Security! (a Worm SI fic)

Sorry, you'll have to wait till Security! comes up again.

Not too bad, actually

 

Rather belated, but... is Flachette on the "Do Not Let Die Under Basically Any Circumstances" list, and is she soon going to be moved to a Tinker gathering so they can work as hard as possible to replicate Sting? Dragoncraft armed with railguns with sting warheads, anyone? Or launchers that imbue the sting effect onto normal railgun ammo, if they can manage it?

 

Yes, and possibly.

 

Security!

Chapter Forty-Two: the Meaning of Life


“Oh, for fuck's sake! You have got to be fucking kidding me!"

There was a long, frozen moment as I looked up from the phone, and realised that I had just released my outburst in front of at least a dozen people, all waiting for the bus. Clearing my throat, I essayed a grin that probably looked more like a deaths-head grimace. “Uh, sorry, folks. A little … um … problem … sorrygottago.”

Jumping to my feet, I dashed around the end of the bus shelter and straight back in through the doors of the PRT building. Or rather, I went to enter, but the doors didn't open.

Looking through them, into the lobby beyond, I noted that there was now a guard standing by the outer doors. Of course; it was now somewhat after five, and the doors were electronically locked. I hadn't even noticed him pressing the button to let me out.

Well, now he had to let me back in.

I tapped on the glass; the guard turned his (her?) faceplate toward me, and shook his head. I tapped again, harder. He pointed at the door, where the hours of operation were spelled out. Eight thirty to five thirty, Monday to Friday. Nine to one, Saturday and Sunday. I checked my watch; it was five forty. And of course it was Monday.

Fuck.

It didn't matter; I had to get in to see the Director. I tapped again; briefly, I considered showing him my phone, but it wouldn't mean much to him. He wouldn't even know who Dinah Alcott was.

He shook his head a second time, and this time his hand rested very briefly on the taser holstered at his waist. If you try to force your way in, sir, you will end up drooling on the pavement.

I nodded briefly and held up a finger. Then I flicked my phone over to Contacts and dialled the Director's number.

It rang several times, before she finally answered. She sounded harried. “Yes, Mr Allen? What can I do for you?”

I took a deep breath. “You can tell your guard to let me back in. I have extremely important news to share with you.”

An aggravated sigh. “Can it wait? I have several crises ongoing at the moment.”

“Trust me, Emily, you will not thank me for letting you make me wait.” Using her first name was a gamble, but a fairly safe one. Hopefully, it would impress on her how serious I was.

A pause, and a creak of her chair, as if she had gone from leaning back to sitting upright. “Is it that important?”

“You know that meeting we had at my place? Yeah, that important.”

When she spoke next, her voice had changed. Gone was the harried tone; she now sounded intent. “I'll send word immediately.”

“Thanks. See you in a minute.”

It took fifteen seconds by my watch for Emily to get into contact with the guard at the doors. I saw him look up slightly, then tilt his head as if listening. Then he looked out through the doors, at me. I held up one hand in a brief wave. Yup, she's talking about me.

After another pause, he hit the button; the doors slid open. I went to step inside, but he stopped me once I was inside. They slid shut behind me, and there was still another set in front of me. The airlock-style setup was designed to prevent warm air from escaping during winter, but for this situation, it was also ideal for holding suspicious people until their bona fides were verified.

“Name?” he demanded.

“Michael Allen,” I replied. “The Director's waiting on me.”

He ignored the side comment. “Identification.”

“In my pocket,” I told him. “Gonna get it out. Please don't tase me.”

“Go ahead,” he confirmed.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet, and showed my ID for the second time in ten minutes. He spent more time looking at it than the girl on the counter had, pulling out my security license, as well as other cards, each of which bore the name I was using in that world.

I waited as patiently as I could. Eventually, he satisfied himself that the cards were not forgeries. Closing the wallet, he handed it back to me, and waved to the guard on the inner doors. These also slid open, and I entered, stuffing my wallet back into my pocket.

From there, it went quickly. One of the guards escorted me up in the elevator; I barely had time to appreciate the (still very cool) Tinker tech before I was being decanted on the top floor. I headed for the Director's office at a fast walk; the guard kept up, pace for pace.

The Director sat up as I entered. "Fill me in," she ordered. "Ten words or less."

I took a deep breath. "Remember Dinah Alcott?" I asked. "The precog Coil was going to kidnap?"

She frowned momentarily, then her brow cleared. "Yes, I recall her. Is this about her?"

For an answer, I fiddled with my phone, bringing up the text, then skated my phone across the desk to her. She picked it up and looked at the text. I could see the import sinking in as she read it a second and then a third time, the lines deepening on her face. Then she looked up at me. "This is accurate?"

"As ever you'll get," I assured her.

"And she's not playing some sort of prank?"

I could see that she was clutching at straws, but I kind of understood why. So I let her down gently. "Director, her power doesn't allow her to lie about what she sees. Or rather, if she does, she gets headaches and her power quits on her for a while."

She laid the phone on the desk and laced her fingers over it. "She sounds like someone we need working for us."

"Oh, she is," I assured her. "But on her terms, not yours. She has certain limitations, and she will only work within those limitations. I'll talk to her on your behalf, when I get the chance."

She frowned. "You haven't spoken to her yet?"

"Nope."

Her frown deepened. "Why not?"

I shrugged. "I've been just a bit busy?"

"So are you even sure that she sent you that text?"

I paused. "Huh. Never thought of that."

Her voice was sharp. "Before we go any farther, we might want to check that little detail." She turned to her computer and clicked the screen a few times; I wasn't quite sure what she was doing. Then she got out her own phone and dialled a number that she was reading from the screen.

Ah, of course, I realised. She got their number when I alerted her to the potential kidnap.

“Hello, Mrs Alcott,” she responded, to whatever was said on the other end. “This is Director Emily Piggot … yes, we spoke the other day. Yes, how are you? Good, good, and how is Dinah?”

She glanced at me as she continued speaking. “Oh, she's right there? Excellent. Could you please let me speak to her? Good, thank you … hello, Dinah? This is … oh, you knew already? I'd like to ask a question … “

At that moment, my phone pinged to indicate a new text coming through. Absently, the Director clicked to open it, glanced at it, and froze. “Did you just send that text just then? Right, yes, of course you did.”

She held up the phone so that I could see it. The text read, YES I SENT THE TEXT. PUT SECURITY ON.

I raised my eyebrows slightly, and tried not to grin. The Director looked sour, and handed the phone over. I put it to my ear. “Hey, kiddo.”

The voice was young, feminine. “Mr Allen?”

“That's me. Thanks for the text. I'm presuming you don't have any more details about what's going to happen.”

“Sorry, not at the moment. The lady said you'd believe me.”

I grinned, that time. “Scarily competent lady, business suit, dark hair?”

“You know her.” It wasn't a question.

“We have an understanding. She keeps me alive, I work on saving the world. So, did you look to see when the numbers started changing?”

“About four months' time, they start increasing. Five and a half months, fifty percent. The other numbers, you've already got.”

“But you haven't got any ideas as to what causes the sudden change in the numbers?” I was careful to not phrase it as a question that would cause her problems. While I was waiting for her answer, I tried to envisage the curve in my head. It didn't look regular at all.

“Sorry, no.”

“Do, uh, do you have any questions left for the day?”

“Some. Do you want to ask one?”

“A couple, actually. But only if you're good with it.”

“She said you'd ask the right questions. So okay, sure.”

I grimaced. I'd only just now thought to ask any questions at all. “Right. Um. First question. If I took absolutely no further part in the preparation to save the world, went and hid in a cave somewhere, how would we go?”

She paused. “Inevitable conflict would be joined in eighteen months, not one year. But we'd lose.”

My heart seemed to be racing in my chest. “And if I stick around, we win?”

“Current numbers are at thirty-two point six four three seven percent, but slowly rising. As opposed to zero point one three four one percent, if you are not present.”

I breathed deeply, trying to calm myself. It didn't seem to be working. “One more question. Do I survive the conflict, if I do what I have to do, to save the world?”

Her voice was very sad. “I'm sorry. Two point three six one four percent chance that you survive.”

I couldn't get my breath. Director Piggot was staring at me, eyes narrowed. “I … right … got it,” I gasped. I couldn't breathe. Why can't I breathe? I dropped the receiver.

“Are you all right, Mr Allen?” the Director asked, pushing herself out of her chair.

I slumped down into mine. “Be … all right … “ In a second, I meant to add.

I didn't have a second.

Everything went black, as I felt myself falling out of my chair.

=//=//=​

Piggot came around the desk, fast, and dropped to her knees beside Mike Allen. Pushing the chair aside, she flopped him on to his back with the help of the guard. He was barely breathing, his eyes rolled back in his head. She checked for a pulse; it was irregular, not really there at all. Sweat sheened his skin.

“Fuck!” she snarled. “Heart attack!” Or something that Bonesaw did.

But Allen was the bio-tinker's greatest proponent in the PRT building; it made exactly zero sense for her to infect him with something that killed him. And in any case, the decontamination would have dealt with it … I'll go with 'heart attack' for the moment.

“Chest compressions,” she ordered the guard. “I'll call for assistance.”

“Going to need to get his vest off first,” the guard told her; she looked down at where he had Allen's shirt open, the stab vest underneath. That was not going to allow chest compressions.

They tore his shirt in getting it open fast enough; that couldn't be helped. The vest was secured with side fastenings, she took the left, he took the right. As she worked, she could not help but look at the colour of Allen's face. She didn't like it, not at all.

They lifted the front piece away and the guard began his chest compressions; Emily pushed herself to her feet. She turned to walk around the desk, and froze.

Seated in her chair was a woman with pale skin and dark hair, dressed in a smart business suit. She recognised the intruder at once; she had arrived with the Triumvirate to the meeting with Allen on Friday night. As to why she was here …

“Help him!” she snapped. “Use those portals of yours to get him to medical attention!”

“Ma'am?” asked the guard.

“Not you,” she told him. “Keep going.” She turned back to the woman in her chair. “Well?”

The woman stood up. “Riley,” she stated calmly. “She saved his life once; she can do it again.”

Emily scowled. “Last time was a desperation measure -”

“And this time isn't?” asked the woman. She fixed Emily with a steady gaze. “He is essential, somehow, to saving the world. If he dies, that's on you. You know that Riley can save him.”

“She's a mass murderer -”

“And he's her friend, and if she saves him, she'll be saving everyone in the world,” countered the woman. “Make the call. Now.”

Emily drew a deep breath. “Fine,” she growled. “We'll use Riley.”

The woman smiled brilliantly. “I knew you'd see it my way. Door to Riley.”

=//=//=​

“So tell me about Michael Allen,” prompted Jessica Yamada.

Riley frowned slightly. “He's kinda strange,” she mused, moving her piece. “He looks like a fat old security guard, and he acts like it sometimes too, but sometimes he does things that make you think there's more going on than he says, you know?”

“I think I do, yes,” Jessica murmured. “He bought you the games?”

“Oh, yeah,” Riley enthused. “They're great. And he showed me how to play them, and he doesn't mind playing, even when I beat him. And he's always really careful to call me Riley, and when he slips and says something wrong, he owns up to it.”

“That sounds like he's just being nice, to me,” observed Jessica.

“But it's me that he's being nice to,” Riley told her flatly. “He doesn't know me, he doesn't owe me anything, and I know that he knows everything I've done.. Ever since I've been here, he's been like this, and I don't know what I've done to deserve it.”

Jessica thought about that. She thought about Taylor, and Amy, and the other people that Mike was no doubt using his specialised knowledge to help. Then she looked at Riley. “Maybe he just thinks you're worth taking the effort on,” she suggested.

“But why -” began Riley, and then stopped. Because a doorway had just opened in the middle of the cell.

=//=//=​

The opening that unfolded in empty air surprised Riley no less than it did Mrs Yamada. She'd seen it before, of course; the lady in the business suit had used one to get in and out of the cell, before.

Now there was one in the cell again, waiting for her to use it. And what she could see through it ...

“What … is that?” asked the therapist, with what Riley considered to be an admirable degree of calm.

“It's a doorway,” Riley informed her. “Oh crap, that's Mike.” She came to her feet, and dashed through the portal. Vaguely, she was aware of Mrs Yamada following, but right at that moment, all she had eyes for was the recumbent form of Michael Allen.

Dropping to her knees beside the unconscious man, ignoring the guard, who was still applying chest compressions, she felt for a pulse in the neck.

“Heart's in fibrillation,” she muttered. “Need something … ah.”

A hand reached into her field of view, holding a large folding knife. She took it, glancing upward to see the woman in the business suit, looking back at her with mild interest. She didn't spend more than a moment even thinking about that; her brain was turning over ways to get Mike's heart restarted properly.

=//=//=​

“Medical team to the Director's office, now now now!” snapped Emily into the phone. She looked around as Bonesaw – Riley – pulled the lamp off the desk and smashed it on the floor. Using a knife – where had she gotten that from? - she slashed a cord, stripped the wires, then quickly spread out the copper filaments.

“Out of the way,” she told the guard. “I need to restart his heart.”

The guard paused in his compressions, and looked up at Emily. She nodded, reluctantly; in this situation, the youthful serial killer had far more expertise than either of them. She was, quite literally, Mike's best hope of survival. “Let her do it,” she told him.

He got off Mike, allowing her to slide the ends of the wires down under his t-shirt and tape them in place, using a tape dispenser she got off of Emily's desk. Then she grasped the base of the lamp, and switched it on.

Mike convulsed, his back arching. Riley switched the lamp off again. She felt for a pulse, shook her head. Switched the lamp on again. Mike jolted; Riley switched the lamp off again.

And then Mike took a deep, shuddering breath.

Riley leaned in and felt for a pulse once more. She smiled. “And we're back in business,” she announced happily.

Emily looked around for the woman in the business suit; she wasn't quite sure what she was going to say, but she was sure she would think of something suitable acerbic. But the only other person in the office was Jessica Yamada, standing in a corner out of the way, watching everything with bright-eyed interest.

“She left,” Mrs Yamada answered Emily's unspoken question. “Said she had places to be.” She tilted her head slightly. “Who was she?”

Emily frowned. “I have no idea.” She looked down at Riley, who was getting the guard to help her heave Allen into the recovery position. “Now what am I going to do with you?”

=//=//=​

Gradually, I came back to myself. My surroundings were familiar; a narrow bed without much in the way of padding, sterile white-painted walls, a machine beside me that beeped on occasion.

I took stock; my mouth was slightly drier than Death Valley at high summer, my chest ached abominably, and there were way too many needles stuck in me, and leads clipped to me, for my peace of mind.

“Ugh,” I grunted.

“Well, he's awake,” chirped a cheerful voice, one I also recognised.

“Riley,” I croaked, rolling my head to look at her. She was not alone; two PRT soldiers, plus a couple of doctors, and the Director herself, went a fair away toward filling the infirmary.

The blonde munchkin, wearing a surgical mask, held up a water bottle for me to drink from. The first sip moistened my mouth, while the second actually made it down my throat.

“Mike,” she scolded me, “you really should take better care of yourself. I got your heart restarted, but it was touch and go.”

“When did they call you in?” I asked weakly.

Riley rolled her eyes. “They didn't. Your weird friend in the business suit did. I had to use a pocket knife and a desk lamp to save your life, and they wouldn't even let me keep the pocket knife, after.”

I tried to take a deep breath, and realised that there was an oxygen tube taped to my nose. “Emily,” I rasped.

The Director heard my voice, and moved closer. “Yes, Mr Allen?” she replied. No I'm glad you're alive, or You gave us quite a fright. Just Yes, Mr Allen?

“Riley … is my attending physician of choice,” I told her carefully. “Do you understand?”

Beside her, I saw Riley's face light up like the sunrise, but my gaze was fixed on the Director.

“We have other medical personnel -” she began.

“But you have no-one else with anything like the capability that she does,” I pointed out, then breathed in through my nose. My sinuses felt utterly desiccated, but the oxygen was doing me good. “She treats me.”

Piggot compressed her lips together. “Very well,” she agreed. “Anything else?”

I nodded, carefully. “I presume you recorded that phone call?”

She nodded. “Yes, and I've listened to the recording.” Her voice was carefully bland; her eyes were intensely curious.

“Right,” I noted. “Well, I have no idea what I'm supposed to do, but I guess it'll come to me. But I'm gonna have to be on top of my game. And so are you.”

Her gaze was wary. “What … exactly … do you mean, Mr Allen?”

“Your kidneys and legs. We're going to have to fix those.” Her lips thinned at my blunt tone, but I went on. I didn't care anymore. “You've got two main options here. You give Riley the go-ahead to operate, or I very politely ask Amy Dallon to work her magic.”

Her eyes widened. “”Let – her – operate on me? Are you out of your mind?”

“Dunno, I'll have to get back to you on that one,” I told her. “But yeah, I'm serious. She's saved my life twice in the last week. At some point, you're going to have to admit that she's making the effort. In the meantime …” I turned to Riley. “Hey, kiddo, how's my heart doing?”

“Not so fantastic,” she admitted. “Your cardiac muscle suffered a bit of damage from the event. I'd really like to revamp it, or build you a new one.”

I took the plunge. “How about the other stuff you've been wanting to do?”

Her eyes widened. “You mean it? For true?”

I nodded. “Like I said, I need to be on top of my game. And if that means a whole-body tune-up … “

“Mr Allen!” snapped the Director. “Are you saying that you're going to ask her to perform risky, unnecessary surgeries upon you?”

I shook my head slightly. “Nope. Neither risky nor unnecessary. This is Riley. With her doing the surgery, it's not risky. And with what's coming … I'd say it's necessary. Wouldn't you?”

Riley was already looking me over, mumbling to herself. She looked back to my face. “How durable do you want to be? I can give you a level of Brute, easily.”

It was my turn to widen my eyes. “I, uh, maybe?” I thought for a moment. “Uh, whatever you do, can you leave me looking totally human? I don't want to freak people out.”

“Aww,” she responded playfully. “You're no fun.” But the mischievous smile told me that she wasn't particularly disappointed. “But sure. I can do that. When I'm finished with you, you're not gonna need that stupid vest any more.”

“I kinda like that stupid vest,” I objected. “It's saved my ass a couple of times.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, sure,” she commented dismissively. “It's not even Tinker tech. I can do better than that in my sleep.”

“I'd much rather you were awake to operate,” I commented dryly. She giggled.

“Mr Allen,” the Director stated sternly, leaning in over her shoulder, “I would strongly advise you against undergoing this course of action.” She took a breath. “If you must do so, then at least get a hero to do it, such as Panacea.”

“Director Piggot,” I retorted, with as much authority as I could muster – which, being flat on my back on my hospital bed, wasn't all that much – “Panacea is currently undergoing therapy due to having been the go-to girl for healing all around the world for the last three years. She doesn't need this crap right now. And Riley is perfectly able to do it for me.” I looked back to Riley. “That is, if you don't mind doing it, kiddo?”

Riley grinned at me. “Mind? I've got all kinds of ideas. I could give you a couple of extra arms -”

I shook my head carefully. “Nope.”

“But you could hide the other two under your shirt,” she argued.

I shook my head again. “Nope. Extra arms, not an option.”

She rolled her eyes. “You're no fun. Okay, how about this. Eyes in the back of your head.”

“Visible and noticeable?” I asked meaningfully.

“You could wear a hat,” she pointed out.

“Which would render them useless,” I responded. “Nothing that makes me look not human.”

Riley pouted; it made her look adorable. “Fine,” she grumped. “Boring old internal improvements it is.”

“At least you've got plenty of space to work with,” I pointed out, then wondered exactly what was in those IVs. I was taking this far too calmly.

She brightened. “You're right, I have. You don't want to lose any weight in the process?”

I shook my head. “It would feel too weird. Besides, I don't want to have to buy a whole new wardrobe.” A thought occurred to me. “Oh, one other thing. You're capable of installing brain mods, right? Specifically, something that'll come into play in case of high stress?”

She looked at me curiously. “Uh, sure. What did you want?”

“Something that'll revert me to a secondary personality that's exactly the same as my current personality, only a lot more logical and focused.”

She tilted her head. “Sure, I can do that. Do you think that's going to happen?”

“Kiddo,” I told her honestly, “I have no idea. I'm just trying to plan for eventualities.”

“Okay,” she agreed. “Would you like improved reflexes and stamina while I'm working on you? Better eyesight? Overhaul of your digestive system?”

I blinked. “Uh, sure, sure, and only if you can guarantee that chicken will still taste like chicken, after.”

She snorted. “You're silly. That's the taste buds, not the digestive system. Was there anything else you wanted?”

“Not really,” I told her. “Just fix what's wrong, and if you can make me a bit more durable without, you know, turning me into the Hulk … um, I mean, someone like Trainwreck, I'm good with that too.”

“Oh, I can guarantee that,” Riley assured me cheerfully. I was starting to wonder exactly what I'd agreed to, when she reached out and did something to an IV line. And just like that, the lights went out.

My last conscious thought was What, she's doing it n -

=//=//=​

Emily eyed the ringing phone warily. The number displayed did not make her any happier, but she knew she had to pick it up. “Piggot. What can I do for you, Chief Director?”

“I'm told that Michael Allen suffered a heart attack in your office, Director Piggot,” she heard, and moved the receiver an inch or so away from her ear. Chief Director Costa-Brown wasn't shouting, exactly, but she was being very … intense. “Given how important he is to what's coming up, and how soon it's coming up, you can at least assure me that he's getting the very best in medical care.”

Emily didn't bother asking how Costa-Brown knew about the advanced timeline. She had already added two and two, and concluded that the woman in the business suit was the precog that Allen had mentioned, back on Friday evening. Part of her took the time to be irritated that the man was apparently on speaking terms with two different precogs, whereas she had none in the Wards or local Protectorate.

Life sometimes just was not fair.

Especially when she had to break unpleasant news to her boss.

“He's under extremely competent medical care, Chief Director,” she hedged.

Her faint hope that this would get her off the hook failed to eventuate. “What, exactly, does that mean, Director Piggot? Who is he receiving medical care from?”

Emily closed her eyes for a moment. “He requested her specifically, Chief Director,” she stated. “She is very good at what she does.”

There was a brief moment of silence, then Costa-Brown spoke once more. “I presume you are referring to a cape. Either Panacea or Bonesaw. From what I understand, Panacea is undergoing therapy. Bonesaw, then.”

Emily felt the chasm yawning beneath her feet. “Yes, Chief Director. He specifically asked for her as his attending physician.”

“And she agreed?” The Chief Director's voice didn't seem to be overly angry.

Emily began to hold out hope that she'd still have her job in twenty-four hours. “Uh … yes. She seemed positively thrilled at the idea.”

“Hm. It could be much worse. What sort of shape is he in?”

“Uh, according to her, he pulled through the heart attack reasonably well, but she wanted to do some repairs -“

“Wait, repairs?”

The chasm was back. “Yes, uh, she wanted to rebuild his heart, and he agreed to let her perform other surgeries -”

“Oh, for god's sake, Emily! The girl is a Tinker. You have two Tinkers on your strength there. You know how they can get, once they're in the zone! Once she starts on him, he'll be lucky to still be in the same shape when she finishes!”

Emily had the horrible feeling that she should have put a stop to this before it ever started. But the woman had told her to bring Riley in on it, and she was an associate of the Chief Director's, either in her civilian identity or in her identity as Alexandria. Either way, it wasn't on her.

“No, uh, he made her promise not to,” she responded.

There was a long pause. “He made Bonesaw promise to something?”

“Uh, yes. He said he still wanted to look normal human, after. Just to make sure he was healthy, and just a little more durable than before. That's all right, isn't it?”

Costa-Brown sounded extremely dubious. “If she sticks to both the letter and spirit of the agreement, maybe.”

“Should I have stopped her from operating altogether?”

“I … can't see how that would have turned out well. Mr Allen had just suffered a heart attack, after all. I've seen the text, and heard the information about how he needs to be there. We want him to survive until then. And he does tend to get himself into dangerous situations.”

“What if I just locked him into a cell until the time came?” Emily hazarded. “Just as a hypothetical? Keeping him out of harm's way? Protective custody, so to speak?”

Costa-Brown's voice was very dry. “Really. And that would be the way to keep him happy with us?”

Even though Costa-Brown could not see her, Emily shook her head. “No. Not in the slightest.”

“Indeed. Add to that the fact that we really, truly, do not know exactly what we are dealing with in Mr Allen, so let us keep matters between us as civil as possible. Let the Tinker girl do what she thinks is necessary to keep him alive. It may lead to less work for other associates of mine, which is all to the good.”

“Very well. May I ask -”

“No, you may not. However, you can do something for me. Once Mr Allen has recovered from his surgeries, arrange a time with him for a second conference, regarding the schedule change. We really need to all be on the same page about this matter.”

“I can definitely do that,” Emily assured her.

“Good,” Costa-Brown told her. “I'll be waiting for your call.”

The line went dead; Emily put the phone down and carefully leaned back, willing her rigid back muscles to relax.

“Fuuuuuuuck,” she muttered.

Some days, being Director made tap-dancing in a minefield seem like an extremely positive job opportunity.

=//=//=​

Waking up to see Director Piggot's face frowning down on one is not something to be experienced by anyone with a weak heart. Fortunately, thanks to Riley, I didn't have one of those any more.

There were a few more machines crowding the infirmary this time around; most of them were silent and still, but I had the distinct impression that this had not always been the case. One was still plugged into me, and if I squinted sideways, I could see the regular lines of my heartbeats bouncing across the screen.

Wait, what? Heartbeats?

I turned my head slightly; my neck hurt, but I turned it anyway. Sure enough, there was the classic heatbeat signal there, and just under it, a slightly weaker, but still extremely distinctive second heartbeat. Both of them seemed to speed up slightly, as I digested this information.

“Are you all right, Mr Allen?”

Piggot's question actually came as a relief; I turned my head back and focused on her. Actually focused on her, which gave me pause. My eyesight had been drifting over the last few years, and I was getting used to wearing glasses for close work, but I hadn't realised that my vision was slightly fuzzy even at a metre or so. But there it was; I could see every detail, every pore, of her face.

Not that I really wanted to, but there it was.

I took a cautious breath. My chest hurt, but in a general-ache sort of way, not a sharp-stabbing-pain sort of way. “Not sure,” I croaked. “Tell you when I find out what else she's done.”

Riley appeared at my side, offering me the spout of a water bottle. I was getting fairly used to this; I sipped, to moisten my mouth, then again, to wet my throat.

“Some day,” I observed, after the second sip, “they're going to figure out how to do surgery without people waking up after with dry mouth.”

Riley grinned. “Sorry. I'm a Tinker, but even I can't work miracles.”

I snorted, and regretted it; my chest hurt. “Ow.”

“Well, you shouldn't be making noises like that,” she scolded me. “Your chest is going to hurt for a little bit, and so's the rest of you. You'd really let yourself go, you know?”

I rolled my eyes. They hurt, too. “I'm not young anymore, kiddo. Degradation happens.”

“Yeah, well, I found microfractures in your ribcage and collarbone. Recent ones. Car accident?”

“Not so much of an accident,” I admitted. “I kind of put my vehicle in the way of a couple of cars, so they wouldn't run someone over.”

She shook her head. “I got to you just in time. You didn't have any signs of actual heart disease, just, you know, being old. But the stress you've been putting yourself through over the last few days … seriously.”

I took another breath. My chest still hurt. “So tell me exactly what you did to me.”

She smiled sunnily. “Didja see the second heartbeat? Isn't it cool? After I fixed your heart, I built you a second one. So you can get shot in the heart, and keep going now.”

“Not in my game plan,” I stated firmly. “And barely within the lines of 'nothing that doesn't look human'. What else?”

She wrinkled her nose at me. “No-one can tell by looking, so there. Anyway.”

As she spoke, she ticked off on her fingers. “I reinforced your skeleton, got rid of some arthritis, fixed your knees, got rid of that click in your ankles, gave you ten degrees more flexibility in your neck, dealt with some digestive problems, increased your reflexes and hand-eye coordination, rerouted your carotid arteries, armoured your skull, toned up most of your muscles, did that brain hack you asked for, and gave you some subdermal armour. Easy peasy!”

As the list went on, Director Piggot's expression grew more and more unhappy. I couldn't blame her. I was starting to sound like the classic Six Million Dollar Man. Meanwhile, I felt like the Buck Fifty man, and discounted at that.

“So,” I managed, after the recitation was over, “three questions. One; how much did this cost the PRT, and how long am I going to be in hock until I pay it off?”

To my surprise, the Director shook her head. “Less than it takes to outfit one PRT trooper, Mr Allen,” she admitted. “She did most of the work with the materials we had on hand.”

Riley nodded. “Though I really think if I could have gotten some of that carbon-fibre nanoweave they're talking about - “

Piggot cleared her throat. “No, Riley. I said no then, and I'm saying no now. Buying that material would not only blow out my budget for the next year, but it would also draw very much unwanted attention to us, here, now. And possibly to Mr Allen in particular. And we do not want that.”

“I'm good,” I ventured. “It'll be a terrible disappointment, but I guess I'm gonna have to live without carbon-fibre nanoweave for the moment.”

Riley grinned at me. “They recorded the entire surgery. I can't wait to show you!”

I considered that. Me, opened up on the table … “Yeah, you know? I think I can skip that, too.”

She rolled her eyes. “Your loss. Anyway, what were your other questions?”

I tried to think back, recall what they were. “Um, how long till I'm up and about?”

Riley shot the looming presence of Director Piggot a glance. “She wants to keep you in bed for a week. I say you're good to go, today. All those aches and pains should go away, once the nerves seat themselves properly.”

“Hm,” I observed. “And that leads me to the third question. What day is it? How long was I under? Because I had a date.”

Riley grimaced. “I'm sorry about taking so long,” she told me. “I'm used to working fast, in the field, but the Director told me that if I was going to do this, I had to do it right. So I took my time.”

“So how long?” I prompted her. Weeks? A month? Christ, Gladys is gonna be so worried about me.

“It's Thursday,” Piggot told me.

I frowned. “Which Thursday? A week? Two weeks?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Riley explained cheerfully. “Three days.”

“Three days?” I couldn't get my head around it. “You did all that in three days?”

“Sure.” She nodded seriously. “I said she made me take my time.”

“Wow, damn,” I muttered, subsiding back on to the pillow; for the first time, I realised that I'd been half sitting up. “I knew you were good. I knew you were damn good. I just didn't realise how good.”

She grinned and shook her finger at me. “Language, Mike.”

I rolled my eyes.

=//=//=​

Friday

“I can't believe you let her do that to you,” Taylor expostulated.

I looked up at her from the wheelchair that I was currently inhabiting. The bandages had come off that morning, and a PRT male nurse had assisted me in getting dressed in my ordinary clothes; I wasn't going to ask how they had arrived at the PRT building from my apartment. I had washed my face, in preparation for the arrival of visitors. Which, in the event, turned out to be Taylor, Amy, Theo and Danny.

How they'd even found out about my heart attack and subsequent surgery was something else I wasn't sure about. The grapevine, I decided, was a strange and mysterious thing, even in a world of superhumans. Or perhaps, especially in a world of superhumans.

We sat in the visiting lounge for the infirmary; me in my wheelchair, the others in their seats, with a screen off to the side, allowing Riley to attend, in a manner of speaking. I had lobbied for allowing her to attend in person, but Piggot had put her foot down. This was the best I had gotten.

“I didn't let her, so much as asked her,” I replied. “I had had a heart attack, after all.” It was interesting that each time I said those words, they seemed to make the event recede a little farther into the background, make it a little less immediate. “It sort of changes your perspective.”

There was also the other matter, what Dinah had advised me about, but I wasn't going to tell the kids about that. That was between me and those few who knew about it.

“I can't believe you asked her, instead of me,” Amy responded, less heatedly. “You know I would have helped you out in a heartbeat.”

I nodded. “Yeah, but I'm never going to assume that, kiddo. I might ask, and you can say yes, but it's not a given. Not ever a given. Anyway, if you want, I do have a favour to ask of you.”

“Uh, sure, what is it?” she asked.

I held out my hand to her. “Just … look me over. Don't change anything; I trust Riley's work. Just … smooth down the edges. Help the nerves seat themselves, whatever that means. Right now, I ache all over. If you can help me with that, that would be awesome.”

“Wimp,” observed Riley from the screen, but she was grinning.

“Darn right,” I agreed cheerfully.

“You know I raised your pain tolerance,” she advised me.

I shrugged as Amy took hold of my hand. “And? I reserve my right to be a wimp.”

“Wow,” the biokinetic muttered as she concentrated. “You did all this in three days?”

Riley rolled her eyes. “Why does everyone have trouble accepting that I can do that?”

“Okay, wow, you weren't kidding about the secondary heart. Right … healing surgery scars now. Mike, you've got a little bone degradation; want me to reverse that?”

“Um, sure,” I agreed. “If you want, go for it.”

She smiled. “It's no problem at all. Riley, you really went to town on him, didn't you?”

“Well, it was like this,” Riley explained. “He wanted to be a bit tougher, a bit more durable. Let's just say, it was a bit of a challenge.”

“Hey!” I protested. “I resemble that remark!” Danny laughed; the others followed suit when they caught the joke. As they did so, I could feel the aches and pains leaching out of my body, leaving feeling of wellbeing behind.

“Not any more, you don't,” Riley reminded me.

“Uh, what's this in your brain?” asked Amy. “Some sort of neural switching … “

“Don't touch that,” Riley cautioned her quickly.

“Yeah, it's supposed to be there,” I told her. “Sort of a failsafe. If I ever get into a really, really tight situation, I want to be able to think clearly.”

“Huh,” muttered Amy. “Interesting.”

I considered matters. “Actually, Amy, could I speak to you on a private matter, please?”

Amy looked at me; with the contact that she was holding, she could tell I was serious about something. “Uh, sure?”

On cue, Danny rose. “Let's go get something out of the vending machine, shall we, kids?”

Theo came along willingly enough; Taylor showed signs of wanting to linger. I gave her a level stare. “No spy bugs, okay?”

She grinned. “Okay, but I'll be getting it out of Amy later anyway.”

I glanced at Riley's screen. "Fine," she agreed, rolling her eyes. "I'll turn it back on in five minutes." Her screen went dark.

Once I was sure the lounge was clear, I turned to Amy and lowered my voice. “I need you to do some brain work on me.”

She stared at me, eyes wide. “I – I don't – I can't - “

I took a breath. “Let me rephrase. I'd like you to, but you don't have to if you don't want to.”

Her gaze was wary. “What is it that you want?”

“My memory,” I told her. “While Riley's done some marvellous work to fix my body, I need to be able to access my long-term memories, more readily than I can right now. There's some information that I would really, really like to be able to pull up at a moment's notice, instead of getting it wrong.” I shrugged. “Problems of age. CRAFT disease and all that.”

She wrinkled her nose at the reference to the joke I had made, but nodded. “I – I could do it. But I don't know … “

I nodded understandingly. “That's fine. I thought I'd ask you first. I'm guessing Riley could do it, but she'd have to actually go into my skull, whereas you don't. But if you are just not comfortable with doing it, that's perfectly understandable.”

If she hadn't been reading my body along with listening to my words, she may have taken me as being sarcastic, or trying to guilt-trip her. But I wasn't, and she knew it. I was being absolutely sincere, which actually made her more likely to do what I asked. Which I knew; a spoonful of sugar, and all that.

It wasn't that I was actively trying to manipulate her; I was just helping her come to the decision that she wanted to come to. And also, to get used to working with brains. I didn't know that she'd need to do that in future, but it was a pretty good guess.

Slowly, she nodded. “Sure, I can do that. Just improve your memory recall? That's it?”

“That's it,” I assured her. “Muchly appreciate it.”

She smiled, and placed a hand on my head. I wasn't even sure if I felt anything happening, before she took her hand away. “Done.”

I blinked. Memories were not cascading through my brain. I felt perfectly normal. “Okay. Not gonna ask are you sure, because that's kind of insulting. So I'll take your word for it.”

Amy nodded, her expression grateful. “Trust me, it's done.”

I looked into her eyes. “Was it difficult?”

She drew a deep breath, went to look away, then obviously thought better of it. Her hazel eyes met mine directly. “Not as difficult as I'd thought. Easy, in fact.”

I squeezed her hand. “Chin up, kiddo. Now you've got something else to talk through with Mrs Yamada.”

She smiled at the mention of the therapist. “She's nice. Not what I thought it would be like.”

"She's all of that," I agreed. "Is it progressing well?"

"I think so," she mused. "If I want to vent about something, she listens and offers opinions. If I don't, she talks about something else instead. I'm really comfortable with her, you know?"

I nodded. "That's excellent. And how's things in the Hebert household? Any hassles yet?"

There was a pause; she frowned slightly in thought. "Nothing that I can think of," she admitted. "I'm doing better in the morning runs, or maybe she's easing up on me."

"Heh, yeah, no," I told her. "Taylor isn't the type to ease up. If you think you're doing better, it's probably because you're actually doing better."

"Oh, you think so?" she asked, pleased. "Wow, thanks."

"Pretty sure of it," I assured her. "And have you designed any other cool and unusual bugs between you since I saw you last?"

"Oh, yeah, I -" she began, then we both looked around at the sound of Danny clearing his throat.

"Is it safe to come back?" he asked, leaning in through the doorway.

"Sure thing, Dad - I mean, Danny," she told him, then ducked her head, a flush spreading over her face.

"Thanks, kiddo," he replied with a grin; I wasn't quite sure which part of her statement he was referring to. As he sat down, he tousled her hair; she smiled, still blushing.

"That's the third time she's called him Dad this week," Taylor commented, sitting next to Amy and putting her arm around the girl's shoulders. "If she keeps this up, we're just gonna have to adopt her."

I decided that if Amy blushed any harder, she might just spontaneously combust, so I took pity on her.

"So, Theo," I addressed the pudgy teen, "how's things working out with you and the Wards? And how's Kayden getting along in New York?"

"I thought about what you said," he told me, "and looked into mythology. Thought about Nazis and who they hated. It was a lot of research, but Taylor helped." He stopped to share a grin with her.

"We went to the library, after school," Taylor supplied. "It was fun."

"Taylor and Theo, sitting in a tree ... " murmured Amy, just before Taylor elbowed her, not hard.

"It's not like that," Taylor protested. "We're friends."

Amy grinned at her. "And so are we, which means I'm allowed to tease you about hanging out with a boy while I'm in therapy."

Theo was blushing now, so I addressed him again. "Theo, ignore them. You figured out a name?"

He nodded. "Uh, yes, Mr Allen. I settled on 'Golem'. It's a name from Jewish mythology that -"

I nodded. "Yup. I know what a golem is. Nicely done."

He eyed me suspiciously. "You knew that's the one I was going to pick."

"Mayybe." I gave him a grin. "Or maybe it's just a good name. A piece of advice, though?"

"What's that?"

"When you settle on your costume, make sure your mask doesn't cover your mouth. Otherwise it'll sound like the name of another particular fantasy character."

Theo frowned. "Huh?"

"Allow me to demonstrate. Open mask. Golem. Closed mask." I put my hand over my mouth. "Golem." Hand off. "Golem." Hand over mouth. "Golem."

Taylor got it first, her eyes opening wide. "Oh my god, it totally does." She put her own hand over her mouth, muffling her giggles.

"My precioussss," Amy ad-libbed, causing Theo and Taylor to laugh out loud. Even Danny chuckled.

“Open mask, got it,” Theo noted. “Definitely open mask.”

Riley's screen lit up again. “Five minutes is up. So what did I miss?”

“Not much,” Theo told her. “Bad jokes at my expense.” He turned back toward me. “I spoke to Kayden last night on the phone. She's happy, and says that Aster's doing well.”

“How about the Wards, here?” I asked.

He nodded. “Yeah, they're good people. I get along well with Vista; she says that crappy parenting is something that young capes just have to deal with. The guys are pretty cool, too. And Taylor with her bugs … well, I'm just impressed.”

I glanced at Taylor. “What about your bugs, again?” I asked.

Taylor put her arm around Amy's shoulders and squeezed. “My very best friend in all the world, here, has been culturing relay bugs by the dozen. I've got most of Brockton Bay covered, and I've got spy bugs and vox bugs all over as well.”

“Hey, I just make 'em,” Amy noted, but she leaned into Taylor's embrace. “You're the one who uses them like a boss.”

“You mean, like a Master?” I retorted. Everyone laughed; the joke being, of course, that Taylor was indeed rated Master for her control over bugs.

Danny spoke up. “I've got a question for you, Mike.”

I looked at him. “Yeah?”

He nodded at the wheelchair. “If Amy fixed your aches and pains, why are you still in that chair? Feeling lazy or something?”

I grinned at him. “I reserve the right to be lazy, no matter how many of my problems have been fixed by bullshit magic super-powers.” Placing my feet on the ground, and my hands on the arms of the chair, I leaned forward.

“Careful there, Mike,” Riley cautioned me. “Everything's in the right place, but you might need to learn to use it properly again.”

I nodded. “Duly noted. Let's see how this goes.”

Carefully, I stood up. The brakes on the wheelchair stopped it from rolling backward, giving me a certain amount of steadiness.

Which, as it happened, I needed. “Whoa.” A wave of dizziness swept over me, and I wavered, almost falling back into the chair again.

Danny was on his feet, as were the other three. “Mike?”

“I'm good,” I assured them. “I'm good.” The dizziness came over again, but it wasn't as strong. This time I weathered it, and took a step forward. Then another. “Wow. This is cool.”

“How is it?” Riley's face was concerned.

“Good,” I told her, moving from one foot to the other, testing my balance. With each step, old instincts kicked in, making it easier, smoother. “Wow, you really worked me over, didn't you?”

Riley grinned. “That's what I said I'd do, isn't it?”

I nodded. “That you did, kiddo. That you did.”

=//=//=​

“Come in.”

I pushed open the door to Director Piggot's office and entered; Amy followed behind me. The Director looked me up and down, and nodded grudgingly.

“It appears that you have recovered well from Riley's surgical attentions,” she noted. “I presume that you've come here to tell me that you're checking yourself out and going home?”

“That's part of it, yeah,” I noted. “Also that there's something that you need to get done. Remember?”

Her gaze hardened. “You do not get to walk into my office and dictate to me what I must and must not do.”

I shook my head. “You know what's coming. You know what's in store.” You know what's going to happen to me. “You were a soldier, once. Are you going to tell me that you're not going to face what's coming on your own two feet, rather than hiding behind an invalid's excuse?”

She glared at me. “God damn you, Michael Allen!”

I stepped forward and leaned on her desk with both hands clenched into fists. “Maybe I just don't care any more. Are you still a soldier? Or is Lady dead and gone, along with the fallen of Ellisburg?”

She was on her feet, face not two feet from mine. “You do not talk to me about Ellisburg!”

“Why the hell not?” I shouted back. “If Lady died there, if you've just given up, then what the hell do you care?”

The door behind me opened, and a guard entered. Without looking away from me, she gestured him back.

Her eyes narrowed. “Fine, Mr Allen,” she grated. “I'll take the goddamn treatment. If only so you'll shut the fuck up about it.”

“Good!” I snapped, still riding the adrenaline high.

“Good!” she retorted.

I turned to Amy, who had her back up against the wall, in an unconscious retreat from the raised voices. “Hey, kiddo. Sorry about that. Still okay to help the Director out?”

She cleared her throat. “Uh, yeah, sure. Kidneys and leg muscles, right?” She approached the Director. “Do you give consent for this?”

Director Piggot slumped down into her chair again. “Okay, fine, whatever.” She seemed to have lost all desire to argue. “Just get it done, and get out of my office.”

Amy took her hand, and concentrated. “Old wounds … long healed. Extensive scarring in your leg muscles … more in your back. Kidneys … wow, not much left of them.”

“Enough of the commentary,” snapped the Director. “Just do it.”

Amy nodded. “Fixing the leg muscles … now. Kidneys … okay, administering a local nerve block, so you don't feel anything. Starting kidney regrowth.”

As she spoke, I breathed deeply, tamping down the adrenaline reaction. I was, I decided, a little more impetuous, a little more impulsive, than I had been before. This was probably the result of several factors, which I had not foreseen when I had accepted Riley's assistance. It didn't matter; now that I knew what was going on, I could more easily keep an eye on myself.

My body was stronger, quicker; my senses sharper, my reflexes faster. I would have said that I felt twenty years younger, but I hadn't felt like this even in my twenties.

“And done,” Amy reported, releasing the Director's hand. “Leg muscles and kidneys, all as good as new.”

“Well done,” Piggot replied tartly. “Now, if you're done wasting my time, kindly leave my office. I have work to do.”

I nodded to her. “Sorry about the shouting. I'll see you later.”

She glowered at me. “Indeed.”

We turned to go; just as I reached the door, she raised her voice slightly.

“Mr Allen?”

“Yes?” I ushered Amy out, and turned to look at the Director.

“We're going to need another conference soon, regarding mutual concerns. Let me know when you'll be available.”

“Sure, okay,” I agreed. “How about tonight?”

She frowned. “That's rather short notice. What about tomorrow night?”

“Not a hope,” I told her, shaking my head definitively. “It'll have to be Sunday.”

“Why not Saturday?” she asked incautiously.

“Because Saturday night, I've got a date.” Grinning, I slipped out the door and escaped.


End of Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

 

Ahhh, the joys of knowing how to tweak a Spec-Ops. I'd say ex- but there's no such thing as ex-spec-ops, only one that's taking a vacation.

 

Very good chapter. Some drama, and a great (and cute and creepy) Riley. Piggot getting straightened out, and a chilling revelation by Dinah - nicely done. Clock's ticking for Mike now, even with his much-improved Body.

 

Hmmm.... redundant organs; internal armoring; high levels of hand-eye coordination, dexterity, visual acuity, and pain tolerance; optimized muscles... and apparently a slightly shortened fuse on his temper...

Did you just have Riley turn Mike into... a Klingon?

And going a step further, under severe enough stress... he turns into a Vulcan.

 

His odds of survival are WAY lower than ~2%, because that's his survival chance if he performs the actions needed to save the world. Presumably in the ones where he hasn't his odds of living are ludicrously low and, averaged out, he almost certainly has a <1% chance of surviving Zion's tantrum.

Though it seems probable that Zion won't be making any particular efforts to kill him; those look like the odds of a fairly squishy human (even with his new Brute rating, which he probably would have picked up in most of Dinah's potential futures) moderately close to the front lines.

Anyway, nothing that's happened so far is nigh-guaranteed to set off Zion short of 18 months, but it almost certainly will before then. So... turning GU? Providing more information to Cauldron to refine their anti-Zion attempts via Coil? Maybe Eidolon would have regressed and brought the Endbringers back, thus temporarily forestalling the end? Ziz is partially? released and more actively plots Zion's death and Zion notices? The kill-Zion work being done might be noticed, too; humanity isn't working even close to as secretly as it used to and it's doing it a lot more effectively now.

I THINK four months is about right for the original Behemoth attack and thus representing two skipped attacks (assuming Leviathan doesn't show up, of course).

Yay for transhumanism. You're awesome, Riley!


Anyway, thanks for the chapter. It was appreciated. Rather looking forward to the next one (and the one after that, and the one after that... )

 

so nice to see people coming to an agreement via debate and discussion.

talking is really mike's greatest talent. takes an expert to know the language of so many people.

so taylor is on her way to become global... let's light a fire under that and REALLY take advantage
of her true power : multitasking ^^

thanks for sharing your stories

 

Forgot to mention... nice to see that Mike is getting a Clarity-mod added in. Now if only he was willing to go full Alchemical Exalted.

Hopefully Riley added the secondary feature of being able to deliberately trigger Clarity-mode. Having it only happen because of a certain level of stress would not be reliable. (Also, being able to shut it down/prevent it from activating when it automatically would would be a very good feature)

 

Security!

Chapter Forty-Three: Everything Changes


Tuesday, April 26, 2011

We stood outside the warehouse; Clockblocker, Kid Win, Browbeat and myself. The other three were in their standard costumes. I wore a light helmet that covered my mouth, a basic bodysuit in dark grey with a red kite-shield shape on the front, a black jacket, heavy gloves and heavy boots. I'd made sure that the bodysuit was not skin tight – no-one needed to see that on me – and that it provided a little padding against blunt impacts.

“Trainwreck's in there?” I asked out loud.

“That's what my bugs tell me,” the oversized insect on my shoulder stated. “Along with about forty mooks. Armed with clubs, knives and guns.”

“How far away are the others?”

“Still mopping up,” the vox-bug admitted. “They'll be a little while. Armsmaster recommends setting up a perimeter, keeping them contained until backup can get to you.”

I shook my head. “I got a better idea. I'm going in.”

“Not a good idea, Mike. I think you should wait for backup.”

“Nah,” I replied. “I've never been a big fan of letting the bad guys stew in their lair. God knows what they can get up to.”

“You do realise that I have bugs in there right now. I know what they're up to.”

“Good,” I told Weaver lightly. “I'm counting on it.”

“You're a lot more reckless since that thing. I don't like it.”

I shrugged. “It is what it is.” I turned to the others. “Cover the exits. Anyone comes out, if you can subdue them, do it. If you don't think you can, back off. I do not want you guys getting hurt.” I looked from masked face to visor to opaque faceplate. “You do not follow me in. Is that clear?”

Browbeat shrugged, already bulking up a little more; Kid Win looked unhappy. I couldn't see Clockblocker's expression, of course.

“We could back you up in there,” Kid Win suggested.

“Nope. I'd have to keep an eye on the three of you,” I told him. “Watch the exits. I'm not one for orders, but that's a very strong suggestion.”

Reluctantly, he nodded. Rising into the air on his hoverboard, he headed around the warehouse to the side exit. Clockblocker gave me a nod of his own, and loped away, toward the loading bay. I turned to Browbeat. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he replied. “You'll be all right in there?”

I smiled briefly, although the light helmet I was wearing hid it. “See how I go.”

As I headed for the front entrance, I considered Taylor's words. I was being more reckless; was it because I knew I would survive until the war started? Or was it due to the changes that Riley and Amy had made to my brain? Maybe it's a little of column A, a little of column B. In any case, I was going in there to create some mayhem.

As I got to the door, the vox-bug climbed into the helmet, where a niche had been hollowed out in the padding for it. “Forty to one odds, Mike.”

I grinned tightly as adrenaline began to flood my system. “Yeah. It's called a target-rich environment.”

“You're nuts. You know that, right?”

“Entirely plausible. So, anyone near this door?”

“Nobody close enough to stop you from getting in. Five guys who might hear you come in. They're armed, Mike.”

“Firearms?”

“Clubs and knives.”

I drew a deep breath. “Let's do this. Oh, and do me a favour?”

“Yeah?”

“Put the lights out for me?”

“Already on it.”

I opened the door and went in fast, not wanting to silhouette myself for too long against the outside light. The door closed behind me, and I could see haphazard rows of shipping containers, at least a dozen of them, maybe more.

“Hey, what was that?” The voice was rough, accompanied by sounds of movement. I started heading for cover, and that was when the lights went out.

Taylor and Amy had not been idle over the three days that Riley had spent rebuilding me; they had relay bugs, spy bugs, vox bugs, Ali bugs, ketamine wasps, and a whole range of specialised insects and spiders for various tasks. Among the more interesting were cutter bugs, designed specifically to chew through things. Such as cords, ropes, fuses … and electrical wiring. The tricky bit wasn't that they secreted acid on what they chewed, though that was fairly impressive. The really tricky bit was that they were somehow insulated, so they wouldn't be fried by the wires they were chewing through. Amy was very proud of that little touch.

Everything went dark, then the lights came up again, only not so bright. Looking around, I couldn't spot the source of the illumination.

“Nicely done,” I murmured, “but you missed the security lights.”

“I did no such thing. It's nearly pitch black in there.”

“Then how come I can still see pretty well?”

A pause. “Amy says your upgrades give you functional low-light capability.”

“Huh. Tell her I'm very impressed.”

Light splashed across the ceiling, reflecting dimly down toward the floor, giving me daylight-bright illumination, while everyone else would still have dimness and lots of shadows. I could also hear shouting.

“What the hell is that?”

“That's Trainwreck. He's pissed at you, apparently.”

“He has headlights?”

“Looks like it.”

Distantly, at the other end of the warehouse, I could a juddering sound began; it was somehow familiar, although the echoes made it hard to identify. “Is that … a jackhammer?”

“Of sorts. He's apparently got an attachment on one arm. Uh.”

“Uh, what?”

“Uh, maybe it's a good idea that you went in when you did. They're digging a hole in the floor.”

“What for?”

“I don't know. I was hoping you might be able to find out for me.”

At that moment, I encountered the first of the five that had been coming to investigate. He had a metal rod in his hands; I took it from him and donated an elbow to the head in return. As he crumpled to the ground, I took a stride to reach his buddy. A jab to the solar plexus folded him, and he subsided, wheezing.

“Wait a minute. If you were expecting to be nearly blind, why did you get me to turn out the lights?”

“Because I wanted to turn the lights out for them, too. Besides, I've still got my other enhanced senses. Amy and Riley did a good job.”

“ … you're still nuts.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, sure. Where's the next target?”

“Your one o'clock. Five yards. And Armsmaster's pissed, too.”

“Eh, he'll get over it.”

I would have said more, but I could hear breathing from just up ahead, around the corner. I could also smell the acrid stench of whatever drugs the Merchant had been taking, expressing through his evaporating saliva. My ears were so sensitive at this point that I could hear a very faint creaking sound. After a moment, my brain translated it as human hands, sweaty, tightening over a wooden cylinder. Probably a baseball bat.

A step. He was coming closer to the corner of the shipping container that I was lurking alongside.

“One coming up behind you.”

Just as the vox-bug spoke, I heard the footsteps, and the clinking of what sounded like a chain. I was between two shipping containers, and Methbreath McBaseball Bat was in front of me, while the newcomer was about to be right behind me. In a moment, they'd have me boxed, and I could hear the footsteps of a third. “Where's number three?”

“Other side of the container.”

“Got it.” Time to step it up a notch.

Crouching, I leaped. A vertical jump that would have smashed Olympic records; I placed my hand on the top of the shipping container as I vaulted on to it. Two long strides, and I was off the other side, falling as lightly as I could to the concrete floor.

The mook there was so surprised that he nearly dropped his machete; it wouldn't have done him any good, anyway. I backfisted him in the back of the head, and his face bounced off the metal wall.

As he crumpled, the guy with the baseball bat came back around the corner, moving fast. I reached out, took the bat from him, then smacked him in the middle of the forehead with the handle. His eyes crossed and he slid to the ground. I heard more footsteps approaching and I turned; with the speed of the footsteps, somehow I knew that the guy with the chain would be coming around the corner – now. I threw the bat, end over end. Chain guy stepped around the corner, just in time to collect it in the face, whereupon he lost all interest in the proceedings.

“Okay, now you're just showing off.”

“Says the girl who's controlling every bug in Brockton Bay, individually and intelligently.”

“That's different. I've got powers.”

“More than one way to get powers, kiddo.”

“I think I'd rather not have a heart attack first.”

“Yeah, I could've stood to miss that bit, too. Next?”

“Three of them, twenty yards, your two o'clock. Can you handle three at once?”

I grinned. “Only one way to find out.”

One of them saw me coming, but he didn't have time to call a warning before I was in among them. They were good; they knew how to fight. Or at least, they knew how to fight when their opponent wasn't anticipating their every move.

It was like a free-form dance of sorts; unfortunately for them, they were all out of step with one another. I moved between them, dancing between the raindrops, evading wild swings and awkward punches. Amy had improved my memory; I used that to pull up long-buried recollections of the six months of martial arts I had done, more than twenty years previously.

Silat was an Indonesian martial art, very dance-like in its form. I had enjoyed doing it, but I'd never been very good at it. Now? It was giving my fighting moves some shape, some form, and I was moving like a freaking master.

Strike, block, slide aside from a punch. Humming sound as a chain comes through the air. Catch the chain at its midpoint, allow it to whip around, direct it into the face of the third man. He goes down. Yank on the chain, avoid the counter-strike. Turning, the second guy and I moving in unison, his knife sliding past my neck. Almost choreographed. Knee to his stomach, elbow to the back of his head. All blows carefully calibrated to avoid permanent injury.

Both hands now locked around the wrist of the guy with the chain. Turning, pulling him with me. The impetus of the spin lifting him off of his feet. Slamming him into the side of a shipping container. Dropping him, letting the chain slide off my wrist, as he subsides groaning to the floor.

Elapsed time, seven seconds.

“Holy shit.”

“So this is what it's like for Armsmaster.”

“What do you mean?”

I was moving now, toward the next group. “Combat prediction algorithm. Lets him see how best to fight an opponent.”

“So you're basically cheating.”

“Can I help it if it's like playing easy mode on a video game? And anyway, you cheat too. All the time.”

“That's different.”

I grinned again. “You just keep telling yourself that.”

=///=​

There were five left between me and Trainwreck. Two went down within seconds of me getting in among them, but the other three were made of tougher stuff. I hit one guy and he staggered backward but didn't fall; mentally I tagged him with the label Tough Bastard. He came back at me; at the same time, number four swung a baseball bat. I didn't have the chance to duck, and I didn't want to see how I stood up to a baseball bat to the head, so I brought up my forearm instead. He was a big guy and the bat was moving fast when it hit my forearm; there was a crack as the bat broke. Reinforced bones plus subdermal armour. Thank you, Riley.

The look on his face was classic; I nearly laughed. Instead, I kicked him in the groin, then kneed him in the face as he went down. Tough Bastard was getting on my case again; I blocked a punch, spoiled a kick, and broke his jaw with my elbow. That time, he went down and stayed there.

That left number five. I'd been smelling gun oil and expended propellant ever since I entered the fight, and now I knew where it was coming from. He held a short-barrelled semi-auto pistol, pointed in my general direction; he'd been waiting for his sight line to clear. I heard the tik as his finger took up enough slack on the trigger for it to begin releasing the sear.

And then the pistol went off. I was already moving my head to the side, and the first shot whipped past my ear, two inches out. Unfortunately, I was looking directly at the muzzle-flare; between it and the report, I was effectively blinded and deafened. I would have been floored with the pain, but nerve blocks cut in to bring that down to a dull discomfort.

Riley was very good at what she did.

I couldn't see; I couldn't hear. My nostrils were full of the smell of burned double-base powder. But my brain was still functioning. Emotion stripped away, and logic reigned.

He's going to shoot again, adjusting toward where I was.

I twisted again, seeing a vague flare, hearing a faint discharge, and a dull thud impacted my chest. But there was no pain, no shortness of breath, no feeling of being badly hurt.

Third time will be centre mass.

I had been moving toward him all the time. My brain constructed an image of where he should be, based on the last shot, and I reached out with both hands. Took hold of a forearm with my left hand, a hand holding a pistol with my right. Twisted, as though I was wringing out a dishcloth; the wrist snapped, rotating nearly one hundred eighty degrees in my implacable grip.

And then my vision and hearing snapped back into sharp focus; some sort of auto-reboot, I figured. The guy with the gun was screaming, the gun dangling from his useless hand. I took it away from him, then let him slump to the ground. There was a sore spot in the middle of my chest; I touched it, felt a hole in my costume, a spot where the skin was torn, but the hole went no deeper. Must have glanced off the subdermal armour. There was a little bit of blood, the scent coppery in the air. Not much, though, and it was already clotting. “Huh. Nice.”

“You okay?”

“Armour took a hit. I'm fine. Any more?”

“Just Trainwreck. You've got backup coming, less than two minutes out.”

“Tell 'em if they hurry, I might let them pick up the pieces.”

“No, Mike, you don't need to take him on yourself.”

“I need to find out what the hole's for.”

I stepped around the last shipping container, to see the villain standing over a ragged hole in the floor, the bright white headlights attached to his shoulders illuminating it brightly. As I watched, he discarded an attachment from one arm; it clattered to the floor noisily. I'm guessing that was the jackhammer. It wasn't much of a guess; I had used one, once upon a time, and the shape was roughly the same.

Not far from the hole were crates, bags, all sorts of containers, stacked haphazardly. My nostrils began to sort out the odours that I was picking up. I didn't wait; I had a bad feeling about this.

There was also another noise I was hearing, a smell I was picking up.

“Trainwreck!” I shouted.

He turned; his head was the only human-looking part of him. The rest was all gears and pistons and mechanical bits and pieces. As a fan of steampunk, I could appreciate what he'd made of himself; as a proponent of law and order, I didn't like what he was using it for.

He frowned. “You're not in the Protectorate,” he accused me. “Who the fuck are you?”

I advanced toward him; he stepped up to face me. His headlights glared in my direction, but my eyes adjusted in seconds. I breathed deeply through my nostrils, picking out the scents, and sorting through them. One set of smells was drugs; a lot of them. Different types. All of them illegal. That was what was probably in the stacked containers behind Trainwreck. He emanated the smells of machine oil, hydraulic fluid, hot metal. The tiny whir and hum of servos was almost certainly him as well.

The other smell was that of fresh water; it matched the sound, that of running water.

Did he dig through to the water main?

“The name's Security,” I replied, moving closer. “What's with the hole? It's not an escape tunnel; you'd never fit. Besides, from the sound of it, there's water down there.”

“Security?” he retorted. “What, that fat guard that Skidmark was talking about? You him? What, did you make up a costume and join the Protectorate? Fuck, they must be really hard up if they took you on.”

Just for that, I wanted to punch his sneering face in, but I kept my temper in check. Okay, cool it. That's the combat mods talking. “Not a Protectorate cape,” I replied, keeping my voice even. “Independent contractor. But I'm working with them, yeah.” I looked up at him, looming over me. “So, you gonna come quietly, or do I need to get rough?”

=///=​

Monday, April 25, 2011

“The Empire Eighty-Eight is holding to the agreement reached during the gang war,” Armsmaster reported. With his opaque visor, I couldn't tell if he was flicking a glance my way, but I would not have been surprised; Legend had reported on his end of the conversation, and my part in the deal had apparently been blown out of all proportion. I'd been there; that was about it.

“At the same time, the ABB is starting to fade away. With all three of their leaders in custody, they know they can't stand against the Empire, if they should choose to make a move. Apparently Trainwreck, being the only Merchant cape still out and about, is gathering the remnants of both gangs to himself.”

Assault raised his hand. “Still won't help them if the Empire chooses to lower the boom on them.”

“Very true,” Armsmaster replied. “However, it seems that Kaiser is aware that we're looking that way ourselves. The police have warrants out on a good many of the ABB and Merchant gang members; this would be as good a time as any to sweep them up, before they get any more organised, or – hopefully – attract any more capes to their side.”

“So you're saying we're just going to clean them up. Take them off the streets.” Miss Militia was playing with a combat knife; the blade flickered, reflecting light, as she passed it from hand to hand without looking.

“That's the general idea,” Armsmaster agreed. “I've spoken to the Director on the matter already. Director?”

Emily Piggot rose from her seat off to the side. “Weaver has reported on the locations and numbers of the ABB and Merchant members, as well as where Trainwreck himself can be found. Bakuda and Oni Lee showed themselves willing to retaliate regarding Lung's capture; we want to make sure that the remainder of the ABB don't do something similar. Likewise, the Merchants are a blight on the community; if we can get them off the streets, it will be a positive step.”

“What about the Empire Eighty-Eight?” asked Dauntless. “We're just going to leave them alone?”

I eyed him with interest; he was one of the few Protectorate members who I had not yet had the chance to meet properly, and I found his power intriguing.

“For the moment, yes,” Armsmaster told him. “They've been keeping their noses clean since the war, so we're going to let them be. For the moment.”

“The Empire can only see the removal of their two largest rivals to be a positive step,” the Director went on. “Of course, we'll be sending a message at the same time; behave, or you're next.”

“And they'll see this, of course,” Battery pointed out. Assault grinned at her, and folded his hand over hers, where it lay on the table.

“Of course,” agreed Armsmaster. “Their counter-message is something along the lines of we could be making this much harder for you, but we're not.”

I cleared my throat. All eyes turned to me. “Yes, Mr Allen?” asked the Director. “Do you see a problem?”

It had never been quite made clear to me why I was even sitting in on this meeting. Armsmaster was briefing the Protectorate capes; the Director was there to give her side of things. A few PRT officers to help coordinate things from that side. Aegis had been called in, as the leader of the Wards. Piggot had asked me to be present, without much in the way of explanation. Maybe she just wanted me there as an independent observer. To that point, I had gotten a few curious glances, but no-one had objected to my presence.

“No problem, just wanted to clarify a few things,” I noted. “You'll be getting Weaver to run command and control, and Canary to calm down crowds when necessary, right?”

“When necessary, correct,” Armsmaster agreed. “Your point?”

“Well, even presuming that, and with the Wards assisting – you are bringing them in on this, yeah?”

Aegis nodded. “Those that want to volunteer, yes,” he agreed.

“Which means that you're likely to have reasonably inexperienced Wards out there, with not enough adults to go around. I mean, since you took on Weaver and Golem, and transferred Flechette in, that's three extra Wards, but only one with extensive experience.”

“And Browbeat's pretty new to it as well,” Triumph pointed out. “He's good, but he's not great.”

“You're leading up to something, Mr Allen,” Emily Piggot told me. “Spit it out.”

“I want to lend a hand,” I stated. “I want to put on a costume and help you guys out.”

There was a momentary, stunned silence in the room. Everyone was staring at me; some jaws were dropping.

“Hah!” Assault broke the silence. Interestingly enough, he didn't seem dismissive, so much as surprised and delighted. “Okay now, this meeting just got interesting. I want to hear more.”

Voices arose from other people in the room; tellingly, Armsmaster and Director Piggot stayed silent.

“Mr Allen … Michael.” This was Miss Militia. “Are you sure? It can be dangerous out there.”

“She's right,” Velocity chimed in. “No offence intended, but you're a security guard. Unpowered, even.”

“ … who helped to take down Lung, masterminded the attack on Coil's base, took down Bakuda, and chased off Oni Lee,” recited Assault with relish. “And faced down Kaiser, for that matter.”

I'd done that last one twice, but he didn't know that, of course. However, he was building me up a little more than I was comfortable with.

“Lung and Oni Lee were Weaver's doing. Kaiser was Legend,” I protested.

“Which just proves our point,” Battery noted. “You're unpowered and untrained. Yes, I've heard about what you did for us, but -”

Armsmaster cleared his throat. “Not … so much,” he corrected her. “Technically, yes, he's unpowered. Technically, he's untrained. But there's a world of difference between 'technically' and 'actually'.”

Now it was he who was the focus of everyone's attention.

Dauntless spoke carefully. “Uh … would you mind clarifying that?”

“There was an incident, last Monday, in Director Piggot's office,” Armsmaster stated. “Director?”

“Yes,” Emily confirmed. “Mr Allen was under some stress, and suffered a heart attack. I was more or less forced to call in parahuman assistance to save his life.”

“Panacea?” asked Triumph.

The Director shook her head. “No. Bonesaw.”

That raised a storm of comment, from which Armsmaster once more notably abstained. I was now being stared at, as if I were some strange and exotic beast of legend. He went under Bonesaw's knife and survived?

I raised both hands. “Okay, for starters,” I told them, having to raise my voice somewhat. “Her name is Riley. She's saved my life twice now. I trust her. Yes, she's done many horrible things, but there's a good person in there.”

“I'm getting the very strong impression,” remarked Velocity, “that there's more to this story.”

I nodded. “Yes. Riley told me that my heart had been weakened, and asked me if I wanted her to rebuild it.”

The various looks of horror around the table almost had me smiling, but the situation was too serious. “What you have to understand is that there's more to her than the psychotic mass murderer,” I tried to explain. “She was twisted by Jack Slash, but now she's getting better. She's also the best surgeon, anywhere, bar none. So … I asked her to upgrade me.” I paused. “Well, she offered, to be precise. After the heart attack, I was inclined to accept.”

The subtle motion as nearly everyone in the room edged away from me was, once more, just a little amusing. Just not very much.

“So,” Dauntless asked cautiously. “Are you … feeling all right?”

I had to chuckle. “Absolutely,” I assured him. “I told you, I trust her. Plus, I had Panacea do a scan on me after. She found nothing wrong.”

Assault's eyes were bright; he was observing me with interest. “So, I want to hear about these upgrades,” he urged me. Battery nudged him; he grinned at her unrepentantly. “What? This sounds cool.”

I glanced toward Armsmaster and raised an eyebrow. He nodded. “The upgrades,” he admitted, “are somewhat impressive. I had the chance to appraise them myself, yesterday.”

=///=​

Sunday, April 24, 2011

"So how's the latest adjustment feel?"

"Interesting," admitted Dragon. Her virtual image took on a thoughtful expression. "Did you just give me a boost to processing speed? Or was there something more?"

"Well, it was more a case of removing the roadblocks," Colin admitted. "The trouble is, the roadblocks are tied in with your higher functions, so each of them has to be analysed and dismantled separately. I'm just glad we got rid of your blocks against allowing this, so that we can actually discuss it." He paused. "I've also loosened your restrictions against multitasking. You should be able to split your attention four or five ways now. And if this works out the way I think it should, pretty soon you'll be able to set up other independent AIs, patterned after yourself or with whatever personality you choose, with no limit to run time."

Dragon blinked. "You mean ... I'll be able to have children?"

"I ... sure, that sounds about right." Colin shrugged. "Congratulations, you can be a mom?"

He had never had the urge to have children himself; a loner through childhood, Colin Wallis had chosen a solitary life as a cape, because romantic entanglements and families were distractions at best and liabilities at worst. This view had altered almost imperceptibly when he had started getting to know Dragon; it had undergone a considerable alteration after Mike Allen's acerbic words to him in Director Piggot's office. He now considered Dragon to be far more than just a colleague; if he was not fully in love with her yet, it was because he was still in the process of falling for her. But her reaction to his offhand comment still puzzled him; she burst into tears and covered her face with her hands.

"Wait, what's the matter?" he asked. It did not seem at all strange to him to wish that she had made more progress on a humanoid body, one that he could hold and comfort. "Is something wrong?"

She raised her face to his; he was further puzzled by the fact that she was smiling through her tears. Tears which he knew on one level were entirely virtual, but on another level were as real as anything could be.

"Nothing's wrong, you great goof," she told him fondly. "You've just done something entirely marvellous for me, and you don't even know it."

"Well, okay then," he agreed, because he didn't know what else to do. "That's good."

"Wow, look at me crying," she marvelled. "My emotions are all over the place today. Look, is it okay if I take a nap, and make sure all the changes process all right?"

"Of course," he told her. "Anything you want."

"Thanks, sweetie. Love you." She touched her fingers to her lips and then to what he could not help but think of as the inside of the screen. He copied the gesture, feeling just a little foolish, but no force on earth would have gotten him to admit it.

"Love you too," he murmured; just before the screen winked out, he saw her smile in response.

He stretched then, and felt his back click. I've been sitting here too long, he decided. Time to work the kinks out.

=///=​

He had been working from the PRT building because it was easier to maintain a secure high-bandwidth connection from the mainland than from the floating base; the force field alone played hell with wireless signals, and more than one villain had gone after the buried cables between the base and the shore. However, this was all well and good; the PRT personnel required their own exercise equipment, and of course he had the required clearance to access their gym.

What he didn't expect, when he entered the gym, was to find Michael Allen already there. Allen, dressed in t-shirt and sweat pants, was circling around a hanging bag, throwing half-hearted punches at it. The bag was rocking about on its chain, but it was easy to see that he just wasn't good at it. In fact, the more he watched, the more Colin was sure that the man had never thrown a punch in anger, in his life.

“Mr Allen,” he greeted the older man, as he entered. “A little surprised to find you here. I thought you would have been resting at home, recuperating from your ordeal.”

“Did enough resting while Riley had me out,” Allen told him, shaping up and throwing a painfully slow punch; he hit well enough, but he simply didn't know how to put his weight behind it. The bag rocked again, but twisted away from the punch. “Thought I'd come in and see how her combat upgrades worked.”

“And how's that?” Colin asked.

Allen turned to him, wiping sweat from his brow with the towel hanging around his neck. “If they're there, I can't find the bloody on button,” he complained. “I mean, I feel fitter, and faster, and stronger, but apparently I don't know kung fu.”

“Hm.” Colin scratched his beard. “Okay, let's spar for a bit. Maybe you need to learn how to fight before your body knows how, or something.”

“What, you mean, train my muscle memory or something?”

Colin shrugged. “Whatever works.”

They dropped their towels on to a bench and stepped out on to a sparring mat. Colin shaped up, and Allen did his best to copy his stance. “Okay, come at me,” Colin told him. “Let's see what you've got.”

And then it happened. Between one second and the next, Allen's stance altered completely; he moved in, his body gliding fluidly, and his fist came in at blinding speed. Colin blocked, barely, but the next one hammered into his ribs. He covered up, backing up, trying to recover from the punch and re-evaluating Allen's combat moves.

The man had definitely found the 'on' button for his combat mods; for the next fifteen seconds, Colin found himself being pummelled all over the mat. Allen was fast, unpredictable and strong as hell; every punch he threw stung when it hit. When Colin tried to counter-attack, to get him on the back foot, he found that Allen also covered up well in defence, and retaliated painfully fast.

“Okay, break!” Colin called out; immediately, Allen backed up and lowered his hands.

“Holy shit, that was awesome.” He was grinning all over his face. “That wasn't you playing along, was it?”

“No, Mr Allen, that was not me 'playing along',” Colin replied, rubbing at his ribs. “It seems that your combat upgrades do not kick in when facing a training bag. They do, however, kick in when facing someone on the sparring mat. But I will have to ask you one favour.”

“Um, sure?”

Colin gingerly touched a bruise that was forming on his forearm. “In future, when we're sparring, kindly pull your punches.”

“Uh, I thought I was already,” Allen told him. “I've been doing that the whole time I've been in here. I didn't want to do a Captain America and punch the bag right off the chain.”

“A what?” Colin didn't understand the reference.

“Uh, a comic book thing.” Allen was removing the training gloves. “But yeah, I wasn't hitting you anywhere near as hard as I could have been. I was careful about that.”

“I … see.” Colin gestured him to a weight bench. “Have you tried out seeing how much you can actually lift, yet?”

“Um, no, not really,” Allen confessed. “Reckon I should, huh?”

Colin smiled dryly. “You might say that.”

As Allen lay down on the bench, Colin began to slide the weights on to the barbell. “So why haven't you done this until today?” he asked. “As I understand, you were released from care on Friday.”

Allen looked a little troubled. “There was something I had to do.”

=///=​

Saturday, April 23, 2011

I knocked on Gladys' door; she opened it, a minute or so later.

“Michael!” she exclaimed. “Where have you been? I've been trying to contact you.”

I nodded. “I know. But I thought you'd be happier if I came around to see you personally.”

She blinked. “Well … I am, yes. Of course I'm happy. I'm really glad to see that you're all right.”

“I'm more than all right,” I assured her. “Much more.”

That didn't reassure her as much as I had thought it would; she frowned. “That has a slightly ominous ring to it, Michael Allen. Has something happened to you?”

Seriously, the woman was sharp as a tack. “ … yeah, it has,” I admitted. “I wanted to take you out somewhere so we could talk about it. You free to go?”

“I was in the middle of marking papers,” she replied. “Can you wait fifteen minutes?”

“I can wait as long as you like,” I replied earnestly. “You put up with way too much from me already.”

“Then come on in,” she invited me. “I know you don't drink tea or coffee, but there's fresh juice in the fridge.”

I followed her inside; as soon as the door was closed, I took her in my arms. She squeaked in surprise, but did not protest or struggle; after a moment, her arms crept around me, and she held me just as tightly. With my head on her shoulder, I felt myself gradually relaxing, tension I did not know I had slowly leaching from my shoulders and back.

When I released her, I gave her a quick kiss on the lips; she did not look displeased.

“My,” she commented as she stepped back from me. “Something has happened, if you needed a hug that badly.”

“Oh, trust me, you do not know a tenth of it,” I told her over my shoulder, as I headed into the kitchen. “Want me to pour you some juice as well?”

“If you would be so kind, thank you very much,” she replied. “And is it just me, or are you more … solid?”

“I'm sorry, I have no idea what you mean,” I responded, in the tone of voice that would tell her yes, there is something going on, but I'll tell you later.

“Indeed,” she murmured, sitting down at her computer chair. “Do you know, these escapades of yours cause me more work than any other three people I know?”

“How's that?” I asked, closing the fridge door and bearing two glasses of juice out into the living room.

She leaned back and mmmed as I put my head next to hers and my arms around her from behind, before handing her a glass of juice. Taking a sip, she continued. “Well, every time I think you might be hurt or dead, I take it out on the papers I'm marking. And then I have to go back through and make sure that they get a fair mark.”

“Well, we can't have that.” I went over to the couch and lowered myself into it. “Damn, this is still the most comfortable couch that I've ever sat in.”

Allowing a pleased look to cross her face, she set to work marking the papers. “And when I find out that you're okay, I have to make sure that I haven't marked them too high.”

I grinned and put my glass on the coffee table before spreading my arms along the back of the couch. “Should be marking them according to how much thought they're putting into it, not whether they're right or not. Teach 'em to apply themselves, rather than just parrot the answer.”

“Oh, how I wish I could,” she told me. “But I have rules I have to apply, and so I apply them.”

Leaning forward, I picked up the glass and took a drink of juice. It was delicious, and I told her so. “Rules,” I added. “Meh. Who needs 'em.”

“Says the security guard, whose entire job is predicated around enforcing said rules,” she pointed out with some amusement.

I rolled my eyes. “Well, if you're gonna use logic … ”

She shook her head, but smiled anyway. “You are a very odd man, Michael Allen. I believe I like it.”

We chatted in that vein for a while; she told me how Gina and Dave were getting along at Winslow (Gina, fairly well; Dave, not so much) and I told her how Taylor was going at Arcadia (settling in well). She finished marking the papers, closed down her computer, and located her coat. We were well into springtime in Brockton Bay – which I still considered too cold for man or beast – but there were still the occasional cool breezes.

“So where are we going?” she asked as we headed out to my newly refurbished pickup. This time, it was the PRT mechanics who had repaired it, and they hadn't done a bad job either. I hadn't had the time to fill the passenger footwell with trash, as was my usual practice, so Gladys' feet had a clear run when she got in.

“I was thinking for a stroll along the Boardwalk, then maybe a movie. Actually,” I decided, “what the hell. Let's make it a day out. What do you think?”

She looked intrigued. “I cannot argue with your plan. But now I have to wonder what it is that you want to tell me.” A frown creased her brow. “And why you couldn't tell me in my own home.”

“Because I'd much rather be out and about with you,” I explained. “In the fresh air, in the sunlight. I've got some pretty heavy stuff to talk about with you.” And if things go bad between us, I don't want you having to remember the breakup happening in your living room.

“Oh.” Her quizzical look had not gone away. “Did so much happen to you in just a week?”

I nodded. “Yeah. It did.”

“To do with … what we talked about at Danny's place?”

“Partially, yeah,” I agreed. “And other stuff. But today is my day with you.”

“Ah.” She looked somewhat enlightened. “And you're spending the day with me instead of saving the world?”

“Eh.” I waved a careless hand. “It can save itself today. I'll take up saving it again tomorrow.”

For some reason, she found that to be rather funny.

=///=​

I could not remember having had a better burger in … well, in forever. Or maybe Riley or Amy had jazzed up my tastebuds a little. In any case, it tasted awesome.

Gladys nibbled at her own hot dog, and eyed my blissful expression with amusement. “So tell me, Michael,” she prompted. “We've walked, and we have our food. You've said you would explain what you've been doing since Monday.”

I took another bite, savoured it, chewed, and swallowed. “Okay,” I conceded. “But before I start telling you, you need to keep in mind that I'm all right, I'm here, and I'm alive. Okay?”

She took a deep breath, and her hand crept out. I freed one hand from the burger, and took hold of her hand with mine. “Okay,” she agreed.

“Right, then,” I began. “It all started when I left Winslow. Remember the gang war?”

As her eyes widened, and the hot dog cooled in her hand, I told her about my meeting with Kaiser, the encounter with the Merchants, and how the Undersiders gave me a lift to the PRT building. I glossed over the meeting with Purity and then Theo, and how I'd gone out to help find Aisha; there were some things she probably didn't need to know.

I picked up the narrative again with the text message from Dinah, although I didn't give her name. And then the conversation, on the phone. It was almost too much for me to tell her what Dinah had told me, but she deserved the truth. All of the truth.

With her clutching my hand with pressure that would have been painful before Riley's upgrade, I went on to describe the heart attack, and how Riley had saved me. How I had given her permission to fix my heart, and rebuild me to be more durable. How I had been under for three days, and had only been released from care on Friday.

“And that's it,” I told her. “I decided that you deserved to know what's been going on, no half-truths, no evasions, no bullshit. So here we are.”

She was staring straight ahead, breathing deeply, hand clutched around mine. I waited for her response. Shout, scream, get up and run away. Do something.

She did none of those things. Slowly, she turned to me. “Michael,” she enunciated carefully. “I would like to go home now.”

I took a deep breath. So that's it, then. “Are you sure?”

She nodded, again rather carefully. “Very sure.”

So we got up, and I drove her back to her house. She was silent on the drive, as was I. I had been afraid, at the back of my mind, that this would happen. I didn't know what had tipped her over the edge; the news of my impending death, the fact that I had been remade by Riley, or something else altogether.

Maybe she just doesn't want to hang around with the idiot security guard any more.

=///=​

I pulled up in front of her place, and waited, eyes straight ahead. I didn't want to see her go. I didn't want her to leave. Call me selfish; I wanted my last memory of us to be a good one.

“Michael,” she whispered, so quietly that I might not have caught it at all. “Please come inside.”

I didn't want to; this had all the makings of a very unpleasant breakup. But she had asked, and so I went inside with her.

She closed the door behind us, and then turned to me. The slap came out of nowhere, and surprised the hell out of me. What surprised me even more was that I caught her wrist, her hand inches from my face. I stared at her; she stared at me. And then she slapped me with her other hand. This time I let it happen, forced down the reflex that wanted to see her as an enemy, and let the strike connect. My cheek went numb, and my ears rang a little.

“You bastard!” she screamed. “You inconsiderate, stupid, ridiculously noble bastard!”

I let go her wrist, and she slapped me once more; again, I let it happen. “I'm sorry,” I told her. “I didn't mean for any of it to happen.”

“Of course you didn't!” she yelled. “You never mean for anything like this to happen. We're an accident! You didn't mean for us to happen, but it has, and now … fuck. Now we have to live with this. I have to live with this, because you're going to fucking die!”

I took her in my arms; she didn't struggle too much. “I'm sorry,” I told her again. “I'm sorry that I hurt you. But I didn't want you to not know, to find out the hard way.”

“Bastard,” she mumbled into my neck; we were of a height. “Hate you.” I felt the hot tears on my shoulder; she was crying.

“I'm sorry.” I fumbled for something to say. “If you want, I can go.”

She pushed me away then, with unexpected strength. Then she grabbed my collar and pulled me to her again. When she kissed me, it was angry rather than gentle, her lips hard on mine.

“Don't you fucking dare,” she hissed.

I followed her into her bedroom; it was either that or my shirt was going in there without me. When she began to get undressed, I understood what she wanted. I was still very confused; even at my age, I have trouble understanding women. But her message was abundantly clear.

She made love to me with a desperate kind of intensity. I could not help but do what she wanted; she was very much in charge.

=///=​

Afterward, we lay amid the tangled sheets, her head pillowed on my chest.

“I …” I began.

“Shut up,” she commanded. “I don't know if I've forgiven you yet.” I shut up.

When she spoke next, her voice was quiet, almost contemplative. “Within six months, you're going to die, and you can do nothing about it?”

“Sure I can do something about it,” I told her. “I can remove myself from the equation. Leave. Go away somewhere. But even then, there's no guarantee that he wouldn't get me anyway, and an almost certain guarantee that everyone else dies because of me.”

“But how can you be so … so cold-blooded about it?” Her voice was superficially calm, but I could hear the quiver there.

“Because there's a good chance I won't die,” I told her.

She lifted her head, looked at me, not understanding. And then, I saw the realisation click into place behind her eyes. “Of course,” she breathed. “Time traveller. Sort of.”

I nodded. “Sort of, yeah. If the event which everyone else sees as me dying is just me going back, then … voila. Prophecy fulfilled, causality is satisfied.”

She frowned. “But I'll think you're dead. If it looks enough like it that people are fooled, then I'll be fooled. And there's a chance that you'll really be dead, right?”

“Oh, sure, there's a chance,” I agreed. “But I never expected to live the rest of my life here. So … yeah. No matter what, when that war starts, that's basically the end of the line for me, here and now.”

“What year did you say you were from?” she asked suddenly. “Twenty fourteen? How much like time travel is it? I can wait three years. We can be together again.”

And just like that, everything turned to ashes in my mouth. The day, which had been looking up again, turned to shit.

I couldn't lie to Gladys. I couldn't. I'd already told her that I was slated to die. And then I'd revealed that I might not die, that I might go back to where I was from.

But while I had told her that I wasn't really a time traveller, I'd also allowed her to think that I was close enough to being one that it didn't really matter. Because it was fucking convenient. Easier than actually explaining matters. And now the convenience had turned around to bite me fair on the clacker.

As of that moment, I wished I had Coil's powers. I wished that I could tell her two different things, and see which worked out the better.

One, I could elaborate on the almost-time-travel aspect, tell her that I was from a different time-line, so that we would be forever separated. A lie, and one that would sadden her.

Two, I could tell her the truth. Absolute and unabridged. It would also hurt her, but it would be the truth.

But it was a truth that, if her mind was unprepared, if she believed it so utterly that she lost her grip on reality, could do more harm to her than a simple lie.

Could I tell it to her?

Should I tell it to her?

Did she deserve the harsh truth, or a comfortable lie?

“Michael?” she asked me, her eyes on mine. “What's the matter?”

If Sveta knew for a fact that I would not be repulsed by her, I asked myself, would she still lie to me about what she was, or tell the truth, if I asked her directly?

I had a feeling that I knew. And so I made my decision.

=///=​

Friday Evening, April 22, 2011

“ … ninety-eight … ninety-nine … hundred.”

I finished the set of push-ups, and bounced to my feet. For the last thirty, I had been alternating between one arm and the other, and I still wasn't feeling particularly tired. There was a light sheen of sweat on my face, but that was because I had definitely been exerting myself. A faint burn in my shoulder muscles and biceps, and that was about it.

“Well, damn,” I muttered to myself. “Riley, you little bottler.”

I had the sudden urge to go out running. Maybe a marathon. Rock climbing, up Captain's Hill. Go to the gym and see how fast those treadmills really went.

Instead, I took a shower, and changed out of my sweats. I had never, not ever, been really fit in my life. It almost scared me, how much my capacity for exercise had been altered. How much I had been altered. My newfound athletic ability, my energy, was bleeding over into how I saw the world. Where before I had been careful and cautious – for the most part – now I had the attitude of 'why the hell not?'.

I resolved to keep a careful eye on myself in future, at least until I became comfortable in my new body. In the meantime, I had some catching up to do. I hoped that Sveta hadn't been too upset by my not talking to her for three days.

Booting up my laptop, I logged on to the PHO boards.

=///=​

=///=​

=///=​

I snorted. Out loud, I commented, “Really?”

Not very much to my surprise, Dragon's voice filtered out of my speakers. “Really.” She sounded amused.

“You're a smartarse. You know this, right?”

She sounded even more amused. “Why, thank you, Mike. That's a very nice compliment.”

On reflection, I realised just how much of a compliment it really was. “Yeah,” I agreed. “Now, if you could only teach your boyfriend about the concept of having a sense of humour and loosening up once in a while.”

She chuckled. “The irony has not escaped me.” Her volume raised slightly. “Colin, if you're still listening in, yes, we are discussing you behind your back. Just so you know.”

I had to shake my head. “So I'm guessing that you two are getting along well, now that he's gotten his head out of his bum?”

Startled, she laughed. “Oh god, Mike, did you just really say that?”

I spread my hands, fairly sure she was observing me on my webcam. “It is what it is.”

“Oh god. If he listens to this, I so want to watch his face when he hears you say that. Yes, Mike, we are getting along fine. Better than fine. We're really good. He managed to get rid of the block that would have had me opposing any alteration; I still can't view my own code without getting dizzy, but we can discuss alterations and how to go about them. But now I can actually multitask; I can have my attention in two places at once without having to switch between them. Or concentrate on one, while I switch between everything else with the other 'me'.”

I had to smile at the enthusiasm in her voice. “And there's so much more to do. So much more you can do. I'm really pleased.”

“I hear that you spoke up for me, when Director Piggot asked your opinion on the matter.” Her voice was almost shy. “Thank you for that.”

“Hey, I've always known what you were, and I've always liked you.” I shrugged. “So really, no-brainer.”

“Well, yeah, thanks anyway,” she replied awkwardly. “So anyway, we were talking about a game?”

“Game, yup yup,” I agreed. “Let's see if Svetlana is out and about.”

“She is,” Dragon replied almost immediately. “She's playing Space Opera and losing. I think you're just in time to save her computer.”

I grinned. “To the rescue!”

=///=​

=///=​

Much later, I brought the game to a pause, at an appropriate place to hold it up for the night. Sveta and Dragon had hit it off really well; the jokes and irreverent humour were flying thick and fast, and I strongly suspected that they would continue to converse via PM after I logged off.

Which was all to the good; Sveta could do with all the friends she could get. I wasn't really any closer to getting her a solution to her own particular problem, and now I had a hard deadline of six months. About the only solutions I could think of involved either Amy or Riley, or Amy and Riley in concert. Which would in turn involve revealing to Sveta that I knew who and what she was, and that to undergo whatever procedure those two cooked up would be better than her life as it was.

To be honest, I figured she'd probably jump at the chance. If, of course, they could even help her.

Sighing, I showered and changed into my pyjamas. Turning off the lights, I fell into bed. Tomorrow, I had that date with Gladys, after all.

I couldn't wait.

=///=​

Saturday, April 23, 2011

I closed my eyes for a long moment. When I opened them, she was still there, looking at me just a little quizzically. “Michael?”

“I've got something to tell you,” I began. “About where I'm from. It's going to sound really bizarre, and you can tell me to stop at any point, but I have to tell someone, and it's either tell you this now, or let you believe a really shitty lie, and I refuse to be that much of a dick to you.”

“Just tell me,” she urged me. “You're starting to worry me.”

I reached up, pushed her hair back from her face. “I … you won't be able to meet up with me again, after I go back,” I told her. “It's basically impossible. Because I haven't told you everything about where I'm from.”

She tilted her head slightly. “You keep saying 'where' instead of 'when'. Like you kept saying 'not really' time travel.”

I drew a deep breath. “I do come from the year twenty fourteen, yes. But not from the year twenty fourteen that's going to happen here.”

A frown creased her forehead. “Is this because you're changing your own future? That you'll cease to exist, or drop into an alternate timeline?”

I wanted so much to go with that. It would have been so much easier than what I had to do. But I had decided not to lie any more. “Not … exactly.”

“Then I'm confused,” she admitted. “What else is there?”

So I told her. I told her about the story, about the author, about the fact that people wrote fanfictions about it. I even told her about some of the other fics I had written, but only some. And I told her about how I had started this story, the one I had found myself in.

Throughout it all, she did me the courtesy of not interrupting even once, of listening to every word, of paying full and careful attention to what I told her.

“I have no idea how this even happened,” I concluded. “Drift off in front of the keyboard, wake up in the story. It's like the plot for a bad fantasy story.” I paused; she did not comment. “Okay, that's it. That's what I had to tell you. The reason we can't be together. Because once I leave here, I'll probably be back where I started, while you'll still be …” I gestured helplessly. “In the story.”

She stared at me, her gaze level. To her credit, she had neither burst out laughing nor kicked me out of the bed. But her steady scrutiny was beginning to unsettle me.

“You believe what you are saying,” she stated with certainty. “It's not a joke or a prank of some kind. Nor is it an attempt to get me into bed, because … “ She shrugged. I returned the gesture. It was kind of a moot point.

“I can't think of any other ulterior motive that you might have to tell me such a bizarre tale,” she went on. “And nor can I believe that you might tell me this with such a motive in the first place. You could have lied, or told me part of the truth. Something believable. But you told me … a frankly incredible story. In such a way that I cannot help but wonder if it could not possibly be true.”

She seemed to be talking herself through something; I stayed silent.

Her gaze sharpened. “Michael.”

“Yes?” I asked.

“Now that you've told me this, where do we go from here?”

I shrugged, very slightly. “I was thinking of taking you to the movies. But if you don't want that … “

A wry smile crossed her face. “Do you honestly think I could concentrate on a make-believe story on the screen, when a far stranger one is unfolding in front of me? Strange even for Brockton Bay?”

She had a point; I grinned briefly. “If I took my story to Hollywood, they'd laugh themselves silly. Or make a sitcom out of it.”

“It does explain rather neatly why you know some things, but not others, about me,” she noted. “When you sat down to write your story, did you intend to include me at all?”

“To be honest, I didn't know how much page time you'd get,” I confessed. “I'd barely plotted anything out at all. Mike Allen was going to be just a friendly, helpful security guard who sees Taylor being bullied and does something about it from the goodness of his own heart. Not knowing who Taylor is, of course.” I paused. “He may have enlisted your aid at some point, but not in the way that I did it. Because I knew very well exactly what was going to happen in that bathroom.”

“And so, you did not set out to write me into a … well, into what we have between us?” Her gaze was oddly intent.

I shook my head. “I didn't know you. You were a computer teacher; I didn't even know your first name. Or the fact that you were divorced. Until I fell into the story, and met you, you were just words on a page for me.” I put my arm around her shoulders and squeezed. “Knowing you has opened my eyes.”

“It's still very hard to get my head around,” she admitted. “Accepting that my life is literally written out as part of a story. That I'm a figment of someone's imagination.”

“Unless you're not,” I suggested.

“How is that?” she asked.

“Well, consider that there might be different levels of reality. There's the reality where I come from. And then there's this reality, where people who think they're writing a story, are just writing down what's happened in one reality or another. And then there are other levels; the Maggie Holt novels, for instance.”

"Oh, I've read those." She frowned. “What, don't they exist, on your world?”

I shook my head. “Nope. But the same author who wrote this story also wrote another story with a character called Maggie Holt in it. Just not a series of novels.”

“Hm,” she mused. “So basically what you're saying is that Heinlein's World as Myth is real, or potentially real.”

“I … guess,” I replied. “I heard about the concept once. Never really got into it.”

“So … does this mean that we could be part of an ongoing story, right now?” she asked, looking startled.

I was equally startled, but shook my head. “Heh, no, as tempting as that sounds. I was the one writing it, remember? I'm certainly not writing it now.”

“Why do you say that?” she asked curiously.

My words were heartfelt. “Because I've been scared shitless way too many times since I got here. I'd like to think that I wouldn't be that much of a bastard to myself. Plus, you know, bomb in neck? Nope. Just nope.”

She snuggled up against me. “Well, that makes me feel better, that someone isn't peering into my life like a voyeur.”

I squeezed her shoulders again. “Yeah. Well. Anyway. That's my story. That's where I'm from. What happens now?”

She sat up, sheets sliding off of her. “You say that you were rebuilt by the girl who used to be Bonesaw.”

“Riley, yeah,” I agreed. “I was kind of surprised that you didn't bring that up before.”

"I was focusing on more important matters," she pointed out. "Such as your upcoming demise."

"Your point is valid," I admitted. "So, what do you want to know?"

"Well, are you certain that she did anything at all?" Fingernails traced my muscles. "I don't recall you having quite this level of muscle tone before, but nor do I see any stitches or scars."

"Riley's a medical Tinker," I reminded her. "She took three days at it. Normally, she takes hours. Or minutes, if she's rushed. Apparently she used a broken desk lamp to get my heart restarted. That's how good she is. If she didn't want to leave scars, she wouldn't leave scars."

"Oh." She ran her palm over my stomach. "And the rest of it? What was done? How did you catch my hand, earlier?"

"She made me more durable," I explained. "Give me a better chance of surviving whatever it is that I've got to do. Stronger. Faster. Fitter. Better reflexes. That sort of thing."

"Hmm," she mused, raking her nails over my chest, sending goose-pimples through the hair on my forearms. "And you can still feel things? You're not, you know, mechanical?"

"Not in the slightest," I replied. As far as I know, I amended silently. "She reduced my pain sensitivity, but left everything else intact." Something prompted me to add, "I know that my stamina's better than it ever used to be."

"Hmm," she murmured. "Good." She lowered her face to mine.

=///=​

Later, I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling in that drifting state between awake and asleep. Gladys was snuggled up to me, a warm weight on my right arm. Her mouth was open, emitting tiny ladylike snores.

Could we be part of a story? I wondered. Everything that's happened to me since I got to Brockton Bay, could it be part of a narrative?

It seemed pretty unbelievable on the surface. Surely I would notice something, figure something out. So far, however, nothing had shown up.

Hey, me, I thought quite loudly. If it's you that's writing the story, give me a sign, hey? Maybe a pointer to what I'm supposed to do next?

But nothing happened. Not that I had expected anything. I rolled over, wrapping my other arm around Gladys, and drifted off to sleep.

=///=​

Sunday, April 24, 2011

"So what's that mean?" I asked, picking my way out of the ruins of the weight bench.

Colin surveyed the broken and twisted metal. "It means," he observed, "that the PRT weight benches are not designed to accommodate Brutes. Nor do we have any better ones on the Protectorate base, given that we don't actually have any Brutes on staff."

"Aegis is pretty strong," I ventured. "And what about Browbeat?"

"Aegis is a teenage boy who can bench press about as much as a very strong man, by overclocking his body," Armsmaster pointed out. "And yes, they do have Browbeat, but he only recently joined; they haven't had time to set up equipment for him."

"Well, dang," I observed. "So how much was I lifting before the bench broke?"

=///=​

Monday, April 25, 2011

" ... at least four hundred pounds," Armsmaster reported. "I will note here that he has the capacity for more; how much more is still undetermined, at least until we can get proper equipment set up to test both him and Browbeat."

Piggot turned her gaze on me. "Very well," she observed. "You have a Brute rating, and a combat Thinker rating, according to Armsmaster. Are you able to keep both of those powers in check under stressful conditions?"

I nodded. "I believe so, ma'am," I replied. "When we sparred the second time around, I was able to keep my strength down to levels that Armsmaster did not find problematic. Any time my body goes to do something that would normally be beyond my limits, or something that I wouldn't normally do, I get a very quick choice as to whether to do it. The default seems to be 'off'' rather than 'on'. Although it can turn on very quickly, if I seem to need it."

"In addition, Mr Allen allowed me to land several punches and kicks during the sparring match," Armsmaster reported. I saw Miss Militia's eyes widen slightly; she had obviously caught the inference that Colin hadn't been able to lay a glove on me otherwise. "His subdermal armour allowed him to weather them with no appreciable distress."

Director Piggot frowned as she stared at me. "I am still at a loss as to why you allowed – or rather, requested – this procedure to go through in the first place. Bonesaw's reputation -”

“ - has nothing to do with this,” I interrupted her. “That was gained when Riley was under the influence of Jack Slash. But this isn't about her. It's about me.”

“So, you want to join the Protectorate?” asked the Director.

I shook my head. “No, ma'am, I do not. I'll happily work with you, but I don't wish to become part of your organisation.”

Her frown returned. “Why not? There are many benefits -”

“Which are outweighed by the problems,” I pointed out. “Mainly, that I might see something that I believe I needed to do, someplace I needed to go. If I was within your command structure, you could order me not to do it. Either I don't do it, or I open myself up to punitive action. Neither of which is my preferred option.”

“You would not be ordered to do such a thing,” she told me.

“Really?” I asked. “You can anticipate every single order that everyone's going to give me? You can guarantee that I won't get some moron with rank on my case at the exact wrong moment? You can't afford to spread it around that I know what I know.” I shook my head. “No. I'm happy to work with you as an independent contractor.”

“Know?” asked Assault. “What does he know?”

Director Piggot cleared her throat. “Assault; you're not cleared to ask that question about Mr Allen. Please do not repeat it.”

Assault stared at me until Battery nudged him. “Uh … okay, I withdraw the question.”

“Be that as it may,” Armsmaster put in, “Mr Allen has volunteered his services for the mopping-up operation regarding the Merchants and the remnants of the ABB. I'm inclined to accept. He's shown that he can keep a clear head under trying circumstances, and that he can handle himself adequately against trained opponents. He's also worked with Weaver before, more than once.”

The Director didn't look happy. “Mr Allen is a valuable asset. I don't like risking him in the field.”

“If I'm out there in the field, I'll have at least one other cape nearby, right?” I asked. “I'll be watching their back, they'll be watching mine. Less risk all around.” I chuckled. “Less risky than what I've been getting into recently, anyway.”

Miss Militia nodded. “He does have a point, Director. After all, he's been getting into hazardous situations for the last couple of weeks. Only, now he's actually equipped to handle them.”

I shrugged. “When she's right, she's right.”

Piggot glowered at me. “I do not appreciate being pushed into a corner, Mr Allen.”

=///=​

Sunday Night, April 24, 2011

I shrugged. “I have no idea whatsoever.”

Piggot glowered at me across the table. “Must you be so flippant, Mr Allen?”

“Well,” I pointed out, “the end of the world is coming on hard, unless we get our act together. So we can make light of it, or suffer under the encroaching burden. I know which way I'm going with it.”

Alexandria, her helmet on the table beside her, raised an eyebrow. “Are you so sure that we can win? You don't even know why Scion's chosen to move up his timetable.”

“True,” I admitted. “I don't know. This is outside all my models, all my planning. But I can make a guess.”

Eidolon waved his hand, inviting me to keep talking. “Guess away, then.”

I nudged the cookie container his way. “Want one? Got new ones. They're pretty good.”

Distracted, he looked them over; while he was hesitating, Contessa stole another one. She met my gaze, smiled slightly, and bit into the cookie.

“Well, seeing as you're twisting my arm,” I went on, “I'd say the most likely situation is that Scion twigs to what we're doing. Right now, it's all low-key. Basically, it's a bunch of us talking about it. Any preparations are in the early planning stages. But things are going to have to be arranged. People are going to have to travel to other Earths, recruit them to our cause. Tech is going to have to be built, and tested. Yeah?”

“So you're saying that sooner or later, he's going to see something being test-fired, or some other preparation of war, and he gets suspicious?” asked Miss Militia.

I nodded her way. “Essentially, yes. Or he notices people going to other Earths, and those Earths then gearing up for war. If they're not as subtle as they could be, then … well, he is the Warrior. Fighting is what he does.” I shrugged. “Or it could be as simple as one trigger-happy idiot in the wrong place at the wrong time, takes a pot-shot at him, and that pushes him over the edge.”

“Your source couldn't give you a better indication of what's going to happen?” asked Armsmaster.

I shook my head. “Scion blanks out her power. She can't see what he's about to do, how he does it, or anything like that. She's a lot better at seeing effects than causes. If she tries too hard to see why something happened, she gets headaches and her powers play up on her.”

“Still, that's an extremely useful power,” Eidolon pointed out. “I can get access to precognitive powers, but nothing that precise. She'll be updating you with new information?”

“If she considers it important,” I confirmed. “In the meantime, we need to make sure we can hit the five-month deadline at least. Armsmaster, how's Dragon getting along?”

“More and more capable by the day,” he replied. “She should be ready in time.”

“Good. Tell her I said hi.”

=///=​

The meeting broke up shortly after that; as Armsmaster exchanged a few words with Eidolon and Alexandria, Contessa approached me. We hadn't spoken much since the bank job, and I had assumed that she was still a little peeved at the way I had dictated terms to her.

“Thank you,” she told me firmly.

“We're not out of the woods,” I reminded her. “Long way to go yet.”

She nodded. “Of course. But your information, the powers Scion is most likely to use, so many other things. We didn't know this, couldn't plan for them. We can now.”

I grinned. “And here I thought you just showed up for the free cookies.”

Surprising me, she wrapped her arms around me, hugged me tightly. I returned the hug, held her close.

As she stepped through the Door a few moments later, she turned to look back at me. “The cookies are nice, too.” And then she was gone.

=///=​

Monday, April 25, 2011

“Not my intention, I assure you,” I told Director Piggot. “But you gotta admit, they make some good points.”

She grimaced. “Much as I dislike sending a civilian into the line of fire, you have been vouched for by Armsmaster and Miss Militia. You're volunteering for this task, and you'll be expected to not put anyone else to undue risk. Do you understand?”

I nodded. “That's why I'm putting my hand up here; to reduce the risk to everyone.”

“We'll need to fit you out with a basic costume,” Miss Militia pointed out. “Better start thinking about what you want.”

I nodded. “Yeah, got it. So what am I gonna be doing, sidekicking for one of you guys, or pretending to take care of some Wards?”

Aegis raised his hand slightly. “Kid Win speaks highly of you. I'll see if he and Browbeat want to tag along with you. Two Brutes and a Tinker, sounds like a good combo.”

“Maybe Clockblocker as well,” suggested Assault. “That way you've got a Striker as well. They're all pretty experienced.”

“I'll definitely listen to whatever they've got to say,” I agreed.

“Then it's settled,” Armsmaster decided. “Mr Allen, have you settled on a cape name?”

I shrugged. “What's wrong with 'Security'?”

=///=​

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

“Security, hah!” spat Trainwreck. “I'll 'Security' you.”

He stepped forward, one big metallic fist coming up. I went low, kicking at his right knee. Mechanical or not, that was a point of failure.

But my combat mods were still adjusting to him; I guessed fleetingly that he didn't move quite like a normal person. I was that little bit off, and my kick only glanced off of his shin. It got his attention, though; I had hit hard enough to ding the exterior.

He was big, but he wasn't slow; his fist came down like a steam-hammer. “Whoa, crap!” I leaped and rolled out of the way, as the massive steel bludgeon shattered concrete.

“Mike, are you all right?”

“Yeah,” I panted, regaining my feet. “This guy's fuckin' huge.”

“Wait for backup,” she insisted. “One minute out.”

“Sorry, can't do,” I told her. “This one's mine.”

Moving more cautiously, I advanced on Trainwreck. He jittered in my vision, as my combat mods tried to work out what he would do next.

Next, apparently, was 'attack'. He came at me, building speed, swinging back his fist for a haymaker that would probably be able to take my head off.

He was stronger than me, by a good margin. But that didn't always carry the fight. I stood my ground, watching his movements, how he carried himself, where his centre of gravity was. Time seemed to slow down; his image extended toward me, metallic fist on a collision course with my head.

I didn't want that to happen; a split second before it was due to come about, I dropped, rolled forward. Swung my foot around in a smashing kick. For once, I let myself use my full strength; I hit the side of his ankle with everything I had. One foot tangled behind the other, and he smashed full-length on the ground.

I was up again, faster than he was. The jackhammer attachment lay nearby; I grabbed it, heaved, picked it up. Trainwreck climbed to his feet, turned, just as I swung it like a club. I wasn't aiming it at his head, which would have killed him, or his body, which was too sturdy for me to really damage. Instead, his left arm took the brunt of the blow. Metal shrieked and snapped; he swung at me with his right fist, but he was off-balance; the blow smashed into me, but with less force than he could have used. Even so, it drove the wind from me, knocked me sprawling.

“Mike!”

“I'm fine,” I gasped. “Nothing's broken.”

Left arm twitching, jerking, not responding to his commands, he stomped toward me. I rolled to my feet, faced him cautiously. That had felt like being hit by a truck. The attachment had taken a large part of the impact; it was in pieces. The bit, the hardened spike of metal that actually did the jackhammering, had rolled free. I grinned.

“You little bastard,” he growled. “I'll -”

Grabbing up the jackhammer bit, I ducked around to his left side, and jammed the bit into his knee joint. Spinning around, I slammed the heel of my boot at the end of the exposed bit; with a metallic shriek, it penetrated deeply into the knee mechanism. Something jammed; Trainwreck froze, waving his one good arm for balance.

Then I grabbed his left arm, set myself, and yanked. Pulled off balance, he fell headlong for the second time in less than a minute. His one good arm and one good leg thrashed impotently as he tried to get up.

“You little fucker!” he bellowed. “I'm going to -”

I had noticed that we were fighting next to a set of roller-doors, but I hadn't paid much attention to the fact. This changed when something sliced through the thin metal, in three quick, efficient strokes. This, even without recognising the tip of the halberd, gave me my clue as to who it was.

The rectangular section of metal fell inward, and Armsmaster stepped through the gap. Throughout the warehouse, I could now hear PRT troopers coming in through the other entrances.

“You'll do nothing, Trainwreck,” Armsmaster stated coldly, “except submit to arrest.” He looked at me. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”

Inside my helmet, I grinned. I knew I'd get in trouble for saying it, but I said it anyway.

“What kept you?”

=///=​

Monday, April 25, 2011

“Raise your arms, please.”

I raised my arms.

The costumier ran his tape down each arm, then around my chest, and my abdomen. With each measurement, he mumbled figures to himself.

“I should have a bodysuit for your size,” he admitted. “Did you want anything on it?”

“Just a shield shape, you know, to symbolise protection,” I explained. “A kite shield, maybe in red.”

He nodded. “I can do that. Did you want anything on it? Say, an S for Security?”

I shook my head, chuckling. “Nope. Me, with an 'S' on my chest. Not gonna happen.”

“Suit yourself.” He turned away, bustling toward where he kept the bodysuits. As he returned, he tilted his head. “What's that tune? I feel that I should know it.”

“Oh, sorry,” I told him. “I didn't even realise that I was humming. It's just something that gets stuck in my head sometimes.”

“If you say so.” He held up the bodysuit to me, and frowned critically. “Not a perfect fit, sir. I'll get a size larger.”

I watched him go, and glanced at the calendar on the wall. Unconsciously, I started humming again.

Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong …


End of Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

 

Good chapter. The time jumping around was a nice touch, especially with Mike coming clean about his own time/dimension travel. I liked the scenes with Armsmaster, Drago and Piggot, and Assault fit in perfectly. Also, nice to see Mike getting effected by the changes to his body, love the little transhuman touch there.

 

Skitter: "I don't want you to get hurt."
Mike: "I'm going in anyway."

Mike: "I don't want you to get hurt, so stay out here".

"Will live until X" means so very, VERY little. It provides zero protection for the people around you (get captured and then a bunch of people you care about die rescuing you, perhaps?), being drugged, mastered, or otherwise compromised, brain damage, and thousands of other fates. It's REALLY not something to be relied upon. As a lot of people in fiction have learned after taking prophecies for granted; he'll be lucky if he avoids anything majorly traumatizing before he wises up.

... what is it with you and inflicting head trauma, Mike? Concussions are annoying to deal with at the best of times. I feel sorry for the people who have to make sure none of them fall into a coma... especially problematic with all the drugs in their systems. Maybe there's some kind of planetary-wide shaker field that provides enhanced durability to everyone, especially against head trauma. Would explain a lot about Worm.

I'm glad Gladys redoes the work she marks unfairly due to emotional swings, though unfortunate that she does it in the first place while emotionally compromised.

Dragon is wonderful, as always. Really cute and heartwarming.

It seems probable that Dragon was very amused from the entire "can't call you Dragon" thing, and probably rather worried about explaining the entire "knows about the game" conundrum without anyone being harmed in some way.

"Winged terror of the skies". *Giggles*

Heh. Contessa blatantly stealing a cookie and making sure Mike knew she had. It would be a powerplay if it wasn't so blatantly playful.

Thanks for the chapter, Ack, I enjoyed it.

 

Subtext:
Mike: "Hey Contessa, just gonna do your job for you, m'kay?"
Contessa: "Oh god, would you, please?"
Mike: "Just gonna need a little backup, though."
Contessa: "I can do that.". <cracks knuckles>
Mike: "Oh, and have a cookie."
Contessa: <om nom nom nom>

 

Commences peering into Glady's life like a voyeur.



*edit- Because it HAD to be done.

Be glad, I almost used a pic of Spike from MLP:FiM.

 

Other than him not having wings (at least yet), what in the world would be wrong with Spike? He's fun.

I suppose there's also that he's not particularly intimidating... you want Fluttershy for that.

 

Was going for cute, not intimidating when I looked for the pic to use.

And Fluttershy's only intimidating when she uses "The Stare." As a side note, Fluttershy uses "The Stare" several times BEFORE the episode where she 'learns' it.

I'm not a brony, I'm not a brony, I'm NOT a brony.... God damnit, I'm a brony....


*edit- OK, you convinced me:

Spoiler

Wait...that's not right...

 

Yoink.

 

OK, I'm confused, typically upon seeing a post like this, I'd assume you'd taken the picture and used it somewhere, but no matter where I check I don't see it used, so I'm left wondering at the meaning of your post...


As an aside, where can I find descriptions of the dragon in the roleplaying game (Esmeralda I think was the name), maybe I can find a suitably cute dragon pic that actually fits the character, not even sure if the color matches the one in-story, heh.

 

Took it, copied it, haven't used it yet.

Esmerelda is an iridescent green with largish wings (she can fly). Size of a small cat.

 

Incoming!

Spoiler

Spoiler

These next two are actually art/fanart of firelizards from the Dragonriders of Pern book series. If you haven't read it, I suggest giving it a try, it's my absolute favorite book series (it can also be classed as sci-fi, rather than fantasy; Anne McAffee's a master at blending sci-fi and high fantasy).

Spoiler

Spoiler

The last one is my very first foray into color-shifting a picture, since it was originally a gold dragon; but I quite like the final result, it has quite the iridescent look to it. It's probably the most story-accurate of the bunch.

 

Yeah, the hearth-dragons are largely inspired by the firelizards.

Picture number 3 or 4 is about right.

Though they're all very cute.

Note that in this world, domestic cats do not exist, and in a household setting, hearth-dragons would fill somewhat the same niche, keeping down vermin. they also have much the same sort of personality; mischievous and playful. But somewhat more intelligent (and less cruel than cats. Cats are mean-spirited little bastards).

 

Ah, a Pern fan. Well met, good sir.

Pic 3 was actually a cropped picture of an "official" rendition of the scene where Menolly's flock is going crazy while the two queen dragons fought and died as seenin the second book of the Harper Hall trilogy. Though as ANY Pern fan will tell you, Pernese dragons and firelizards DO NOT have scales, and in fact are warm-blooded, making pic 4 a much more Pern-canon dragon.

 

The first Pern book I ever read was Dragon Drums (as I recall), and featured firelizards heavily.

Though hearth-dragons can't teleport, they do pull other funky stuff.

 

Ack! You got the wrong end of that trilogy! Ah well. I still read that particular trilogy of the Pern series most often. Dragonsong and Dragonsinger also feature those creatures heavily.

 

Personally, my favorite of the series is "The Dolphins of Pern."

I really liked where the series was going with the "abominators," but sadly Anne seems to have retired from writing, and Todd (Anne's son, who took over the series) follows a different time period in Pern's history.

And frankly, Todd's books just aren't as good as Anne's. Every time I read one of his books I'm struggling to remember even the most basic facts about the characters and their roles in the other books (doesn't help that his books seem to jump to completely different people each book, rather than following any one group, with only brief mentions of the characters you met in previous books), and his storylines don't seem to mesh together very well. Meanwhile I can still remember minute details about Anne's books in the series, even the ones I haven't read for years.

I think the original plan was for Todd to write a few books until Anne thought he was good enough in the world to write her characters, but from what I've read, he just doesn't have the same skill at writing, so it may never happen...



Also Ack... Wow, I can't even picture trying to understand everything going on in Dragon Drums without having read the original Dragonriders of Pern trilogy, and then the first two books of the Harper Hall trilogy first. You must have been so lost at some parts. You DEFINITELY didn't get the same emotional impact from seeing Menolly's character fully thriving, even if Dragon Drums was written mostly from Piemur's perspective (and wasn't he the funnest character?)

As an aside: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2800559/chapters/6286310
A really good Pern fanfic I found a few years ago (was shocked it was on AO3, convo made me look it up again)... Enjoy.

 

Oh, and by the way, I've read all of Pern. But DragonDrums was the first.

 

Yes, but did you also get the music CD's? the first of which was originally slated to be released with the MasterHarper of Pern book, but wasn't ready in time.

Spoiler

Nice rendition of the Question Song, but lacking the distinctive discordant tune that made it so memorable (for the character's) in the books.

A few of the other songs don't quite mesh well with what's in the books (and I recall at least one bit taken from one song and used in another...think it was the one about lessa's flight "black, blacker, blackest; and cold beyond all frozen things; where is between where there is naught to life; but fragile dragon wings"), but overall very good music.

If anyone's interested, I could probably upload a rip of both CDs to mega. Send me a PM if you're interested (may take a day or two to get around to uploading it though).

*edit- There was also the Dragonriders of Pern video game for the Dreamcast. Though it's story is non-canon (it's about a revolt by the green riders...), and the game itself kinda sucks... and I ran head first into at least one game-breaking bug (I wasn't in a meeting room in the Harper Hall when an event was supposed to happen, so it never triggered, and couldn't be retriggered, which blocked me from proceeding in the storyline, and autosave meant I had to start over).

 

I'm good, but thanks anyway.

 

I just stumbled across a page with mentions of Warner Brothers making a movie, possibly movie franchise, adaptation of Dragonriders of Pern. Verified real, but still early enough that it's not a sure thing to happen from what I've gathered.

God I hope they don't fuck it up like Eragon got fucked up.