The next few days pass by similarly. Glefe gets me up early, though not early enough to see my dad off for work. Then, after leading me through a few light warmups, I go on a quick run, on one of the three or so routes that won't end up in me getting mugged. All the while, I'm practicing spells in image training.
It's almost hard to describe the level to which my outlook on life has changed since Glefe entered it. Looking back, it's hard to describe my recent life as anything other than surviving. Now, though? While yeah, the training's hard work, that doesn't mean I'm not excited when I get up in the morning. Hell, magic is so friggin' cool that at this point I'm nearly constantly running a second partition just so I can train it even when I'm doing other things.
And let me tell you, this whole 'having two consciousnesses' thing is pretty sweet. Bored doing the dishes? Guess what, you're also practicing flying. There's now truly never a dull moment for me.
Right now, for instance, I'm hanging my clothes up on the line, while my partition is sitting in a blank simulation, waiting for Glefe to decide on what, exactly, I'll be learning today.
[Well, your impulsiveness still isn't under control…] Glefe muses.
I scowl, even as unbidden, my face heats.
[However, I suppose it's time you learned an offensive spell, if only for your own protection.]
My mood immediately does a 180. "Really?"
[Indeed. Go ahead and take off, I'll set up a firing range for you.]
"Fligerflosse!" I intone, within my partition, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, and rocket off. Through… a lot of crashing, if I'm being honest, I've finally managed to have a good hold of the flight spell.
At least mostly. I do still get a bit wobbly when I focus on something else, but Glefe is confident I'll get over that with more practice. And if it's for the sake of flying, I'm all too eager to study.
As I reach about 100 feet above the ground, Glefe's gem flashes, and a bevy of floating static spherical drones appear before me, ranging out over the water. I've seen them before, mostly in the context of having something physical to either run away from, or otherwise avoid with my flight. A couple of them are close enough I can nearly reach out and touch them, while others are so far away I could not see them were it not for the sun glinting off their shiny chassis.
[First, we shall start with some theory. Combat ranges are broken into four categories: Cross, Middle, Long, and Out Ranges. Cross Range denotes any distance close enough that executing a melee attack is more effective than utilizing a ranged spell. As my name and form imply, I do possess some limited utility in a melee; however, as a bombardment mage, cross-range is where you are at your weakest. Any questions so far?] As she speaks, the closest pair of drones seems to flash prismatically in my view.
"...Uhh, yeah, one." I tentatively begin to speak. "Cross range? Is that, like, a typo from 'close range'? That would make more sense, right?"
I receive the telepathic equivalent of a shrug from the device. [I didn't make the names. I believe the name derives from 'the range at which blades cross', but I can't be sure. Any questions regarding the content?]
I shake my head.
[Very good. The next further out is Middle, often shortened to 'Mid' range. Mid-range is defined as any range far enough to make closing into melee impractical, but not yet so far that the reliable prediction of projectile trajectories becomes possible. As a bombardment Mage, you will likely spend most of your time in duels in mid-range, while trying to open the distance to opponents who are themselves trying to close with you. Here, agility, mobility, and fire rate are the most important skills.] Once again, a set of drones flashes. This time, it's all of them beyond a dozen feet, up to… a soccer field or so? I'm not good at estimating distance.
After taking in the sight, I pipe up. "Wouldn't all of those matter at close range, too? And long range as well, for that matter. What makes mid-range special?"
[Good question. The melee attacks favored at Cross-range are inherently more difficult to dodge, making protection and positioning more important there. Long range, on the other hand, more heavily emphasizes powerful, homing, single-target strikes, as well as large, area-of-effect attacks. These simply cannot be dodged or outmaneuvered in the same manner that mid-range shooting spells can be. Though I suppose I should explain Long, and Out Ranges before proceeding further.]
I nod in affirmation.
[Long range stretches from where mid-range attacks become ineffective, all the way out to the maximum possible range the mage can engage from. Anything further than the mage can engage is considered Out-Range. As I alluded to earlier, Long Range is dominated by AOE and homing attacks, making sensory acuity and mana output the most important considerations for engagements at this range. As an aside, you'll notice I haven't given any quantitative distances associated with any of these ranges, and instead focused on qualitative definitions. This is because the actual numerical values change from mage to mage. For some examples, a melee-focused mage might find you in their out range, while they themselves are in your mid range. Alternatively, since you are a bombardment mage, your most basic battle strategy will be to engage an enemy with bombardment spells from the portion of your Long Range that overlaps with the enemy's Out Range. Does that all make sense?]
"Barely." I grumble, more than a little confused after such an infodump. "Though, I thought you were teaching me an attack spell?" I prompt, hoping to get Glefe back on track.
[Indeed, I am. I will be introducing you to your bread-and-butter Mid Range spell, called "Gewehrkugel". It's a shooting spell of middling range and weak homing, whose internal mana supply is only sufficient to travel around 100 meters or so. What it lacks in performance, though, it makes up for with economy. It's a true fire-and-forget spell, somewhat unusual among homing spells, which tend to be more accurately characterized as remote-controlled, kamikaze, flight spells. This fact, combined with the fact that it does not require a specific device mode to utilize, as well as their relative cheapness, mana-wise, means that experienced mages can fire many dozens, or even hundreds of these at a time. It's ideally suited to putting pressure on a pursuer for long enough that you can either escape or prepare a more powerful bombardment spell. Ready to give it a try?]
"Yeah!" I nod my head vigorously, seeing as we're rapidly approaching the 'blow things up' portion of the lesson.
[Alright, I'll begin feeding you the formulae in a second. The way it functions is that as you pour mana in, projectiles are manifested. As they are in this static 'Holding' state, you will be able to designate 'Shoot' and 'No-shoot' targets in the equation. Once you're ready to shoot, the aria 'Fire' will release all of them at once, evenly split between all the 'Shoot' targets, on trajectories which avoid the 'No-shoot' ones. I recommend launching them one at a time to begin with, but otherwise, range is hot.]
"Let's do it." I state, and the equations begin to scroll through my mind's eye. I grin as I pour mana in, and one of those triangular arrays flashes into life behind my right thigh, and a pair of orbs of rainbow light appear beside it.
Oh, oops, I guess that was two. Whatever, it's working! I designate the closest drone, which is on my left. And…
"Fire!" I declare, causing the orbs to-
Streak off in a direction nowhere near my designated target. What gives?
[It may interest you to note that Gewehrkugel has a safety system that prevents the projectiles from impacting the casting mage.] Glefe deadpans.
Oh, right. For all I know, those could have taken my leg off.
"Oh, haha, oops." I grimace, rubbing the back of my neck. Trying to regain some form of dignity, I hastily pour mana back into the formula…
And the array nearly blinds me as it spawns in the projectile less than an inch from my head.
I recoil, and then slowly sidle away from the spell, staring at it like a wild animal.
[You also might like to know that the default anchor for the spell is the tip of the right index finger. In the future, I recommend pointing it in the direction of your chosen target.
"You didn't tell me this to make me look dumb, didn't you?" I petulantly accuse.
[I can neither confirm nor deny this allegation.]
Grumbling, I shake my head before, once again, designating the closest drone, this time ensuring no parts of me are in the flight path before firing.
The sphere shoots out and impacts the drone, which violently explodes, sending bits of debris pinging off my face and body.
"Jesus Christ!" I cry, flinging myself to the ground, before I once again realize I'm 100 feet above it.
Scowling after having embarrassed myself yet again, I float back up as I round on my device.
"Glefe, what the fuck was that? What would that do to a person?"
[Since Gewehrkugel projectiles are so easy to dodge, it is important that any hits that do occur are effective. While the target drones are designed to fail rather catastrophically, to enable verifying hits at very long ranges, Gewehrkugel projectiles do pack a punch in and of themselves. While a single hit won't break the barrier of even a D or C rank mage, two or three hits will, and a single hit on an unshielded individual is likely to produce life-threatening injuries.]
"Glefe, we aren't supposed to kill people! We can't fucking kill people!" I scream, my panic increasing as I have Final Destination-like premonitions of sitting in a PRT holding cell after having painted a wall with a mugger.
[Have you considered activating Training Mode?]
"Eh?"
[It will direct all damage done to living organisms to their linker core. Extreme damage will cause the target to fall unconscious, rather than lethally injure them. Historically, it has been used primarily to allow full-contact duels for the purpose of training. It will cause you to be less mana-efficient, however, if you choose to avoid lethal attacks due to local customs, it is likely your best option.]
...
"...yes. Yes, I would like you to activate that. In fact, is there any way that I can prevent that from being turned off accidentally, like, ever?"
[Understood, Training Lock has been activated.]
"Glefe?"
[Yes, my lady?]
"Why the fuck am I only learning of this now?"
[Simple, Lady Taylor. It is only now that you've learned an offensive spell, so any discussion of Training Mode would have been useless.]
I cross my arms, pointedly looking away from the polearm in my hands.
[Alternatively, you may think of it as a lesson on the importance of asking questions. I won't always be able to anticipate your wishes and give you things, so it will never hurt to ask... Also, I find it funny when you get worked up over non-issues.]
"You little shit!" I growl as I do my best to throttle the device.
---
Fire!" I cry as 15 Gewehrkugel bullets streak off, impacting 15 target drones, each one bursting in a purple mana-fueled explosion.
Meanwhile, outside of Image Training, I am, for the first time in real life, casting attack magic.
I launch a bullet into the air, impacting a battered aluminum can, which is launched upward. While it's still airborne, I quickly cast, designate, and fire another bullet to continue juggling the can.
[17.] Glefe dutifully counts off the number of hits.
Supposedly, it's a 'Speedcasting' exercise, as casting quickly and under pressure is of value in a fight. Additionally, we learned there were a few inconsistencies between Glefe's simulations and local reality, which we managed to patch up. According to Glefe, doing perfectly accurate simulations is very difficult; something about non-homogeneous mana fields?
I'll happily take the device's word for it, to be honest.
The exercise is a bit of a light show, so my run this Friday morning has taken me to the Boat Graveyard; Brockton's premiere location for all up-and-coming capes to go and smash things up without the need to worry about breaking anything important.
Getting there was a bit of a chore. The Graveyard isn't in gang territory itself; all the ships there have been picked clean for salvage for at least a decade, and they don't have any value to anyone anymore. But just because the Graveyard is fairly safe, it doesn't mean the run over is. I had to dip fairly deeply into the ABB's turf to get there, and I surely would not have made it, were it not for Glefe's sensors.
I got to experience the 'situational awareness' mode of partitioning on the way over, which was interesting. My other self found herself in what looked for all the world like a Star Trek set, a metal room with a central holographic map table, showing the immediate area surrounding my actual body. All humans were highlighted, along with their fields of view, so I had a fairly good image of the locations of everybody within a block and a half or so.
With this information, I was able to pick my way through the area fairly naturally, though I did have to lose a tail at one point by Fligerflosse-ing over a tall fence.
All in all, it was a valuable first foray into what I can actually do with my powers.
[My lady, interrogative: according to local customs, Parahumans tend to wear masks, while unpowered individuals tend not to, correct?]
"That's right..." I reply in image training, a knot beginning to form in my gut.
[I've detected a convoy of three light vehicles approaching. Thirteen individuals total, two wearing masks. Tentatively classifying all as hostile combatants.]
In an instant, my Image Training partition dissolves, taking me back to the map room, as I've taken to calling it. Sure enough, three SUV-looking vehicles are in a column formation, descending the unimproved access road that leads down from street level to the sandy bar on which the Boat Graveyard lies.
"Shit. What do we do? Do we cut and run? Are they after us?"
[Possibly. Escaping at this juncture may not be wise, however. When confronting an enemy mage, it tends to be unwise to reveal one's capabilities too quickly. At this time, flight is far and away your greatest asset. They might be here on other business, and revealing your flight would be silly if that were the case.]
"Right, yeah. They might not even be here for me. Just wait it out?" I ask, mostly to myself as hope blooms in my chest.
That hope dies a quick death, though, as the vehicles drive straight up to the ship I'm in, the occupants dismount, and close off every escape from within.
"Well, shit, they're definitely here for me." I mutter. "Glefe, can you put a mask on my Knight Armor or something? I don't want my ID getting out already."
[I can't do that, but I think I can do better. I'm going to feed you a spell called "Verschleiern", the aria is its name. Cast it.]
"Verschleiern" I mutter, as quietly as possible, though after a brief flash, nothing else happened. "What did that do?" I eventually ask.
[Take a look.] Glefe replies, and a floating screen of sorts appears before me in the map room. It's a photograph of what is obviously still me… but with an entirely different face.
"Huh."
[Back home, Verschleiern is somewhat taboo, as its primary users are petty criminals disguising themselves before robberies. Given the current situation, it is servicable. Enough talk, though; we mustn't cede the initiative. Go out and speak to our uninvited guests. That way they won't force entry immediately.]
"Talk to them? They're probably Nazis. What makes you think they're willing to just have a chat?"
[Nothing at all. The purpose of your talking isn't to enter negotiations; the purpose is to prevent them from putting you at a positional disadvantage. We just need to make it clear to them that we see them. Besides, you're a Bombardment Mage with the high ground. In the open like they are, you could strike them all down in seconds. That means, despite their numbers and whatever intimidation they try, you're the one with a position of strength.]
"Position of strength, right." I mutter to myself, walking out of the compartment I was practicing in, and onto the deck.
As I look down onto the beach, I immediately peg the interlopers as Empire. If it weren't enough that half the goons are sporting shaved heads, it's the black SUVs with tinted windows, or-
[Positive IDs. Based on the local datanet, the gentleman in the coat and with the gas mask, on the right, is Krieg. Short-ranged kinetic manipulator. On the left, in the fursuit head, is Stormtiger. An Aerokinetic, also short-ranged. Neither can hit you at this time.]
I almost choked at Glefe's description of Stormtiger, but a moment later, something else caught my attention.
"Wait, you have internet access? Never mind, don't answer that." I catch myself at the last moment; no chatter in a combat zone, Glefe made that abundantly clear in training.
"Ahh, meine fraulien! How kind of you to join us!" An artificially amplified voice wafts up to me, presumably from Krieg.
"Not like you gave me much choice." I affect my best nonchalant lean on the ship's rusted railing, only possible because the me in the map room is visibly panicking.
"Ahh, I do apologize for our rudeness; however, in a city such as this, with so many… undesirables about, I'm afraid we must be forceful, from time to time. We just would like to extend to you an offer."
Glefe mentally butts in. [Goons are arming themselves, mass-based weaponry. Prep a shot.] Her tone is much more clipped than I'm used to.
Nonetheless, I take her advice. Flicking a finger upward and offering a mutter, I summon 25 Gewehrkugel bullets and let them hover. "And if I refuse?" I call out, raising an eyebrow.
The assorted Nazis below tense, a few cautiously shuffling towards cover. After a pause, Krieg pipes back up. "Kaiser's invitations are not optional, I'm afraid." He intones.
I cock my head, pretending to consider, as mentally I designate all the empire members as targets, and as much of the cover as I can as no-shoots. Having come to my decision, I give my reply.
"Fire!"
The bullets lance out at great speed, fanning out over the group. A few grunts, in the scant available moments before impact, attempt to dive behind cover, but the iridescent shots do their job and home in on their quarry, knocking men off their feet and leaving them sprawled in the sand. One brave man ducks behind the door of one of the SUVs, which is savagely ripped off its hinges and thrown into the grunt, bodily throwing both across the beech.
Krieg tries to do something, but whatever it is doesn't work as a trio of shots bore into him. He is launched back several feet as he lands spread-eagled in the moistened ground. Stormtiger, on the other hand, curses loudly, before doing… something, which causes both of his shots to explode in midair.
Quickly, I ready another volley, another 20, and let loose. A few tear off and strike the few remaining grunts who have maintained their consciousness, but the lion's share bore in on Stormtiger. Once again, though, he does some kind of arm motion, and the projectiles burst before hitting him.
"Bad decision, girlie! I've got your number now!" He roars.
"Glefe, some help!" I cry.
[Stand by… got it. New spell, named 'Gottlichhowbitze'. Unguided, but negligible travel time. Charge, place the reticle over the target, and fire. Charge for less than 20 seconds, and do not utilize the aria, and there is little chance of collateral damage or fatalities. Utilizable from shooting mode. Command phrase is 'los'.] She rattles off in the same clipped tone.
[Shooting mode?] I ask, panic beginning to leak into my tone.
[Say 'Activate shooting mode'] My device orders.
"Activate shooting mode!" I desperately cry
[Feuermodus aktiviert] Glefe responds robotically, and her form begins to shift. From the tip backwards, the blade splits open like a banana, before dividing again lengthwise, forming four segmented arm-like appendages by the time they reach the gem at the rear. As the splits pass the fist-sized orb, tiny tendrils of the same prismatic light as my magic flash into existence, holding the gem statically in space, as the four appendages circle it like a grasping hand. Meanwhile, the entire apparatus rotates 90 degrees, and is thrust a few inches forward with a metallic clunk and a hiss of either smoke or steam. The revealed section of the haft is perforated, some sort of vent or something.
I'm about to make an exclamation, before I bite back the reply, realizing there's no time. A thin line forms on my lips, as for the first time ever, I level Glefe at another living being.
"Gottlichhowbitze!" I intone, as a massive array, 3 or 4 feet in diameter, flashes into existence around the tip of the no-longer-spear. I start counting off; one Mississippi, two Mississippi…
Once I get to five, Stormtiger seems to have gotten close enough for his liking and readies some sort of attack. Not wanting to give him the opportunity, I place the magically-projected crosshairs over Stormtiger and cry:
"Los!"
A great beam, several feet thick, bursts from the tip of my device, lancing downrange in the blink of an eye. I see Stormtiger get struck center-of-mass, just before the brightness of the shot completely washes out my vision.
Blinking the spots out of my eyes, I'm greeted with the sight of Stormtiger, laid out in a steaming trench 20 feet long and 5 feet deep. In the distance, car alarms wail, and at the edge of my perception, approaching sirens. A hiss of steam escapes from the vent on Glefe's haft.
[Sichern vor der Feuermodus] Glefe reports, her form shifting back to her familiar spear shape with a flurry of metallic clunks.
"Holy shit." I pant. "Holy shit! I did that!"
[Congratulations are in order, but perhaps we should wait. The local authorities are on their way, and it would behoove you to not be here when they arrive.]
Once again, my mind is thrown for a loop. "Wait, what? But they're heroes! Surely it wouldn't be that bad to talk with them?"
[I'll give you a full explanation once we're safe, but for now I'm asking you to trust me: allowing yourself to be found will put you at risk of a great many bad things. Exfiltration from the area is highly recommended, preferably by flight. Plotting course now.]
On the map, a series of waypoints appear, taking me up the coast, before cutting into the docks at low level, and ending at Lord's Park.
I seriously think about staying for a few moments before I, once again, put my trust in Glefe and fly away.
---
PRT Field Agent Daniel Wilkins' feet crunch on the pea gravel roadway as he ducks below the police tape. As he descends the access road into what was once South Beach, he surveys the scene of Brockton's most recent cape fight.
Coming back up are two helmeted troopers, tandem-lifting a lumpy mass of off-white confoam, presumably containing the last of the Empire capes to be taken into PRT custody. Their escort, the Protectorate hero Assault, gives Wilkins a jaunty wave, to which he responds with a smile, nod, and raising of the paper cup of cheap coffee in his hand.
Further down, on what was once a popular beach for recreation, before those short-sighted idiots rammed a half-dozen ships on its shores, is a small gaggle of police and paramedics, the emergency vehicles' still-rolling halogen lightbars casting flashes of blue and red across the sheer, rust-colored faces of the ships' hulls.
As he casts his eyes over the scene, the first thing that jumps out to him is the innumerable, fist-sized craters in the sand. The ground has been fairly churned up with footprints already, but a fair number of them are visibly deeper and more oval in shape. Given the suspected Blaster powerset, they're clearly the effects of whatever power was employed.
Given a quick count, there are about two dozen of the imprints. Given the known length of the engagement, the unknown must have a very high fire rate.
And then there's the trench they pulled Stormtiger out of. His mind runs through the calculus, imagining a PRT strike team in the position of the Empire goons, and no matter how he looks at it, he can't really think of any tactically reasonable actions that could change the outcome, short of jumping straight to deadly force. And that's assuming the unknown isn't a brute, too.
Turning his attention back to the scene, a small forensics team from the PRT is taking photos of one of the Empire SUVs, which seems to have sustained damage in the fight. A trench-coated figure waves Wilkins over, and recognizing the face, he complies.
"Lieutenant Jefferson! How are things?" Wilkins waves a hand at the police detective as he approaches.
"Agent Wilkins. You know how it is; just another day in paradise." He gestures at the crime scene surrounding him.
"Yeah, I know how that goes." Wilkins resignedly says. "So, what do you have for me?"
"Walk with me, I'll take you through it." Jefferson moves to begin. "I assume you got the initial report on the way over?"
Wilkins nods. "Ten-thirty-two, calls come in regarding a bright light and loud bang in the boat graveyard. The first due squad car finds about a dozen suspected Empire soldiers unresponsive on the ground, and evidence of a cape fight. The officer calls for backup and PRT assistance."
"That's the long and short of it. Are you interested in my version of events, or should I just walk you through the evidence?" Jefferson looks over at the PRT Agent.
"You're a straight-shooter, far as I'm concerned. Let's hear it."
"Well." Jefferson inhales, seemingly mentally going over the evidence one more time. "As far as I can see, the morning went something like this: A baby cape decides they want to experiment, and so comes out to the Graveyard as they are wont to do. So, they take cover in that ship-" He points to the hulk which the vehicles are surrounding. "-and do… whatever it is that new capes do to figure out their powers. Unfortunately for them, though, the Empire caught wind of them."
Wilkins worries his lip. The PRT does maintain a listening station close to the entrance of the Graveyard, for exactly that purpose. And contrary to what he'd told the detective, that was, in fact, the PRT's first warning. For the Empire to have mobilized before the PRT, that means they're either maintaining their own independent surveillance of the location, or perhaps more worryingly, they're piggybacking off the PRT's work. Something he'll have to bring up with the chief later.
"Any idea how they got the heads-up?" The Agent experimentally asks.
"Nothing that will hold up in court." Detective Jefferson shakes his head. "But many of the phones we've recovered received strange, one-word texts. 'Starfall', for instance. I don't need to tell you it's likely coded messages, but none of the soldiers are in a talkative mood thus far. We're working on our CIs, but at the moment, we haven't come up with much."
Agent Wilkins shakes his head. With BBPD, it's more likely that a given cop is on the take from the gang than a given ganger is secretly a CI. He's not holding his breath.
"The rank-and-file; what was their condition?" Wilkins asks.
"Pristine." Jefferson offers, after a pause. "Suspiciously so, in fact. If there wasn't cape involvement, the medics would have diagnosed them with fainting."
Huh, so a blaster with knockout effects, then? It's weird, but capes are weird in general. Though with all the craters in the ground, the blaster clearly can physically affect targets. Maybe a secondary physical power expression that's manton limited? He makes a note of running the idea past the power testers when he gets back to base.
"To change subjects, what do we know about our baby cape?" He attempts.
"Well, their costume is a custom job, for one." Jefferson offers.
Wilkins quirks an eyebrow. "How do you figure?"
"C'mon, I'll show you." The detective offers before leading Wilkins over to one of the SUVs. He kneels just beside the rear wheel, where there's a definitive boot print, the trail leading under the vehicle. "Take a look at the tread, notice anything?" He asks, leadingly.
Now that it's mentioned, it is a strange-looking pattern, almost like it's made of overlapping plates of material, more so than a typical shoe's sole. "Sure does look weird."
"Not the only thing weird about it. Its length? Ten and a third inches. That's almost dead halfway between a Men's size 7.5 and 8, or a Women's 9 and 9.5, take your pick. Dunno about you, but I've never seen a size seven-and-three-quarters in a shoe store."
"Fair deduction." Wilkins offers. "Anything else?"
"Lots. Come." He beckons Wilkins over to another of the vehicles. "I haven't taken the training to put a number to it, but our cape has a scary-ass blaster power."
Jefferson leads them to the adjacent SUV, and to where a strong blow seems to have ripped one of the doors clean off the hinges. The sheet-metal exterior is dished inward as if struck by a giant fist.
Wilkins strokes his goatee. "Uhh, don't take this the wrong way, detective, but what exactly is so scary about this? Give me a baseball bat and a car door, and I could replicate this damage, no problem. Maybe not take it off the hinges, but-" He cuts himself off when he notices the detective giving him a knowing smirk.
"Give it a lift, why don't you?" Jefferson nods to the door.
Shrugging, Wilkins shuffles over, squats down, grasps the door, and lifts.
The door doesn't budge.
He buckles down more seriously, and the door barely rocks in the sand.
"Jesus Christ, what the fuck is that?" Wilkins finally exclaims after having given up.
"We matched the truck's VIN to a known Empire 'Cape Transport'." Jefferson offers in what seems to be a non-sequitur. "Other instances we've looked at have had half-inch armor plate hidden within the doors. They weigh somewhere in the range of 400 pounds each."
"Fuck, and this one got bent and tossed around like it's made of tinfoil." Agent Wilkins muses. "Any idea of a firing position?"
"No direct evidence for this shot, but the beam that got Stormtiger was fired from on the boat's deck." Jefferson pointed up to the ship.
"Assuming the same position, that is, what would you say? A hundred meters?"
"Or thereabouts." The detective affirms. "You want to come up with me and look from the other point of view?"
Wilkins is sorely tempted to take him up on his offer, but the evidence clearly suggests a high-tier blaster. In this situation, the protocol is clear: inform command immediately. So, he shakes his head. "No, I think I have to call this in." He replies.
"Fair enough." Jefferson shrugs. "In that case, I'll see you around, Agent."
"Yeah." Wilkins offers weakly, as he pulls out his work phone, and begins to dial as he walks away. "Wilkins, badge two-four-seven-three. Message to Chief Drake: Report for him, Code Orange. ETA to HQ one-five mikes."
---
My feet alight inside the woodline of Lord's Park. Consulting Glefe's sensors, there are only a pair of contacts; one jogger, and another walking a dog. It's trivial to dismiss my Knight's Armor and Verschleiern, and rejoin the footpath from an unobserved position.
I'm lucky I left the house in my usual exercise clothes, as I can simply 'finish my jog' and return home.
[Firstly, my lady, I'd like to offer my congratulations on winning your first true fight. You have done well in your training thus far to accomplish such.]
[Thank you, Glefe.] I telepath back. [I couldn't have done it without you. Though it was over so quickly, I'm not sure I can call it a fight.]
[Most fights are like that. The kind of pitched battles that make for such drama in media are, in reality, vanishingly rare. Fair fights tend to end according to chance, and competent officers are not gamblers. A skilled planner will seek to make a battle as unfair as possible, just like the enemy sought to do today. The only exceptions occur when, like today's opponents, one side possesses faulty intelligence.]
[I guess that makes sense.] I reply. I can see the wisdom in not picking fights you aren't sure you'll win. [Though, now that we're safe, are you willing to explain why you told me to run from the Protectorate?]
There's a long pause, lengthy enough for me to begin to worry, before Glefe responds. [...Lady Taylor, you recall the talk about my own history, correct?]
[You're talking about the civil war your nation was embroiled in?] I guess.
[Indeed. In a war on an interplanetary scale, strong mages are an essential resource. Their numbers, however, tend to be fixed. A nation can always build more ships, more devices, and train more soldiers, but the number of powerful mages will not increase simply because a nation is at war. There are many solutions to this basic problem that have been proposed, mostly involving questionably ethical surgical procedures, but the most consistently effective method of acquiring more class A and S mages? Conduct surveillance on less-developed worlds, and once a promising candidate reveals themselves, recruit them.]
[You're not saying…] My eyes widen at the implications. [Kidnapping?]
[Fortunately, it rarely comes to that. Recall how you felt when you accepted my offer. Approach someone with a mundane existence, tell them they could achieve personal power beyond their wildest dreams, be a part of something bigger than themselves, and defend their home? And all they need to do is sign on the dotted line? Most people tend to jump at that sort of offer. As the war progressed, and losses mounted, though? These offers became less and less voluntary as time went on. It's not something I'm proud of, but I've seen first-hand the sort of tactics that can be brought to bear against people in your position, my lady.]
Silence reigns for several seconds, broken only by my shoes scuffing on the pavement.
[And you're saying you believe the PRT is compromised? That if they learn too much about me, one of these groups might just swoop in and 'recruit' me?]
[I want to be very careful with what I say, because I don't have any direct evidence to support this theory. What I will say, though, is that if I were in command of Belka's observation of your planet, placing agents within this PRT to gather information on possible candidates would have been my number one priority.]
I nibble on my lip as I think. [You specified that you didn't have direct evidence. Does that mean you have indirect evidence?]
[Yes. As you entered what you called the Ship Graveyard, my EWAR suite detected a narrowband electromagnetic transmission from one of the waterfront buildings. Based on the protocols used, I determined the PRT was likely responsible, and also that their response time exceeded the duration of our likely stay. Therefore, I elected not to tell you, so that your reaction would not betray any of our sensory capabilities.]
[They saw us? Do you think they have my face?] I nearly hesitate enough to stumble.
[It's possible, but unlikely. My analysis of the local datanet has indicated the existence of a social construct known as the 'Unwritten Rules'. They claim to be a gentleman's agreement of sorts between criminals and law enforcement for the purpose of reducing escalation. One of its tenets is the protection of Parahumans' identities when not participating in certain activities. It is unlikely they would betray such an agreement for so little potential gain.]
I'm vaguely aware of the unwritten rules, so I accept Glefe's reasoning. [Fine, so the PRT saw me going in, how does that make them corrupt?]
[Well, my lady, you tell me: The PRT called you in, and who showed up?]
[The… Empire.] I reply, coming to a realization. [You're not saying-]
[The Empire, as a matter of course, does not hold territory on this side of the city, and it's extremely unlikely that my sensors would have missed a message being sent from a hypothetical Empire observation post observing the Boat Graveyard. Instead, the most likely chain of events is that the PRT's message was intercepted. By a mole within the organization, or through signals intelligence, I cannot say. In either case, the Empire, having received this information, was able to scramble a response before the PRT could do the same. Now, if the PRT is penetrated by a local street gang, what do you think could be accomplished by an organization with the resources of an interplanetary government?]
I let the silence stretch as I continue running. [...So I guess I need to worry about the space wizards infiltrating the US government. This is my life now.]
Glefe doesn't deign to respond.
I continued to run for about a minute before realizing I'd meant to ask something. [You've made several references to the 'Local Datanet'. Do you have internet access?]
[I do. I've been able to successfully spoof a cellular telephone signal and am piggybacking off that system to allow network access. My EWAR suite is also capable of utilizing more specialised wireless networks, such as those using 802.11-family protocols, but due to range limitations and a lack of need for higher bandwidths, I have not yet made use of that.]
[That sounds… incredibly illegal.] Judgment is clear in my tone.
[Do you really care that I'm costing a multinational corporation a few cents an hour?]
[Well, when you put it like that…] My mind still sticks to the consequences of her getting found out, though. [Can you at least promise it won't come back to us?]
[I'm nearly certain that nobody has noticed. If, hypothetically, my activity is detected in the future, there are four other usable networks in the local area to fall back upon.]
[If you say so-] I'm about to roll my eyes at my device when I round the corner onto my street and see a familiar vehicle in the driveway. [Huh, Dad's home. Must have forgotten something.]
I put on the gas slightly to hurry to my door. After briefly checking that there aren't, like, people over or something, I swiftly clamber up the front steps, skipping over the broken one, of course, before fumbling with my keyring briefly and swinging open the door.
"Hey, Dad, I'm home!" I call out as I slip in, admittedly curious as to why he's home.
"Taylor!" I hear a shout from further into the house, as my dad comes barreling out of the kitchen.
"Hey!" I chirp. "-But why are you home? Did something-"
"Where were you? What were you doing?" He practically demands.
My brain short-circuits. What? Maybe it's the perspective of having beaten up two separate Empire capes earlier talking, but I do something I might not have done, previously. I sass him, a little.
I theatrically look down at myself, still clad in my exercise clothes. "...what does it look like I was doing?"
My father blinks. "It… It looks like you were running? What were you doing out? Don't you know it's dangerous?"
Okay, that? That actually pissed me off a little. "Sorry? Am I grounded? Because if I am, you never bothered to tell me."
"No, but-"
"But what?" I snap. "You're getting upset at me because I left the house! What do you want me to do? Sit alone in my room for the rest of my life?"
"Taylor, I want you to be safe!"
What the actual hell is happening right now? "Dad, are you okay?"
"I- Taylor, what?"
"Dad, I want you to look at me." I give a pause for effect. "Within ten seconds of me walking in the door, you were blowing up at me because, what, I left the house? That's not normal. Please, tell me what's going on."
"Taylor, I-" He starts, before cutting himself off. "You're right, I'm sorry. Should we sit down?"
"Probably." I reply.
We walk over to the living room, each plopping down on an armchair and the couch, which are on opposite sides of the coffee table.
Dad sighs, rubbing his temples, before beginning to speak. "There was a big cape fight in the Docks, close enough to the DWA that we heard it from inside. I got worried about you, so I called home, but you didn't answer…"
"Alright." I nod, doing my best to smile reassuringly. So, I guess Dad wasn't wrong to be worried, per se, since that cape fight was me. With that being said, though, if I told him about Glefe, he would 100% flip out and put me in the Wards, which, as Glefe just established, might end up with me getting kidnapped by the space wizards or whatever.
After some consideration in the brief time available, I think I have a plan of attack.
"Where was this cape fight, Dad?" I ask.
"The, uhh, Boat Graveyard, I'm pretty sure? It was in that direction, at least." He responds, quirking an eyebrow.
"Dad, why would I have been anywhere near the Boat Graveyard?"
"I… I don't know, honey. It's just, after your mother-"
Ouch. I don't want him to finish that. "Dad, I love you." I interrupt, leaning forward, and putting my hand atop his, as I brush a budding tear from the corner of my eye. "But, can I ask you something?"
"Anything, honey."
"Can I ask you to trust me? Trust that I'm smart enough to not get myself killed whenever anything remotely dangerous happens anywhere in the city?" Technically, not a lie. But still, for his own health, if nothing else, we need to have this conversation. "Because this isn't the first time you've called home worried after hearing about something I could not have reasonably been involved in. And if I have to stay home all day, every day, just in case something happens to worry you… I can't do that."
Dad closes his eyes and inhales deeply. "Okay. I don't think I can promise not to worry about you, but I can promise not to hold it against you. Can you accept that?"
I move in for the hug. "That's fine, Dad. Now, as long as you're home, want lunch?"
He smiles down at me. "Sure, kiddo."
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