faceplant.

Do as many pushups as you can in one minute. I did 40.

Now do the same but for sit ups. I managed 62.

How long can you grip onto this pole without slipping? Until I ran out of Stamina plus 20 seconds for a total of 403 seconds.

Okay, now my arms are tired. I remember why I hate exercise, if I'd worn my Pip-Boy I'd be curious to check how much AP was used for the hangbar test.

Grip strength. I measured 18kg (My arms were still tired).

Sit and reach. 63.5cm. I was a flexible girl, and it helped that I could push past the pain without fear of tearing my muscles.

"We're going to have you lift progressively heavier weights," Dr. Watanabe explained, "Are you familiar with proper lifting technique?"

I was directed to a black pillar spanning from the floor to the ceiling and wide enough to fit three of me comfortably side by side. The pillar turned out to be composed of two parts, the dark outer sheath and a metal cylinder on the interior. The interior portion was enclosed on all sides except for the quarter circle facing towards the observation window. The metal cylinder was raised seven or so feet above the ground, and upon closer inspection, it was segmented into plates by thin, nearly invisible, horizontal gaps. The plates got thicker the higher the cylinder climbed. And there were two handles on the underside of the bottom plate.

Comprehension was beginning to dawn on me as to the purpose of this machine, conjuring images of Atlas holding up the sky.

I think Dr. Rivers saw my incredulity because he felt the need to explain, "Big Bertha here may look scary, but she wouldn't hurt a fly," I gave him a deadpan stare, "In all seriousness, it's completely safe. There would have to be hundreds of catastrophic failures involving shearing of dozens of steel carbide inserts over three centimeters in diameter before failure occurred. It's physically impossible for multiple weights to activate at the same time, controlled by analog mechanisms. It's not crushing anything or anyone anytime soon. The treadmills are by far the more dangerous pieces of equipment."

I looked at Mom.

She shrugged, "It's handled all the other Wards, including the ones without Brute ratings. I trust you'll be fine."

"And why can't we just use the weights you guys have lying around?" I hoped they realized how overkill this was for me.

"It's not as accurate," was the response from Dr. Watanabe.

I thought she was supposed to be the responsible one, and here she is running an orphan crushing machine.

Alright, let's do this.

I dismissed my survival instincts and positioned myself underneath the orphan crusher strength tester.

"Adjusting height," came Watanabe's voice.

The cylinder lowered a few inches to where my arms were able to make right angles when gripping the handles.

"We're gonna start you off at the five kilogram plate and work our way up from there," Dr. Rivers informed me.

There was no sound or other indication that the first plate had dropped, I was just suddenly bearing its weight. I could handle this.

The weight increased every few seconds, warnings given by the researcher duo of how much weight would be added and what the new total would be. From five to ten to fifteen, incrementing by fives. At 35kg, my arms and chest were straining, and it's at this point that I would have quit if I didn't have superpowers. Stamina drained more rapidly the heavier object I was lifting, and I was hitting the halfway point. The pressure went up again, this time to 40kg, and I grunted in exertion, my face likely turning a shade of tomato red.

I grunted out that I was reaching my limit.

"Acknowledged, slowing the rate of increase," Dr. Watanabe flipped several switches on the control panel.

Weight was added one meticulous kilogram at a time, my arms now shaking, not from exhaustion but from the sheer mechanical inability of my muscles to bear the weight.

At 44 kilograms, Watanabe called the end of the test, and while I maybe could have forced myself to take a little more weight, it was nearing the point where that would cause damage to my Health.

The older researcher was looking over the results, "Interesting, you were able to lift more than expected of a girl your age, weight, and training ought to. I would say your energy reserves provide a minor yet valuable Brute rating, although it almost seems like an involuntary Breaker state."

It's a fascinating experience to push your body to its absolute physical limits, and then immediately afterwards go back to being completely fine, but that was my reality now. For all the pain and immense pressure felt in the moment, I was back to baseline seconds after the experiment stopped.

Dr. Rivers walked over to me with a grin on his face, "We've got just a couple of physical measurements we want to take, and then we can get to the fun stuff. Don't worry, these last few should be a little less boring for you."

I was led over to, of all things, one of those standing punching bags, the kind that look like a tube attached to a thick base. This one even came complete with the PRT insignia.

"Now, based on your previous results, we're having you hit the non-Brute rated punching bag, but if you feel that you could potentially tear through a solid foot of sand, you should tell us now," he informed me.

"No, I don't think I could do that."

"Great," He fished out a pair of boxing gloves from a nearby trunk, tossing them over to me where I deftly caught them, "here's some padding. Put those on, and give it your best strike."

I did as I was told; I couldn't injure my knuckles, but I was still no fan of pain.

Now, I had about as much knowledge of fighting as Mom had of electrical engineering. That is to say, it was practically nonexistent. I did know one thing though. You don't aim at the target, you aim behind it.

I imagined a second punching bag sitting a foot behind the first. That's my goal, hit the invisible bag. So I squared my shoulders, turned my body, winding back my arm, pivoting to put my full force behind this punch, and I struck.

Thud.

A solid hit if I do say so, leaving my fist stinging for a second. I bet I would have generated an echo if the gym didn't have such effective sound dampening.

Dr. Rivers called out the results, reading off his pad, "2100 Newtons, not bad, not bad, delivered over that area gives 240 psi. Enough to knock someone flat with a good hit to the jaw, but definitely outside the range of what you'd expect from someone with Brute strength," He shrugged at me, "I think we can definitely say that your powers aren't enhancing your strength, but how that works with your increased durability, I have no clue."

His grin widened like a child's smile on their birthday, "Now comes the fun part. Looks like you're slated for blaster testing next."

I hated to interrupt what would undoubtedly be a fascinating experience for both me and the researchers, but I had a question, "What about durability testing?"

"Pardon?" I don't think Dr. Rivers quite understood what I meant.

"Wouldn't it make more sense to test my physical durability first? Don't you have equipment for that here?"

"Oooh," You could almost see the lightbulb over his head, "Yes we do have equipment for that kind of testing, but it's a tremendous hassle to get all the proper permissions to test it on Wards. Your Youth Guard representative would have a fit if we didn't get your signed permission, your parents' signatures, the director's signatures, a supervising hero's signature, our liability signatures, you get the point. It's a bureaucratic nightmare, which is entirely unfair. It's not like we're chopping off limbs over here, the tests are barely worse than a trip to the doctor's. At worst, it would be difficult if you had a fear of needles, but for some reason those prissies make a fuss and baseless accusations about 'traumatic experiences' and 'government endorsed torture', ridiculous I tell you."

That seemed exaggerated to me, but Samuel had read some pointed interactions between the PRT and the Youth Guard.

"Are they really that bad?" I asked.

Dr. Rivers was stopped from launching into another impassioned tirade by his colleague, "The Youth Guard is necessary to ensure the rights of minors in our organization are not violated," she paused, "Even if it sometimes impedes both of our jobs."

With that line of conversation thoroughly ended, I was led to the next testing site. The Blaster test chamber ran as one long corridor, resembling a firing range if all the barriers were removed. Etched metal targets bearing dents, scratches, and scorch marks lined the back wall, and extras were propped up against the walls.

Mom and the researchers posted themselves several meters behind me, further protected by some kind of reinforced plexiglass sheet.

Dr. Rivers glanced to his pad and then back to me as I waited somewhat impatiently to begin, "Our notes say you've got pyrokinesis, self-generated from your hands. Go ahead and fire downrange. Don't worry about damaging the room, you'd have to output a lot of energy to get that far."

I equipped Flames for the first time, wielding the spell in both hands. My very own fire, a coalescence of my inner flame meant to bring destruction to my foes. The tongues of fire in my palm licked my fingers, but I felt only a comforting warmth, not the burning of flesh.

I could hold the fire in my palms as long as I wanted, but the energy longed for release, to unleash itself against all that stood in my path. I obliged.

Twin jets of fire shot forth, burning yellow, orange, and red. Sweat poured down my face, but the flames did not hurt me. I held my hands out, awestruck by the beautifully dancing inferno until my Magicka reserves were empty, cutting off the streams and leaving a bright afterimage in their wake.

That was… exhilarating. There was nothing supernatural about that feeling, just the adrenaline fueled euphoria of controlling that much raw power. Instituting self-imposed restrictions on my magic use would be important to curb any power junkie tendencies. I promised to myself, Absolutely no Destruction training outside of the appropriate locations.

Dr. Rivers let out a low whistle.

"Impressive," Dr. Watanabe was checking over her own tablet, "Temperatures reached 1100℃ for around 11 seconds, held constant the entire duration. Maximum range estimated to be 12 meters."

"Was that the longest period of time you could maintain your flames?" She asked.

I saw no reason not to enlighten the doctor, "Yes. It relies on a sort of internal energy reserve, different from the ones that power my superhuman endurance and durability," I clarified.

"Your power is kind of complicated, you know that Pull? Three separate energy sources, and you can keep track of all that?" Dr. Rivers asked with bemusement.

"Well enough. I have a rough instinctual sense of how much energy I've got left, and if I focus, I can find out exactly what percentage is remaining. I semi-regularly get the option to permanently raise the max capacity of one of them too."

"Duly noted." He typed into his pad, "Now, as much as I wish you could blast things with fire all day, we are unfortunately on a strict timetable."

I must have shown some of my disappointment, because he continued by saying, "Don't worry, you'll get plenty of opportunities to play with fire at a later date. Us researchers are always eager to get more data on parahuman abilities."

---

The day progressed through a series of tests meant to demonstrate the other abilities I had revealed.

Back in the gym, they had me blindfolded, moving me about randomly and asking me to orient myself to certain directions. Compass directions were child's play, then they began asking me to turn towards certain named landmarks. Using logical deduction and memory, I turned to face the door, then the observation window.

Facing towards downtown was easy with multiple map markers to orient myself. They had me spin around several times, and asked me to face away from the city, equally easy given the complete lack of markers in that direction.
Now turn to face my mom. Since people don't show up on my Compass, I had no clue where she was. Not one to be shaken by this kind of setback, I decided I'd give it a try anyways. I spun about randomly for a few seconds, coming to a stop with my finger pointed forwards.

"Did it work?" I asked, genuinely unsure that I had accomplished anything other than looking like a fool.

Dr. Rivers replied, "Yep, why did you spin that time, Pull?"

Not wanting to muddy their results, I explained how I was operating off pure chance and couldn't actually detect people with my direction sense.

I must have gained his curiosity because he wanted to try an experiment. He explained that he was going to have me wear a pair of noise canceling headphones, and he'd tap me on the left or right shoulder to turn towards either Mom or Dr. Watanabe respectively.

With the headphones covering my ears, I was now blind and deaf. He tapped my right shoulder. I spun. A minute passed, now my left shoulder. I spun again. Wait some more. This went on for several dozen more runs, until my hearing was suddenly restored as the noise cancellers were pulled off my head.

"You can untie the blindfold now," he helpfully told me, "You're sure you don't have some instinct you were following? You were able to pinpoint their locations a remarkably high percentage of the time, 14 successes out of 36 attempts can pretty much rule out random chance."

"I'm sure, really. You may as well have asked me to roll dice." I wonder if my Luck was influencing me subconsciously.

His eyebrows scrunched up, and he rubbed his pencil mustache in thought, "We might just have to test that at some point."

We moved onto generic Thinker testing, which consisted of a frankly absurd series of seemingly unrelated questions such as "What color is the stock market today?" or "Describe the temperature of nearby parahuman activity.", some of which were oddly specific and probably meant to target information gathering powers, with examples like "How many births have been registered within a five mile radius in the last hour?" or "List the serial numbers for as many electrically powered appliances as you can that are within 10 meters."

I, of course, didn't actually have a concrete answer to a single question, so I wrote nonsense and educated guesses. I told the researcher duo at the start that I didn't have the kind of Thinker powers this kind of questionnaire was testing for, but apparently it's standard procedure to screen all Wards. Minor Thinker powers tended to fall into the category that most often slipped under the radar (except for Stranger powers, but for much different reasons).

I couldn't have my exam "graded" yet, as a subset of the questions dealt with precognition. However, I wasn't holding out hope for a secret Thinker power.

Next on the agenda, the duo showed a keen interest in my inventory -although I referred to it as a pocket dimension- having me attempt to store a diverse selection of objects and substances, a much more thorough affair than my initial experimentation.

It started off innocently enough.

Metal cube, side length 5cm - It worked (obviously)
Plastic cube of the same size - Yes
Rubber ball - Yea
Wooden spoon - Yup
Ceramic plate - Indeed
My phone - Yep
Dr. Rivers' phone - Also yes
TV remote - Yes
A Tinker made, unspecified remote control device - Yes
5kg weight - Yes
10kg weight - Yes
20kg weight - Hrrrk, Yes
30 kg weight - Yes (with help from Mom to get it off the ground, I was able to keep it lifted long enough to count for my power)

"Wanna see what happens if we try it out on Big Bertha?"

"Kent, we are not risking the million dollar machine on your hair brained scheme."

Styrofoam cup of water - Yes
Water (just cupped in my hands) - No (Now my hands are wet)
Can of orange soda - Mhm
Orange soda cupped in my hands - No! (Why did we have to check that? Now my hands are wet and sticky)

I demanded a bathroom break to wash my hands before continuing.

Handful of dirt - Nope
Jar of dirt - Yep
The air surrounding me - No
The air surrounding my hands - No again
Empty jar (full of air) - Yes (Seriously guys?)
Opaque container full of a dubious sloshing liquid - Yes…
Granola bar - Yes

Dr. Rivers brought out a live mouse. Please, please don't let Mr. Mouse get hurt, I pleaded with my powers.

Live mouse - Didn't work (What a cuddly boy)
Live cricket - Same result (What an uncuddly creature)
Live mouse in a cage - No
Live cricket in a jar - Yes?
Live mouse in a jar - No???
Dead cricket - That one worked

"If you make me try to store a dead mouse in a pocket dimension, I'm complaining to the Youth Guard."

By now, the list of items I had been made to try my power on resembled a testing log from one of those SCP Foundation articles Samuel was fond of reading with an opinion of Dr. Rivers to match the reputation of that fictional organization's most eccentric researchers.

"I think we have covered enough materials," Dr. Watanabe said, "any further testing would be redundant, and we have other things to do."

Dr. Rivers did not pout -he liked to maintain a fun loving yet semi-academic demeanor- but his eyes dimmed in disappointment.

He picked his mood up a moment later as he announced my next task, "You're an unending waterfall of data, Pull, and while I would love to explore the minutiae of your plethora of powers, we only have enough time for one more slot today. Ah, I see that look of disappointment in your eyes-"

"Maybe you should have made parahuman research your vocational study, Sweetheart," Mom had really opened up over the course of the afternoon. Things had gotten off to a rocky start because of my slip up during the very first test of the day, but her mood had gradually improved as she made conversation with Dr. Watanabe -while Dr. Rivers put me through the wringer. She had even forgone the flimsy secret identity charade between the two of us -both of the doctors knew we had a familial relationship by this point, and they had already signed NDAs.

"I concur," Dr. Watanabe stated, "You possess all the qualities of an excellent researcher -a keen mind, patience in the face of failure, and a burning curiosity. Keep hold of these traits, and they will take you far no matter the field you study or the job you take."

She muttered in a quieter voice, "Virtues I wish more parahumans shared."

Dr. Rivers cleared his throat, "Anyways, I bet you'll be excited for the last bit of power testing, seeing as your primary power is listed as Tinker."

Finally.

The auxiliary Tinker lab was a treasure trove, an inventor's dream come to life. Cabinets stocked full of beakers and labeled chemicals, shelves overflowing with scrap electronics, sheet metals, and plastics, tools orderly lining smooth tabletops, appliances gathered along walls, a lathe and 3D printer for metals and plastic, a robotic gantry above an immaculately clear surface, all promised untold resources I had so far been denied.

That was only the visible portion, who knows what they had hidden in closed drawers?

"Sweetheart, you've got a little something on your chin," Mom's eyes crinkled in amusement, a grin clearly held back.

I wiped my mount reflexively and came away with… Drool? I was literally drooling at the sight of the massive Tinker cache.

Even all-business Dr. Watanabe was smiling.

It was then that Armsmaster entered the lab. I hadn't seen the hero since the start of testing, checking my phone, four and a half hours ago. Knowing his disposition from Worm and the other whacky timelines, he might have been tinkering in his lab instead of observing the procedures, waiting until my Tinker time arrived. The man had a singular obsession with Tinkers above all other parahumans, sneering down at the dirty Brutes, Trumps, and Blasters from on high.

Okay, I was being unfair again, Stop letting your biases taint your personal opinion of the man. He can do good when he tries.

"I am here to oversee and observe your tinkering process. Please proceed," No wonder this guy so often got labeled on the spectrum, would it kill you to modulate that monotone voice? I know you're not a robot!

Well, I won't let this distract me any longer.

I had to make sure they wouldn't be upset by my resource use, so I asked to make sure, "I can use anything in this room?"

"Yes, and lucky for you, anything you make here can get grandfathered in since you haven't signed any official paperwork yet," Dr. Rivers assured me, "but it still has to go through testing before you're allowed to bring it on patrols," and crushed my dreams at the same time.

Here goes nothing.

Make a plan, first step, What do I want to build

Perhaps a better question would be, What do I need to build?

I had defenses, but my current offense kit was a tad… overkill. I couldn't imagine a scenario where going all out with a stream of fire longer than my house was tall would be considered acceptable force for a Ward, unless something had gone horribly wrong. Then again, I live in Brockton Bay, and something going horribly wrong is just another Tuesday for the heroes. I'd still like an offensive tool with more finesse, more fine control, that was decidedly less lethal.

Except, Fallout was a universe of decidedly lethal weaponry, with very few counterexamples to choose from, and my options from Skyrim mostly included even deadlier fire spells or sharp, pointy, killy swords, the most optimal utility spells being locked behind higher tiers and perks.

What I wouldn't give for immediate access to paralysis enchantments, spells, or even poisons.

However, New Vegas contained one option that would be incredibly easy, practically child's play to make, even with my low skill levels.

The Cattle Prod, originally used for tending unruly cattle, but in theory a tool that could be repurposed for human anatomy, was the perfect starting weapon. It's easy to use -just poke the enemy- and it's low technology, not very resource intensive.

Even Regent made excellent use of the weapon on non-Brute targets. And I could do better.

Fetch the materials. A hollow pipe ,looks to be intended for plumbing. A spool of copper wire, 6 gauge for use in heavy electricity flow. Two 12 Volt batteries. A roll of duct tape. Some odd bits of scrap metal.

Now put it together. I'll need protective gear and tools of course, a welding torch and mask, along with an apron and heat resistant gloves. My spells will come in handy here (Welding torches are great for attaching two metal objects together, not so much for shaping metal). With Flames, I superheated the scrap metal until it was glowing red -all done inside the blast resistant chamber- then I hammered away with some nearby blunt scrap. I scraped and shaped, forging a rough pair of prongs, and when the metal cooled off, I angle grinded until the tips would be sharp enough to reliably pierce thin clothing and skin.

SMITHING INCREASED TO 2

Mask and apron on, weld the prongs to the body. Take the copper wire, and coil it around the top of the tube -this will be good for instantaneous shocks over a large contact area rather than incapacitation- trailing off to the battery leads. Connect the batteries in parallel, increasing voltage. Duct tape the batteries to the weapon body.

Problem. The weapon can still easily deliver lethal amperage and voltage. Solution. Modulate current switch controlled resistors, using precisely cut thin sheets of rubber wrapped around important junctions thinly separated by mechanically controlled metal struts. Current follows Ohm's Law: I=V/R. Power source provides constant voltage, so engage the switch at three different levels to introduce three levels of resistance, and subsequently, three current settings.

Inadvisable to wield bare metal of shock inducing weaponry. Apply rubberized grip to the bottom.

I shook my head out of my intense focus. It was complete, and I didn't have to cheat like with the Pip-Boy. Anybody could build this with the proper technique and know-how, at best my power providing knowledge of engineering shortcuts and bypasses. Before the Cattle Prod, I had never encountered Ohm's Law in my life, my Science skill seemingly conjuring that information out of the ether and into my brain when needed. I understood it now of course, it was hardly rocket science, just simple circuit equations.

I turned towards my audience, hefting the Cattle Prod up to display my creation in all its rudimentary glory.

"What is it?" Thanks Mom for being the perfect audience member.

"I believe I have some idea based on my observations," Armsmaster stated in his trademark monotonic canter.

"This is-" I can't call it the Cattle Prod, or they'll get the wrong idea, "It's a stun baton, with three settings for non-parahumans, armored non-parahumans, and Brutes. That's just a generalization of course. Obviously, I can't cover all possible Brute powers with a single current, and if they're still susceptible to electricity, then I'd have to watch out for possible heart arrhythmia," I hoped those downsides wouldn't prevent me from taking my first creation into the field. If Glory Girl got to pummel thugs with dumpsters, then I could bring a measly stun baton.

"So, it doesn't shoot bolts of lightning?" Dr. Rivers didn't need to sound so disappointed. I'd tried my best with the materials and knowledge I was given!

"This is a normal stun baton." Armsmaster did a once over with his visor, probably scanning my work with his array of built-in sensors, "I detect no abnormal energy readings or aberrant material properties. It is completely unremarkable by every metric."

Way to put a girl down. Unlike you, I obey the laws of physics.

"This side of my Tinker technology will always be replicable by non-parahuman engineers. A stun baton is the least of what I can create. Give me time and resources, and I'll give you widespread forcefields, healing tech, and optimized nuclear fusion."

Chew on that, Arms-loser.

"You're telling the truth."

For the first time since I'd met the man, his stoicism had cracked. It was the subtle intonation in his voice, the slight posture tensing. If I wasn't putting my undivided attention on him, I would have missed it, and for the cracks to show through his rigid discipline, he must have been in turmoil inside.

I made an irrevocable decision in revealing my capabilities, but it would have come to light sooner or later. Better they know now than to stumble upon the truth after the fact, and if it raised my standing in their eyes, all the better.

Whether or not this would bring The Simurgh crashing down upon my head like an F6 tornado, only time would tell.

For now, I had a meeting to conclude and negotiations to handle.

 

[Syrasar]

Wonderful Chapter again and what a BOMB at the end
the reactions are going to be glorious

 

[FantasticGouda]

She should negotiate some kind of cause in her contract so that she doesn't have to fight and can just tinker.

Click to shrink...

That's the kind of deal Sam could swing in a city that's not Brockton Bay, but since Sam isn't willing to abandon the city she grew up in, she'll have to agree to go on patrols. Besides, she's looking forwards to meeting and working with the other Wards.

Wonderful Chapter again and what a BOMB at the end
the reactions are going to be glorious

Click to shrink...

As always, there will be consequences for this. Even if the information would have gotten out eventually, it's still not something to share lightly.

 

[Zeldomnyo]

Thanks for the chapter. I'm really looking forward to seeing the kind of things she ends up building and how she uses them to help out others. Since she has knowledge of the series does that means she's going to end up helping kid win figure out what his specialty is?

 

[FantasticGouda]

Chapter Eight: Earning Concessions​

Piggot could glare daggers through an endbringer. At least, that's what it felt like to be on the receiving end of her hardened gaze.

"You declined to inform us of critical information relating to your power, Dimension Pull. Do you understand why we might be apprehensive to place our full trust in you?"

So that's how she wanted to play it, huh, the old "How can we trust you for not telling us all your dirty secrets?" angle.

"Director, I should think that-" Dad started to speak on my behalf, but I signaled him to stop with a hand on his shoulder.

If I wanted to gain respect in the Director's eyes, I had to make my own case, show her I wouldn't cower behind my parents.

"Director Piggot, I had good reasons for not immediately telling you the nature of my technology, and it's for those reasons that I think it important we ensure word of this doesn't leave the room. Do you have a way to check for bugs?"

Piggot stared at me for a few, long seconds. Don't crack. Remain strong.

"Armsmaster, perform a sweep." she said.

"Affirmative."

The hero pressed a button on the side of his head, while the director reached under her side of the table. Window shutters drew close, diminishing the lighting to an artificial overhead bulb, while a staticy sound droned at the edge of hearing.

"No signs of spying detected."

Piggot leaned forward in her seat, "Inbound and outbound signals are being jammed. Now, tell me why you withheld this."

I'd get right to the point then, "If the world at large got this information, it could put me in extreme danger. A Tinker who can make reproducible tech has a huge target painted on their back. Gangs, the national government, even other countries are going to come after me if they get their hands on this. I didn't tell you or my parents initially because that would put them in danger, and it would give more opportunities for the information to leak out."

"I assure you the PRT treats vital information with the utmost seriousness. You're right that this would make you a target by unsavory groups inside and outside of the country, but we would never allow it to be revealed."

Never willingly, "With all due respect, can you guarantee 100% that it won't ever leak out of your servers, or that you won't have the documents stolen? Or that none of your employees will ever be tempted to sell me out for a hefty reward?"

If Dad was content to let me lead the discussion before, that was no longer the case. He spoke over my next words, "My daughter is right. We both know how tenuous operational security can be before parahumans come into play. I won't allow her to be put in danger any more than strictly necessary. This information doesn't leave the room. You, Armsmaster, Rivers, Watanabe, Gabby and I can be the only ones to know this. Don't put it in a database, don't even write it down."

Piggot scrunched her eyebrows, lips pursed like she had sucked on a particularly sour lemon, "I can agree to the last part, but I will be informing the Chief Director."

"I'm not so sure that's a good idea."

Oh dang, things were getting heated, and I was the awkward child stuck in the middle of two bickering adults.

"Excuse me," Piggot was scandalized, "You don't dictate PRT policy, Brown."

"That's true. Frankly however, I don't believe Costa-Brown has Brockton's best interests at heart, and I'm certain she doesn't care about my daughter's well being beyond what political benefits it gives her," Serious accusations, yet my father maintained a level tone, never once raising his voice.

"Is this really the best time and place for this?" The implication was clear, she didn't think it appropriate for me to hear Dad's unguarded opinions on the subject.

"It concerns her future. She made the decision to inform Armsmaster. Sam's the one in most danger, and so I think she deserves to know the full extent of the situation."

That's a good sentiment Dad, but Cauldron -and by extension, Rebecca Costa-Brown- doubtlessly are already aware of me. Nothing slips past the Thinker 12 besides restricted Shard data.

I didn't want to get Piggot or myself into trouble when the dual leader of the PRT and high ranking Protectorate hero learned of our lie.

It was a gamble, but I was betting that Becky would value my potential more than she valued whatever she would get from revealing my secrets.

I made my case, "Ma'am, I think it's okay if you tell the Chief Director. It'd mean big trouble if we were caught out in a lie, and if the leader of the PRT can't be trusted, then who can be?" After decades of leading a split life, there were few secret keepers that could call themselves Costa-Brown's equal, "Besides, even if we do keep it a secret, it'll get out eventually anyways. I don't plan on telling anyone else, but all it takes is one enemy Tinker stealing my tech. It would be better to be proactive about this. At least, that's what I think."

"You've both made your points. Regardless, I am obligated to inform the Chief Director, that's not up for debate. I will be using the most secure channels available to me, no one else hears a peep."

Piggot straightened a thick stack of papers and cleared her throat, "With that in mind, let's get to our original business."

---

I'd like to say that I was attentive and alert the whole time, but that would be a big fat lie. The majority of the meeting was spent with my parents and the Director haggling for royalty percentages and trust fund interest allotments. I spent some of that time reading over the Wards documents pertaining to my duties, obligations, and privileges, and during the rest, I fought off sleep (It was getting late, and I'd had a long day, okay?).

The default contract listed 20 hours of commitment a week, split between after school hours and weekends. I had a modest Tinker budget, but I was obviously going to bargain that up. One clause essentially said that the PRT owns my image rights. That's fine -I don't care enough to make my own merchandise- but I'll be the one to decide what my name is, not PR, thank you very much.

It was while I was struggling with droopy eyed stupor that the Director addressed me, "Dimension Pull, if these clauses are satisfactory, you can sign the documents."

Mom and Dad gave me expectant looks. Now was the time to argue for my own terms. They'd back me up, but the impetus had to come from me.

"I have a few points of contention, Director. Firstly, while the budget you have listed is generous, I feel that it wouldn't be a good fit for me. My Tinker powers are highly irregular. While you are fully aware of the more… grounded side of my tinkering, I also have many creations that are, um, esoteric. And decidedly not replicable. Many of these require components that are, let's say, potentially very difficult to obtain, and I'm not sure how to even go about calculating the cost."

She narrowed her eyes, steepling her fingers, "I'm not writing you a blank check."

At this, Dad interjected, "If I might make a suggestion, what if we trialed a hybrid system. For materials that get classified under the PRT's Standardized List of Budgetable Items, we can use a direct allotment, and for other requests, we could determine the efficacy on a case by case basis."

Armsmaster, being a Tinker himself, was invested enough into the conversation to make his own suggestion, "Such an idea isn't unheard of. Many Tinkers have abnormal specialties, and have made requests outside the purview of standard materials. What sorts of "esoteric" components would you require?"

Ohhh, let me think. Spell tomes had lots of weird items involved in their creation. Yeah, how the heck would I get that?

"Let me answer with a question. How would you go about bottling a cloud? What amount would it cost to import a 10x10x10 meter slab of granite? Those are the kinds of questions I'm dealing with for material requirements."

"I see."

Do you?

The hero turned his visor towards the Director, "I can review Dimension Pull's more problematic material requests."

"Fine," she sighed, "We'll amend the contract."

I didn't want her to think we were done yet, "Another thing, I want final say on all my power-granting creations. No vetoing them."

"All Tinker products go through a strict review process to ensure their safety. That includes a pre-review process. This is non-negotiable," The Director was adamant, but I wouldn't back down from this no matter what.

"Even if they pose no danger whatsoever? The creations I'm talking about are completely unusable by anyone but myself, to the point where you may as well not even consider it Tinker tech. Think of it more like a bizarre delivery system for my Trump power."

She took a long time to consider. Internally, I was praying that she'd agree to this concession, already having severely handicapped my progress with regulations and restrictions on my available builds. If Piggot denied my appeal, I would have little recourse. This late into the game, after giving up so much, could I really refuse to sign the paperwork? I'd put myself in a bad spot.

Deliberation came to an end, and Piggot's next words would decide my fate.

"I can agree to lessening oversight on power augmentations only. However, you will inform me exactly what powers you expect to be making before you do so. Abuse this privilege, and I will revoke it, am I clear?"

"Crystal, ma'am."

"Excellent, if that's all, then I'd like your signature on the Wards membership documents. We'll fast track the changes to budgetary and merchandising. That can get signed tomorrow."

I had one last point to bring up. One more argument to make, but it should be the easiest of the night.

"Wait, I have one more request."

"I'm listening."

"Um, I'm totally willing to work with Image," I gave Mom a nod, "They know how best to represent heroes in the public sphere. But I want to pick my own name."

I was expecting Piggot to give a denial just for the sake of argument -she seemed reluctant to give up any concession too easily, no matter how trivial- but it was Mom who spoke up.

"We're not going to stick you with the first name out of our pens, Sweetheart. Image is a process, and we'll make a whole list you can choose from based on the direction you take your costume and theme."

Great, my mom is doing the Director's job for her.

"That's, er, not what I meant. I want to choose my name entirely by myself."

Uh-oh, Mom got that stern look on her face that says "I know better".

"Names are important. You have to put a lot of thought into the presentation you put on for the world. Think about how the average person will react to your name, what kinds of images it conjures."

Yes, Mom, I understand how hero names work, she still wasn't getting it.

"Look, how about a compromise, I-"

"You can discuss this later," Piggot had apparently heard enough of our arguing, "Naming rights isn't actually something I can grant you, bring it up with PR."

Oh. I guess that makes sense.

I had no more contentions, having succeeded in arguing for the two most important points. I signed the contract with a fancy ball point pen, marking the end of today's meeting.

Piggot had one last statement before dismissing us, "I can offer you a tour of the Wards HQ, but be aware that it's unlikely for any of them to be in at this time."

So I probably wouldn't get to meet the Wards today.

"That's okay," I said, "I'd rather go tomorrow when more of them will be here."

Polite farewells were given, and I shuffled out of the conference room with my parents. Ugh, I was so mentally drained. I'd be skipping skill grinding tonight, just a late dinner, homework, and then bed for me.

My jaw split open, a yawn escaping. Maybe I could go for a short nap on the ride home.

Meeting the Wards tomorrow, huh? That'll be interesting.

---------------------------------------------------------------

A/N

Next chapter is turning out to be very difficult for me to write. Turns out, dealing with a heavy subject that you don't have expertise in is hard. I also think it might be difficult for some people to read, but I hope that it makes my story a more rewarding experience in the long run.