Agrippa
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Wake-up Call – Chapter 15 – Wards
🕑 Added 2021-10-20 01:23:28 +0000 UTCKid Win
“So, effective immediately, I’m retaking formal oversight of the Brockton Bay Wards.”
This can’t be happening.
“I would like to once again reiterate my apologies. At the time, I thought Director Piggot would be able to properly manage this team and help each of you as individuals. Recent developments have made it clear that… She’s far too busy with other concerns.”
“Yeah, like taking that stick out of her butt. I mean, it’s understandable: there’s a lot of ground to co—”
“Dennis!”
Vista’s sharp smack (from across the room) seems to be the stimulus I lacked to actually process what’s going on.
Namely, Armasmaster standing in front of the whole Wards, apologizing for dumping us on Piggot’s far too ample lap and… Well, ditching us like an alcoholic parent with a gambling habit.
Substitute ‘alcohol’ for ‘work’ and ‘gambling’ for ‘punching supervillains,’ and the comparison is not that far off… Hey, what about a randomized targeting system to deploy against squads with a barrier-style Brute? Need to check more RTS for ideas. There was that one with units who jumped through time that may have some interesting insights into retroactive causality, and now that we may have access to Bakuda’s temporal technology, that may not be a far-off concern. Also, if it manages to block Dennis’ power, it could be worth it just to stop him pranking people at stupid times—wait. Dennis. Vista smacking him. Meeting.
Uh, looks like they are still talking. Wonder what I missed this time?
“Be that as it may, I expect each of you to bring me your concerns as we transition to the new routine. As a… meager token of apology, let me start this new relationship with a clean slate: all collective punishments have been revoked, and each individual infraction will be revised in the days to come.”
Oh. That’s nice of him, I guess. I’ll have to give Gallant back my part of the fine from the bank. Really, Piggot was a bit shortsighted not to think he would do that as soon as she turned her back.
Or maybe she did and that was supposed to be a way to make the team bond over our sneaky flaunting of her authority. I don’t know. People are complicated, and that sounds like the kind of overly convoluted scheme someone would pull when acting like a psychotic drill sergeant.
“… I would have expected slightly more enthusiasm than grim nodding. Something I should know, Aegis?”
“No, sir! Everybody here is very grateful that we now need to check our bank balance and see how much we owe Gallant, sir!”
“… Carlos, I swear I’ll smack you.”
“Dean, maybe I’ll even allow you the satisfaction of feeling it.”
“How generous of you.”
“Didn’t say it would be as pain.”
There’s the very loud sound of Vista smacking her visor, Dennis sniggering, and Dean lifting his middle finger. I shouldn’t have listened when he asked me to include a toggle for ‘Robocop noises.’
Also, maybe Armsmaster’s muttered something like ‘goddamn sassy teenagers,’ but that could be wishful thinking.
“So, revising punishments?” Stalker’s voice grates against my nerves as usual. Bad enough that I have to provide her bolts, but I still have the distinct impression she isn’t using as many as she should…
And now the room is silent. Uh. Maybe I could use a temporal disturbance field to infer future sound waves just in time to emit a counterwave that nullifies the incoming noise so that—
“Yes, Stalker. We will be revising any and all disciplinary measures undertaken by Piggot. I’m sure you’ll be relieved to find yourself under someone much more lenient.”
And Vista is coughing. Either that skirt is too short to patrol in, or she’s trying to mask a laughing fit. I’m not gonna bet on that one.
“Sounds good to me,” our surliest teammate says with a dismissive tone. Or her actual, natural voice. I mean, it’s not like I’m drowning in wildly different samples to get stochastic—
“I am elated at your approval.” See? That, right there, is distinct enough to infer a deadpan jab. “Everyone, dismissed. Chris, stay behind.”
As the rest of my team marches to the door, I catch a few commiserating looks thrown my way. Nice. Very useful, guys. Your silent, fleeting, emotional support is going to solve any and all issues that have brought this confrontation upon me.
This is about using untested artillery near civilians again, isn’t it?
“So—”
“I swear I won’t bring any more experimental technology to a fight, sir, it was only the one time and I—”
“Chris,” there’s a palm in front of my face. Is this a ‘talk to the hand thing?’ “I wanted to apologize personally. To you. Me, not you.”
He’s speaking very slowly, but I still have trouble understanding what he means.
“Sir?” There, monosyllabic and safe.
And now he’s sighing. Maybe it wasn’t that safe, after all?
“Chris, you are a young hero in need of guidance. I am a veteran who should have offered said guidance. Do you understand why I would feel the need to apologize?”
“Is… this one of those trick questions where if I answer wrong, I get docked last month’s pay or something?”
“… No one’s docking your pay. At most, you’ll be grounded without TV or dessert.”
“Are you… joking, sir?”
He’s lifting his visor for some mysterious... Oh. He’s pinching the bridge of his nose. I guess it wasn’t that mysterious.
“Yes, Chris, I was joking. Humour is usually employed to alleviate a charged situation, either as a release of tension or by changing the subject in a natural manner.”
“Ah. Thank you, sir. I shall endeavor to apply this lesson.”
“… Please tell me you are joking.”
“I am joking. Sir.”
“… Either Clockblocker needs to take notes, or you do. And I can’t decide which one is worse.”
It is taking far too much effort not to have my lips twitch, but the results are more than worth it. Having Armsmaster apologize for dropping me like a hot potato? Something I will treasure for years to come. Having him distressed as to whether he was emotionally neglecting a functional robot? My descendants shall celebrate this date.
***
Aegis
One thing people don’t tell you about physiologically enforced synesthesia? Well, almost everything, because there aren’t that many cases to bring things up in casual conversation. It’s not like MM is gonna drop by the common room and say, ‘Oh, Aegis, heads up: the Fifth Symphony tastes like a very hearty stew, so you’d better not listen to it if you are feeling too full. Also, I’m extremely curious about how many orgasms I can wring out of someone whose whole body could turn into a semen factory just for me to use.’
Damn it. Welp, time for me to switch to an osmotic circulatory system. Again.
But going back to the synesthesia thing and to its more pertinent effects, I hate the way cheap office furniture pressing uncomfortably against my butt sounds. It’s like a continuous blackboard screech.
It’s quite distracting. Something I don’t need when alone in a room with the leader of the local Protectorate.
Armsmaster. Yes, I mean Armsmaster. My dreams about MM getting promoted and giving me ‘leadership lessons’ remain as unfulfilled as my dating life.
“What’s this about, sir?” Armsmaster holds a finger and does something that looks far too complicated over a sliding panel on his bracer-gauntlet-whatever-it’s-called. Then there’s a distinct whine that tastes like Parmigiano with a dash of white wine. That is, it tastes far better than it sounds. Uh. Mixed blessings.
“Shadow Stalker is a suspect in an attempted murder in her civilian life. She became a Ward after almost killing a criminal in her vigilante patrols and taking a deal. Needless to say, trying to kill a classmate would violate the terms of her probation. And try my patience.”
… What?
“… What?”
“I am warning you not to trust her. At all. She’s violent, decidedly unstable, and shouldn’t be put in any position where she can commit further violations without witnesses.”
“Then… why is she on the team?”
“Because Piggot decided that we cannot hold her any longer without pressing charges, and she has also decided I can’t press them without revealing her cape identity, which would be a crime in and of itself. Not to mention she thinks Stalker may have acted in self-defense.”
“Sir, don’t you have—”
“Carlos,” he stops me. “You don’t want to question anything about this. I promise I’ll deal with Stalker soon enough, but I am just warning you not to drop your guard around her in the meantime.”
Another thing they don’t tell you about physiological synesthesia? Sometimes you can taste your feelings. This one tastes like bile.
***
Gallant
I hold the phone against my ear. She has let it go to voicemail three times already.
“This better be an apology call.” Oh, only four tries. She must not be that angry.
“I need to talk.”
“… I’ll be there in five.”
And she hangs.
Five minutes later, Glory Girl lands on the roof of my house, arms crossed, still trying to act offended by whatever inane thing it was that set off our latest fight.
I hug her. She melts.
I should be tired of this. Really, I should; this is very unhealthy.
Except I am an empath, and I have seen how her family works. It’s a miracle Vicky is as emotionally stable and well-intentioned as she is with that upbringing, and I can only dream about what she’ll become once she’s allowed to grow out of it.
Arms strong enough to break me in half surround me, and I allow some of the tension to drain away.
I am aware of the paradox. One gets used to it.
“What happened, Dean?”
“I… Armsmaster took Piggot’s place.”
“… This is the worst excuse you have ever given me for needing a cuddle.”
“Counting that time I told you I had run out of gas?”
“With a flying girlfriend in the car. You were lucky I heard you calling me to stop before I got to the nearest gas station.”
“Not my proudest hour.”
“I seem to remember you enjoying yourself for about… twenty minutes afterward.”
“Happiness and pride are not synonymous.”
“Lucky you, then.”
And I snicker.
People wonder what I see in her. They think I am a superficial playboy going after the nicest set of tits in the cape community, and, while those are a very prominent bonus, it’s not about that.
She has a quick mind, a sharp tongue, and the kind of humor that just clicks with me.
And... she always knows how I’m feeling and what to do to make me feel better. If I’m happy, she will make me ecstatic, and if I’m feeling down…
Well, then I’ll end up feeling like I’m doing right now.
“So, Halbeard—”
“Please don’t get me in the habit of calling him that—”
“Halbeardhas grown some sense of responsibility and rescued you from the clutches of the woman who thought collective punishments were not outlawed after the Geneva Conventions. What’s the actual issue?”
“He told me to spy on Shadow Stalker. He thinks she may have tried to assassinate a classmate in her civilian identity.”
“… Does he have proof?”
“None he’s willing to share. He said Piggot thought it was insufficient and that bringing it to the police… well, that would be revealing the identity of a Ward. Not something he can do lightly.”
“But he can risk the life of her victim lightly?”
And that’s an unfair question. Because I don’t think Armsmaster does anything lightly, not even selecting his salad dressing, but… There was something off in that conversation. Far too much red around him, with some glints of focused indigo.
“I think he’s giving her just enough rope to hang herself with. It’s… I don’t know him well enough to be sure, but I don’t believe he’s the kind of person who would leave something like that alone. Even if it was just as a matter of pride.”
Vicky leans back from our hug and looks into my eyes, searching for something. She must have found it because she ends up nodding and ruffling my hair.
“You are far too quick to see the good in everyone, Dean,” she says with a smile that can’t be anything but fond.
“Well, I am your boyfriend,” I reply with my own teasing smile.
Which ends up with me apologizing for ten minutes.
Really, I know it will be worth it, but I can’t wait for her to get out of that house.
***
Vista
“So… It’s been brought to my attention by the image department that giving you any kind of lethal weapon would clash too much with your persona and also be an excuse for villains to escalate fights beyond what you can manage.”
“It’s been brought to my attention that the image department seems to believe Chris and I spend our days playing with dolls and action figures. Respectively. Sir.”
And there’s that lip twitch. You can pretend to be a robot all you want around the others, sir, but I’ve known you too long for that to work.
“That fits the information my sources have leaked. I take it the Barbie Alexandria Limited Edition is not for you, then?”
Is—fuck. Those cost a fortune. I have a monthly wage, and I would still hesitate to get me one of—
“Just teasing. Here you go.”
And he rummages in the bag he’s carrying and hands me a package.
A wrappedpackage. Gift-wrapped.
“I don’t play with dolls, sir.” Curse you and your pride, Missy. Curse you.
“Just open it.”
I raise an eyebrow and—
It’s not a Barbie Alexandria Limited Edition with detachable helmet and cyber-eye. It’s a raygun. I don’t know what else to call it: it has those weird fins from old movies and everything. A plastic and metal thing the same color as my uni… Uniform.
Suddenly, I find myself staring eagerly into Colin’s eyes.
“Disguised taser gun. The cables only reach up to fifteen feet, but I figured that’s precisely the right distance for you to take aim without any issue.”
I bob my head up and down so quickly I get a bit woozy.
“I should still mention that, even though this is strictly non-lethal, or as much as anything can be, you should treat it with caution. I fitted it with a custom battery that has much more charge than market-standard, so you should never, ever, under any circumstances, press the trigger and hold it for three seconds before pressing it again and holding it down. If you then hear a low beeping, that means there may be a glitch that would cause the stored energy to release explosively.”
I look at him, eyes wide, as Colin steps away from the realms of men into those of legend.
“Of course, the end result of such a glitch, that I may have forgotten to document in the official report, would be rather more lethal than the proper use of the gun. Explosively so. In an area of about… nine feet radius.”
I finally have a ranged weapon. And it’s also a lightning grenade. This is my best birthday ever, and it’s not even my birthday.
“Curiously enough, I may have used very similar batteries for Shadow Stalker’s new ankle monitor. I just hope there won’t be any… undue malfunction.”
I have a raygun-slash-grenade, and the bitch is getting herself Battle Royaled. Best. Day. Ever.
“Well then, I guess I’ll leave you to practice with your new addition to your uniform. The firing range is open to you now.”
He stands up and turns away, and I don’t know what to say to him, because I—
“Oh, and Missy?” he says from the door without turning away. “Happy belated birthday.”
And he throws me something over his shoulder that I manage to twist space in time to catch in my hand.
A Barbie Alexandria Limited Edition in her original package. The cybernetic eye is turned on already.
Colin steps away, and I don’t squee.
***
Browbeat
I have been here for less than a month, and I’ve reached what I believe is my conclusive judgment.
These people are insane.
***
Clockblocker
Sooo…
I’m bored.
Which is good. Bored is good. Bored means no giant dogs who wanted to work as extras in Jurassic Park are trying to tear my friend in half, or that my other friend is not about to blow up a building.
I should reevaluate my social life. So much carnage needs a bit of variety.
Maybe a few more friends in high school… nah. That’s much worse. Pack of piranhas, man, I tell you.
Still, if Armsie is going to stick around this time, I’m guessing regular training is back on the schedule and that we will no longer be expected to come up with things to do by ourselves while we wait to be deployed against the worst Godzilla cosplayer in town or the people who think that Superman shouldn’t have fought the KKK.
Real thing. Look it up.
I know I should also come up with some joke about the Merchant’s for equity’s sake and all that, but… well. They are the Merchants. The joke’s already made.
But that brings me to the crux of the issue: jokes need to be made.
Basically, because we are a bunch of traumatized kids made to wear colorful outfits and fight murder-blender-furries (and next time I catch you stitching yourself up, Vista, so help me God, I—).
Ehem. Said he, mentally clearing his mental throat. Mentally.
That is, someone around here who isn’t a mopey empath with a clingy girlfriend (yes, she’s hot, but come on, Dean, nothing can be worth that—and if it is, I hate you more than I can properly express without a thesaurus), a guy who I know is far too into BDSM (seriously, Carlos, tone it down a bit, at least in front of Missy—she’s not mature in that way), a guy who thinks putting Kidin his name is a good idea (and that tells you everything you need to know about the social graces of Mr. ‘I can’t be arsed to listen to you all for more than three minutes at a time’), a dude who makes the Mountain from GoT look inadequate and has about as much dialog, and a girl who looks as likely to hug you as to pull a switchblade during a schoolyard tussle (Missy, I love you dearly, but please try to tone down the murder-bunny vives—it shouldn’t be so cute to see something so disturbing).
Oh, and the bitch.
God damn it, couldn’t let me enjoy the eye candy without turning it into something gross, could you?
So, as the one in here whose only trauma revolves around his father slowly dying of an incurable disease, which makes me about as normal as one can expect in a gathering of parahumans according to my latest psychoanalyst, it is my duty to ensure that my teammates get to have some therapeutic laughs now and then. Mostly so they don’t kill themselves or someone else the day they inevitably break.
Ah, gallows humor. Haven’t tried that in a while.
And something smacks right on my face.
Slowly blinking, I take the floppy thing only to realize I have literally been slapped by a pair of gloves.
By Armsmaster.
What.
“New gloves. The right one extrudes micrometer-thick string that it cuts with a switch on your thumbpad. The left one explosively deploys transparent sheets of plastic to act as emergency cover.”
So I have been slapped by pieces of my uniform-slash-weaponry-and-shield, not challenged to a duel. That… makes more sense?
Armsmaster gives me a stoic nod of his head before straightening himself and turning to leave, but stops himself after a single step.
“Oh, and Dennis?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You are on.”
And he leaves.
Did he…?
Oh. Fuck. Yes.
Assault was getting kind of boring.
***
Shadow Stalker
Days locked up while the city was bombed, all because Hebert and the Thinker bitch decided to finally play their hands right at the worst possible time.
And now I’ve got Armsmaster on my ass.
Or my ankle, more like.
The fact I can’t go to track and field with the bloody thing is the least of my concerns, but it still manages to piss me off.
Not that there’s anything about this that shouldn’t piss me off. I’ve been benched, Aegis is being anal about not letting me on patrol unless there’s someone who can keep up with my speed available, and console duty is on my schedule as much as regulations allow. My boss is likely going with a comb over every stupid thing he can dredge up to prove I violated my probation, and…
And they killed Emma.
I saw it. Right in front of me. Hebert… Hebert said what the Thinker bitch told her to, touched her damn—
Uh. Guess brickwork is tough enough I can feel it through my reinforced gloves. Good to know.
Point is, I saw her crumble, break down, cry, scream. At mere words.
I started the day with my only friend. I ended it with a thing mewling on the floor.
And then I got shot in the knee, but really, that doesn’t piss me half as much.
Because… There are packs. And I no longer have mine.
Thing is, animals, when they get smart? They learn to hate, to hold a grudge, to get revenge. The shit chimps do when they go to war is seriously disturbing. And I am far smarter than a chimp, which means I can hate much more.
So, for those who killed my pack?
Well, I may do something as stupid as go to the address a slip of paper pointed me to right before I left my holding cell.
And this better be a trap so I can let some steam out, because if I have to stand here for a single minute more without anything happening—
“Shadow Stalker? Pleasure to meet you.”
I turn around and point a crossbow at the motherfucker’s head because there was nobody there half a second ago, so the fucking teleporter tried to get his jollies off by startling me—
“I can see it may not be reciprocal,” he says, with a voice so smarmy it makes me want to take a shower and tipping his stupid hat in a way that just—
Fuck it.
I shoot his hat off and nail it to the alley’s wall. The stupid look on his face is payment enough.
“Good eyesight, asshole,” I tell him.
And the damn bastard laughs. Fuck, I’m not Clockblocker, you fucking moron.
“Well, I see,” and he does the fucking air quotes thingy. I’m hating him more by the second, “that it would be better for my health if we conclude our business sooner rather than later.”
Then he kneels down in front of me, and I’m sorely tempted to kick his teeth in.
Until he takes an ankle monitor very similar to the one I’m wearing but with another color and he…
Exchanges them?
“Try to phase out. This one doesn’t have any charge.”
I swear if this is a—
Uh.
Well, would you look at that.
“Miss Stalker, this was only a taste of things to come. My boss is very interested in getting in his employ a parahuman who… Well, to put it plainly, who doesn’t have any other choice.”
I look at him as he stands up. Smarmy, smug, punchable. But he didn’t flinch when a crossbow bolt took a hat off his hand.
This is a man who has seen combat. And a lot of it.
A man I would probably never like, but maybe I can respect.
And, to be honest, my other prospects are kind of shit.
“I could always run. You just took that monitor for a reason, didn’t you?”
“You could. But I don’t think you would find the experience satisfying,” he says in the tone of someone who knows what he’s talking about.
And I don’t think he’s wrong.
Because each time I close my eyes I see three things, and three things only: the corpse of my friend screaming and crying, Hebert delivering her lines like a butcher’s knife, and the fucking Cyrano who set the whole thing up.
Two of those things are alive. That’s two too many.
“I have some things I will need to take care of.”
“I don’t think that will be much of a problem.”
He smiles. I don’t.
But when he walks, I follow.
***
Skitter
“Did you get all of that?”
“I did, Miss Hebert.”
“Call me Taylor. I mean, if you’re going to be my father-in-law…”
“… If this is your way of asking for Tattletale’s hand in marriage, I must tell you that you need to work on your timing.”
“At least this time there’s nothing on fire.”
“Which should have told you it wasn’t the right time. Ill-advised teen-marriages aside, I assume you managed to slip them the trackers I gave you.”
“Sure did. Shadowy Villain’s base coming right up.”
“Excellent.”
“So, do you think the head of the man who recruited her at gunpoint would make for a good engagement gift?”
“I was going to save that for Christmas.”
Comments
Agrippa
"I thought I needed to get married and hold someone's hand before Jesus would make me a father."
Snarkfather best father
Agrippa
Thanks! It fought me I owed it money, but I ended up liking it. Now I have a week to fix the broken mess of my plans...
Evilreadermaximum
Lol nice, soon the snake will be gone and there will be much rejoicing! Excellent chapter
