Scale 5.7

  Bryce Kiley

  2010, December 14: Brockton Bay, NH, USA

  Winter break began this week, something all students were grateful for. Given all the irons I had in the fire, I had a few more reasons to celebrate school letting out than most. I aced my exams, gave a speech about the Canary trial in my world issues class, and did my best to pretend I was a functional adult and not the tiny high school freshman that I was.

  Quiet bedlam. As oxymoronic as it was, that was exactly what was happening in the city. I’d left Coil to stew and regroup after releasing most of the information I’d gathered about his organization. For four days, I watched as he recoiled back into his shell, like a snail that had just encountered a trail of salt.

  Judging by the messages SAINT intercepted, he believed that I didn’t know his identity. Hell, he thought my ultimate objective was to flip the Undersiders, redeem them and add them to my organization.

  That got a good chuckle out of me. Given the public relationship between Creed and The GOAT, it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption to make, especially after this half-assed probing strike, but I had no interest in them. They were potential assets, true, and not altogether terrible people, but they each came with a great deal of baggage that I didn’t want to deal with.

  It did mean that he’d put some distance between himself and Tattletale however. Other than calling her into the base once, probably to have her tortured for information, he hadn’t contacted her at all this week. If I had to guess, he suspected that I’d already flipped her, or that I’d reach out soon enough and she’d turn on him on a dime.

  Some mercenaries were captured by regular law enforcement. Since they had no cape identity, they couldn’t claim protection from the unwritten rules. A few of them were caught with their metaphorical pants down and picked up at bars, apartments, and the like. A handful would be prosecuted for outstanding cases, but some were also only being held for questioning. Professionals that they were, they remained silent, giving away nothing about their employer.

  Others had been acting as moles in various organizations when my little data bomb dropped. Whether they survived long enough to regroup with Coil depended on where they were and what they were doing.

  I knew for a fact that Lung slow-roasted one. Hookwolf had another two in his fighting pits before Cricket mercy-killed them. The moles inside the PRT, Calvert excluded, were quietly rounded up, and without even a “thank you” DM to me, rude pricks that they were.

  It was, as stated, quiet bedlam. There were no shootouts in public. Streets weren’t cordoned off and people weren’t being evacuated. No curfew was in place and the average citizen knew nothing of what was happening beyond that Coil’s financial empire was compromised by a heroic thinker.

  And yet, the landscape of the city changed in these four days. I’d only struck at Coil, depriving him of resources and forcing him to blind himself for a bit, but other organizations took note. Whether the Empire or ABB, they looked inward for any more moles, sometimes starting witch hunts against their own.

  And all throughout, I quietly waited and watched, gathering information like a dragon hoarding treasure. While the various factions dealt with the ripples, I’d sent a few dozen soda engines to Damascus via Strider, worked on perfecting my inorganic alchemy, gave Sabah a few bolts of Germa fiber cloth, and endeavored to include Amy in my projects.

  “Are we sure this will work?” Amy asked as she held the metallic limb in her hand. She turned it every which way but frowned in disappointment. “I can’t tell how it’s supposed to attach to a joint.”

  “Of course it will,” I assured her. Amy likely couldn’t examine the automail because it wasn’t organic. She was a striker, not a tinker. “And it’s meant to attach via several sensors embedded into the muscles and anchored directly into the bone. The sensors read nervous impulses and move the limb accordingly.”

  I gently lifted Lily the spaniel from her cage and placed her onto the table. I wasn’t sure what was more disturbing, that I could find a dog missing a leg on short notice in this city, or that I convinced the worker at the animal shelter to shove her in a cage for me for fifty bucks. No ID, no forms, not even a cursory “What’s your name?”

  After getting myself a test subject, I’d headed back to the Gullrest and fed the poor thing before sedating her and giving her a warm bath. Once Amy arrived, we made sure she wouldn’t feel any of this.

  “It feels weird. I know animal testing is a part of clinical trials, but this just feels wrong somehow. We’re literally using a puppy as a test subject, Bryce. Are… Are we the baddies?”

  “Think of it this way, Ames: Both you and I are here to reverse any changes if something does go wrong. Lily here literally has better healthcare than any human alive.”

  “Heh, that’s true. But does it have to be a dog though? Why not a rat like every other mad scientist?”

  “Because I don’t have Armsmaster’s miniaturization specialization,” I explained patiently. Den, the Rockbell family dog, had an automail limb in the series. Given the complex parts involved, I just couldn’t make automail much smaller than that.

  “Still, poor Lily… And why is the dog named Lily? She looks nothing like a Lily.”

  “Every animal I’ve ever practiced on has been named Lily. It’s a prestigious designation which denotes the animal’s contribution to human progress.”

  “You’re a jerk. As soon as we’re done, I’m regrowing the poor thing her leg back. Her real leg.”

  “As you please, Ames. Now gimme the automail.”

  “And she’s getting a proper name, not the one you use to label experiments.”

  “FIne, fine, I’m sorry I’m a heartless monster.”

  “You should be,” she sniffed, but offered me a ghost of a smile. She slid the automail to me as I ran a few final checks.

  “Okay, I’m going to start now. First, we need to reopen her severed limb. I will then anchor the connection port to her bone, then heal the wound. You will make sure there are no signs of rejection. After that, I will attach the automail to the port. Once that’s finished, we will wake her and see how she moves.”

  “Yeah, let’s do horrifically invasive surgery on nonconsenting animals.”

  I ignored her snark and raised my scalpel. “Beginning…”

  X

  Two hours later, Duchess had a new, organic leg.

  “It’s a terrible name. What kind of name is Duchess?” I whined, mostly for the sake of whining.

  “You shut your mouth. Duchess is a wonderful name,” Amy said, cradling the spaniel in her arms with an adoring croon. “She reminds me of a dog in one of those posh, English soap operas so she’s Duchess.”

  “And we agreed that the automail worked fine. Why did you grow her leg back?”

  “Because you said automail wears out. Are you going to keep her as the lab pet? You won’t even be able to take her outside without people rubbernecking then.”

  “It wears out when you’re rough on it. As in, when you try to block bullets or wrestle chimeras. Daily wear and tear should be minimal.”

  “So? My point stands. You can’t even take her outside unless you want people to think Creed’s experimenting on animals, which he is.”

  “But I had so many ideas…”

  “For fuck’s sake, Bryce, Duchess does not need a hand cannon in her paw,” Amy said exasperatedly.

  I leaned my elbow on her shoulder. “But Ames, think of the puns. We could even call it the Hot Dog. Get it?”

  “No.”

  “The Chicago Dog, because that place is a den of gang violence.”

  “Do you realize the irony of a Brocktonite shitting on another city’s gang violence?”

  “The A-paw-calypse Cannon,” I replied, holding the metal limb like a rifle.

  “Shouldn’t the gun be bigger with a name like that?” she asked with a faint smile. “And shame on you for that shitty pun.”

  “It’s a great pun. I can make it bigger. Ooh, and I can add Muggy Balls.”

  “No. Absolutely not. You are not turning Duchess into a death machine.”

  “You’re right. She’s got no trigger discipline. She’d probably blow herself up,” I sighed theatrically. “Alas, my dreams of a pet who’s also a Terminator will have to remain dreams.”

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  “You have SAINT already.”

  “He’s not a pet. There’s a very real chance that he’s smarter than you. Actually given he’s an AI, he’s definitely smarter than you.”

  “Where is he, anyway? He’s usually floating around with you.”

  “He’s off practicing his barriers. I told him I want him to be able to make larger barriers capable of covering more than himself.”

  “So he’ll be like Eric?”

  “Kinda. No offense to your cousin, but SAINT’s way more versatile.”

  “Eric wouldn’t be offended. He’s nowhere near as gung ho about being a hero as Victoria is. He gets it from his sister, I think.”

  “Crystal? Yeah, they’re both really chill. It’s a little weird, actually. Usually, capes feel a compulsive need to use their powers. It’s not exactly brainwashing on the Shards’ parts, but still, that nudge is always there. They’re very atypical in that sense.”

  “Eric uses his shields as plates whenever he can so there’s that.”

  “I noticed. And he likes to give his girlfriend rides on one, like Aladdin. I meant more in the ‘need to prove yourself’ sense though. Usually, that compulsion is prone to get the cape into some form of conflict.”

  “Who knows?” Amy shrugged, then, with a bitter sigh, “I wish my own Shard was less bitchy about using my powers.”

  “Has it gotten better? You know, your general mood and stuff. You’ve started making funny snacks, right?”

  “Yeah. It’s wild how much of a difference that made for me. I still don’t know if my power’s as alive as you say it is, but it’s a little easier if I think of it like a needy puppy I need to indulge once in a while.”

  “Good. Speaking of powers, how would you feel about having an assistant in the hospital?” I asked carefully.

  “That’d be lovely. When’re you coming by?”

  “Not me specifically…”

  “You know another healer?”

  “Kinda. She’s a power copier who reached out to me about a week ago. She can copy three powers at once, but they’ll be weakened. If she copies you, I suspect she’ll be a pretty good healer, even if it takes longer. Or maybe she’ll just get your touch-based understanding of biology, which would still make her very useful for diagnoses.”

  “A new cape? Why would she go to you?”

  “She wanted to talk to The GOAT and Creed was more accessible for a rookie on the scene.”

  Amy fidgeted uncomfortably. “I don’t know how I feel about someone else with my power, even a discounted version. You know how dangerous it can be.”

  “I do, and I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t know her personally.”

  “She wants to be a healer?”

  I shrugged. “She’s not sure. She can have her pick of abilities, you know? If anything, I know she hates the thought of fighting or hurting anyone. She knows healing will make her a target and she’s not sold on the idea, but she still wanted me to sound you out a bit. It’s just something she’s looking into.”

  “And… And you trust her?”

  “I do.”

  “With your life.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, but she’s a good person.”

  “Bryce, you’re putting other people’s lives at stake here.”

  “At the very least, I’m confident she wouldn’t misuse her power. I know her as a civvie as well and I trust her enough to help her test her power on me. Long story short, she has three articles of clothing she could give to other capes. She gets a weakened version of their powers. Take it off and she doesn’t have those powers anymore.”

  “Okay, so she’s got hard limits. Good. You know power-copying trumps are super rare, right? If the true nature of her power gets out, she’ll be a huge target whether she wants to fight or not.”

  “I understand. Honestly? I might drag Eric into this. If she’s going to make herself a target, I want her to be safe.”

  “That’s not a bad idea. Me, Eric, and… you? Your power worries me though. Anyone with a copy of your power would be dangerous.”

  “It’s not as bad as you’re thinking,” I reassured her. “When I said she gets a weakened copy, I meant it. She gets my current specialization, and only the technical knowledge, nothing that might be considered esoteric. So no alchemy, organic or otherwise. Right now, she just has automail and what’s more or less equivalent to early twentieth century industrial technology.”

  “She hasn’t tried to perform surgeries on anyone?”

  “Absolutely not. Again, she’s not stupid or malicious. I mean it, Ames, she’s a friend, someone I know and like out of costume.”

  “Fine, Bryce. I’ll meet with her if she wants, then I’ll decide,” Amy said firmly. “I’m going to do the whole lie detector thing. I need to be sure.”

  “That’s great. Thanks, Amy. I know trumps are a bit of a minefield.”

  She offered me a tentative smile. “Hey, who knows? If she’s as great as you say, it’d be nice to have someone to hang out with at the hospital. All the doctors are old and jaded and the young nurses closer to my age walk on eggshells around me. I’m not that easy to offend.”

  I laughed and poked her in the side. “No, but you are a grouch. A grade-A, certified grouch.”

  “I’m not!”

  “Ames, you’ve got the mother of all resting bitch-faces.”

  “Oh, fuck off, Bryce.”

  “So, if/when I show up to the hospital, can I tap you to validate my automail?”

  “Yeah, you can. Just shoot me a heads up though. It gets a bit hectic sometimes.”

  “Thanks, Ames.”

  X

  2010, December 15: Brockton Bay, NH, USA

  I was on my laptop, fiddling around with my MIDI and trying to make a few melodies I remembered from my past. I felt like I hadn’t touched this in years; things had been so hectic lately. Now, with prototype automails built and a respectable understanding of inorganic alchemy, I felt I could indulge a bit in my creative hobbies while I waited for my specialization to shift.

  Originally, I purchased this as a way to disguise my tinkering back when I made TMs under the Pokemon specialization. The MIDI doubled as a TM Uploader and the blank CDs I bought alongside it gave me a way to hide my work in plain sight.

  I’d managed to make my version of Aavicii’s “The Nights.” It’d been a favorite song of mine back when I was in school. Just the melody hit me with a wave of rose-tinted nostalgia.

  I briefly dabbled in singing the lyrics, but just because the gravity child serum gave me perfect awareness of vibrations didn’t mean I suddenly had the voice to match. If anything, my enhancements told me exactly how off-key I was and made me cringe that much harder. Perhaps I could convince someone else to sing it for me.

  Just then, SAINT caused a news article to pop up onto my screen. I knew immediately what I was looking at thanks to the distinctive, post-modern architecture. It was a live coverage broadcast of the Forsberg Gallery over downtown. The anchor was yammering about how the Undersiders, the “Masters of Escape,” had crashed through the gallery in search of a Dali original painting.

  I visibly cringed at that. It was so hilariously cliche I wasn’t even sure where to start. The idiot quartet had even gone as far as to send cryptic letters to the news station declaring their intent and daring anyone to stop them.

  It was a callout, plain and simple, and I had a feeling I knew who they wanted.

  “SAINT, check on the Protectorate,” I said. “Do they have any outstanding commitments today?”

  “Gon,” he trilled before diving down into his duck pond again.

  Not even a second later, a series of popups gave me my answer. Apparently, the holiday season also meant a major push for the PRT’s PR department.

  Miss Militia and Velocity were doing a tour of military bases around the greater Boston area, literally showing the flag in Militia’s case. It was supposed to be some kind of “appreciate our troops” deal. I thought it was weird for Velocity to tag along, but then I remembered that he used to be in the service before he triggered. Maybe they thought he could be a good example for potential new capes.

  Assault, Battery, and the Wards were similarly out of town. The Wards had a joint training exercise with their Boston counterparts and the personable couple had been tapped to be their chaperones. Given the time of year, I could imagine it was yet more PR.

  That left Brockton Bay under the care of Armsmaster, Dauntless, and Triumph. The latter two were at the Boardwalk doing some kind of signing. Both being hometown heroes, it made sense to keep them in the city for any PR appearances, I supposed.

  The hero count was rather anemic, but then again, they’d left the city to the Wards during the bank heist in canon. Maybe they thought New Wave could hold the fort long enough for them to return if something did happen. Or maybe Coil had managed to act as Thomas Calvert to arrange for this opportunity over the past week. He didn’t exactly need moles to move a few schedules around after all.

  Whatever the case, the Undersiders were obviously meant to draw me out. There was no other reason for them to willingly make a scene like this.

  The question was: What was Coil planning? Just the fact that this heist was happening in a way that was visible to me was itself telling.

  It could mean that the Tinker of Fiction interfered with thinker powers somehow and he could not properly simulate me. That was the ideal scenario, but I wasn’t sure how my power interacted with thinker powers.

  Truthfully, I’d been working under the assumption that thinkers could read me. It was why I’d designed my suit to cover my face and included a voice modulator, Essentia’s textured disguise, and an invisibility module. It was also why I’d made The GOAT as a completely digital persona, to deflect attention from Creed.

  If my presence made Coil’s power glitch, great. But that seemed like a bit much to hope for, so the only other conclusion I could come to was that Coil had something he needed to do in the physical world. After all, from his perspective, a dropped “timeline” would mean the changes he made in it didn’t carry over. He could optimize his choices, but he still needed to physically go buy groceries, fill his gas, or what have you.

  So what did he want?

  His actions implied he’d be willing to lose the Undersiders here. He’d taken some precautions, like arranging for the majority of the Protectorate to be out of town, but attacking downtown like this was still a heavy risk, especially considering how I’d gutted a big chunk of his personnel.

  Which meant he thought the payoff was worthwhile. Fuck Dali, the painting wasn’t the prize here. The prize was…

  “Me,” I breathed. Maybe I was missing something, but I couldn’t think of another possibility. “If he kills or captures Creed, he could leverage that against The GOAT. And since he already knew I’d been looking for the Undersiders, he’s using them as bait.”

  “Gon? Porygon pory-gon,” SAINT chirped before diving into my pokenav.

  “That’s perfect, SAINT. He’s probably also moving some of his physical assets around while the Undersiders cause a mess, but I’d bet anything the real goal is me tonight.”

  “Gon?”

  “Am I going to go? Of course I am.”

  “Pory-gon.”

  “Yeah, he’s probably got mercs in there.”

  “Pory?”

  “No, this is fine. Let’s go, SAINT.”

  Author’s Note

  Next specialization is on December 18th, which is in three days.

  Hey, if Wildbow can send all the Protectorate away for plot convenience, so can I.

  Thank you for reading. To reach a wider audience, and because I enjoy a more forum-like setup to facilitate discussion, I like to crosspost to a wide variety of websites. You can find them all on my Link Tree: .