After my turbulent Friday, the weekend was thankfully peaceful. That disguise spell worked great, considering that neither Armsmaster nor Hookwolf ended up busting down my front door, despite my consistent fears to the contrary.
My magic lessons continued at pace, starting with proper instruction on Gottlichhowbitze. Glefe described it as a 'beam-type bombardment spell', and, despite allegedly being one of the 'tamer' spells of its class, it's still at the "Shoot it at a building, and it will go out the other side, and also the building behind it, and probably the one behind that one too" level of dangerous. Needless to say, I'll be doing my best to avoid using it, if only for the sake of the local infrastructure.
The other focus of my training has been getting comfortable casting spells without Glefe's help. As she put it, I would always be more effective with her assistance, but the less she has to compensate for my lack of knowledge, the better our effectiveness will be. Our test case has been Gewehrkugel, which, according to Glefe, is on the complicated side for this exercise; but it's both the simplest spell I know, and one of the best bang-for-my-buck spells I could possibly learn, given its sheer combat utility.
I've managed to make some progress, which in this context means that with the aria and array, I can just about manage to summon a few projectiles at a time without Glefe's assistance, but the equations for targeting are still beyond me. Something to work on, I suppose.
Since Glefe's simulation has been dialed in, we decided to avoid any more real-life training, which is just fine by me. Over the weekend, though, my magic training has been supplemented by classroom-style lectures in real life, assisted with mana-generated holographic screens. Let me tell you, they scared the hell out of me the first time Glefe busted one out outside my partition.
They have been extremely helpful, though. The variety of topics we've covered has stretched from a more detailed basic history of the Belkan Empire, as well as its Dimensional Geography, but more interestingly, a primer on the Belkan Language. All that weird stuff I have to shout to cast spells? Mostly in Belkan, apparently.
To me, it sounds an awful lot like German, but I'm not the magical space AI teaching me to shoot lasers from my fingers, so what do I know?
Anyway, I was surprised to learn that the spell names weren't just nonsense. Or, not complete nonsense at any rate. "Fligerflosse", for instance, translates to something along the lines of "Fin of the flyer". What's a flyer? Why does it have fins? Fuck if I know.
A more interesting tangent came with "Gewehrkugel", which means "Rifle Bullet". I was surprised that magic-space-wizard-land had normal-sounding guns, but was disappointed to learn that these weapons were what we would call "Rifled Muskets", and haven't been in use for a thousand or so years.
When I asked why that is, Glefe dropped a fairly large bombshell: all non-magical weapons, or as Belka termed them, "Baryonic Weapons", have been effectively outlawed in Belka for its entire history. As she explained, there was once a highly advanced civilization named Al-Hazard, which was destroyed when they caused some sort of apocalypse with the things. At least, as far as anyone can figure out? Glefe was unsure of the details, but it resulted in all Baryonic Weapony being de facto banned.
I'm not really sure why gun control was such a big priority in a society where a significant portion of the population can level buildings with their mind, but I'm not the one running the interdimensional empire, so it's very possible I'm missing something.
Anyway, apart from a conversation with Dad on Sunday regarding where I was and was not allowed to run to, New Year's came and went without much extra drama, thankfully.
At least, until Monday morning, as I'm getting dressed, when I catch a glimpse of something unexpected in the full-length mirror on my closet door.
[Glefe?] I calmly ask.
[Yes, lady Taylor?]
[Why do I have abs? I've only been working out for, what, a week?]
[Today will be day 7 of your exercise regimen, yes.]
[It's not normal for people to build muscle this fast, right? Do you know what's going on?]
[I do.]
…
[...Will you tell me?]
[Pursuant to Kronenordnung 1697-18, I am unable to answer that question.]
I narrow my eyes. [What?]
[Due to my programming, I am incapable of independently taking actions that would violate Belkan law. One such law is Kronenordnung 1697-18, which prevents me from divulging certain information to individuals not native to Belka or its protectorates.]
[...But you do know what is causing it.] I state, rather than ask.
[Affirmative.]
[Is it harmful to me?] I ask, exasperation leaking into my voice.
[No.]
[Does it have to do with me using magic?]
[It more likely has to do with your Linker Core having been activated.]
[And you can't tell me what it is…] I tap my chin, thinking. [Will… whatever is happening have other effects?]
[It is highly likely.]
[Can you tell me about any of them?]
[No.]
"Gahh!" I groan, returning to the task of getting dressed.
As I do so, though, I begin to notice more oddities. The underwear I'd selected hugs me just a little tighter than I remember. I frown as I poke my chest, which seems just a little tight in my bra.
[Glefe? Am I growing?]
[You are of pubescent age. It is only natural that you are growing.]
[Oh, for fuck's- Am I growing because of the thing you can't tell me about?]
[Pursuant to Kronenordnung 1697-18, I'm afraid I cannot answer that question.]
[God fucking damn it. Glefe, school starts in two days. Hypothetically speaking, if this growth spurt is because of the thing you can't tell me about, will I need to buy new clothes before then?]
[In that purely hypothetical situation, then you would.]
I want to scream, but barely restrain myself, instead electing just to put my face in my palms. [Uhggg. That's going to cost so much money! Where am I going to get it? I can't get a job in two days!]
Just as I begin to spiral, Glefe pipes up again. [My lady, may I make a suggestion?]
[Why not?] I groan, not revealing my face.
[You have already attracted the ire of one of the local criminal organizations. It's doubtful that stealing from them would have a great effect on your reputation with them.]
[Yeah, great fuckin' plan, Glefe, just rob the gang of super-powered Nazis. What could possibly go wrong?]
[I know that is a rhetorical question, but may I answer it anyway?]
[Fine.]
[You can fly. They cannot. No matter what transpires, you will be able to leave, and there is nothing they can do about it.]
[Can't Rune fly?] I ask accusingly.
[No. She can ride atop objects her power is affecting. This means that even basic evasive maneuvers are beyond her, and her ranged options are so laughable as to be indistinguishable from nothing at all.]
I sigh. [God damn it, Glefe. You realize robbing a gang isn't as easy as just, what? Flying around until you see skinheads hanging around?
[Actually, it may be that easy. Open-source intelligence indicates a dogfighting event was held late last night in the warehouse district. Logic dictates that the take must be consolidated and counted before transport to a more secure location. This is a process that will likely take hours. It is highly likely that the money is still on-site, protected only by whatever guards are organically stationed there.]
[Oh, yeah, just storm a heavily guarded warehouse full of empire thugs. What could go wrong?]
[The garrison is unlikely to exceed the strength of the force you dispatched on Friday, with what I will remind you was with nearly a single spell. It is within your capabilities, and is even arguably legal.]
[...you really think this is a good idea?]
[I do. A force of less than a dozen untrained gangsters wielding weak baryonic weaponry poses minimal threat to a bombardment mage of even your skill level. A raid of this type will not only provide you a war chest — something you currently lack — but it will deny the enemy the use of those resources.]
I sigh. [I guess you're talking me into this, then. When are you thinking we should strike?]
[During your run, of course! Find somewhere secluded, set up, and fly a quick grid pattern over the warehouse district; my sensors should be more than capable of locating the site. Once we find it, incapacitate the guards, and I'll be able to put the spoils in dimensional storage! It's important we hit them before the transport arrives, because that will come with more guards.]
[Fine. Leave once I'm dressed?]
[Time is of the essence. In fact, please spin up your image training immediately. I'll give you a crash course on Lichtbajonett, a serviceable and collateral-free cross-range option.]
---The early morning wind whips through my hair as I buzz over the rooftops of the warehouse district. Glefe called it "Nap of the Earth" flying. Once I got the hang of it, it turned out to be pretty dang fun & exhilarating.
Meanwhile, in image training, I'm finishing up my work on Lichtbajonett, or 'Light Bayonet'. It's, basically speaking, exactly what it sounds like: Take Glefe's actual, physical blade, and project a mana-generated copy from the tip. It gives me a few inches more reach, but more importantly, vastly increased cutting power, akin to a lightsaber. More importantly to me, though, it can be used with training mode, unlike, you know, just stabbing someone with a big-ass polearm.
[Contact! I have them! Looks like they're still counting! Pop up, I'll talk you on.] Glefe rattles off quickly, almost excitedly.
Instantly, my image training partition dissolves, replaced with the map room. I scan the buildings around me, but there are several containing life signs. Meanwhile, I bank my actual body into a zoom climb, bringing myself to a halt about 200 feet in the air.
[Good. Initial reference is the tall, brick smokestack at your twelve o'clock. Call contact.]
I look forward and, indeed, there's a big-ass chimney connected to some run-down boiler or another.
[Uhh, contact?] I reply tentatively.
[Two blocks to the south, there's a two-story brick warehouse. A large, red sign reads 'Redmond Welding'. Call contact.]
I cast my eyes south and almost immediately catch the building she described. The large, red, freestanding sign is the most eye-catching thing in the area. [Contact.] I report more confidently.
[Reference that building, four blocks west. South side of the road, tall, three-story structure with metal framing. Sawtooth roof with large glazed windows, blue-painted walls with a single thick red horizontal stripe circling the building. Call contact.]
[Contact.]
[That is the target. On the south side of the structure, there is a small, six-spot parking lot. A single pedestrian door opens onto it. That will be your entrance.]
[Got it.] I reply, zooming off towards the warehouse at low level, before diving over the roof of the neighboring building, and alighting gently on the overgrown lot with a light crunch of debris underfoot.
I was half-expecting a loud klaxon, or someone raising an intruder alert over a public address system, or something, but no. From the exterior, it looks like any other warehouse in the neighborhood.
My heels crunch on the lot's loose debris as I approach the door. "Lichtbajonett", I intone, as the energy snaps into being around Glefe's head.
[My lady, perhaps it would be advisable to check if the door is actually locked prior to forcing entry?]
I frown, canceling the spell. [Shut up.] I pout, face reddening.
I try the lock, and, while the handle doesn't move, a tug on it causes the door to swing open, the mechanism inside missing. I grumble further as I check with Glefe's sensors in the map room.
The warehouse, though it would probably be more accurate to call it a factory, is a large, open-plan room. It's easy to imagine the factory floor brimming with buzzing machines, but the only reminders of its previous use are rusted bolt-shafts jutting from the bare concrete floor, their heads long since cut off by whoever removed the machinery. In fact, the only unmolested structural features from that time are a squat brick structure, perhaps once an office, off to one corner of the room, along with a hanging catwalk ringing the factory floor about two stories up.
Now, though, the majority of the floor space is taken up by several sets of folding bleachers, of the type one might perhaps find at a carnival or fair. They ring a fenced-off portion of the floor in the center of the room, bloodstains on the concrete serving as a reminder of what occurred here. On the floor, there is a variety of litter of all sorts, from beer cans to snack wrappers, and, ironically, a few Chinese takeout containers. On the catwalks above is a jumble of jury-rigged stage lighting, serving to illuminate the fight pit.
As for the guards, there are four out in the factory area, all on the catwalk. All four are armed with long guns, two possess assault rifles, and the other two two shotguns. The remaining six life signs on site are within the office, presumably doing the counting. They appear armed as well; however, pistols and large knives appear similarly on Glefe's sensors, so how well-equipped they are is up for debate.
It only takes me a moment to come up with a basic plan of attack, which I execute almost immediately. A quick casting of Gewehrkugel gives me eight bullets, which I donate to the four sentries outside with a cry of "Fire!" the second I came through the door.
The prismatic bolts zip off faster than anyone can react, and the Nazis they bore in on are instantly knocked out and thrown back.
...Oh, maybe that was too much. One of the Empire grunts gets thrown over the railing and begins tumbling downward with a scream. Not wanting to become a murderer on my second outing as a cape, I invoke "Fligerflosse!" and zip into his path, just barely managing to catch him by the shoulders before he cracks his head on the pavement. A wet snap is heard as his legs impact, though.
An angry "The fuck's going on out there?!" is my only warning before the door to the office is thrown open, the angry skinhead, with a pistol at the low-ready, quickly scans the area before his eyes alight on me.
I don't give him an opportunity to say anything, though, as a pair of Gewehrkugel shots knock him clean off his feet and back into the office. Surprised expletives and cries of "Cape!" ring out as I hear scrambling on the other side of the wall.
I freeze up. There are five of them in there, and they know I'm here!
[Remember, violence of action! You let them fortify, you've lost!] Glefe thankfully snaps me out of my reverie.
"Lichtbajonett!" I cry as I fly through the now-open door as fast as my magic will take me.
A metric shitstorm of gunfire greets me, but I'm already through the entrance, so the rounds fly wide, mostly sparking off the bleachers in the main room. Three feet in, and I'm upon the first Nazi, my blade flashing as he crumples to the ground. A second fusillade of gunfire rings out, and I perform a flight-assisted pirouette over the flipped table number one was cowering behind and transition into a spear-pointed charge at the second target, which terminated in his chest.
Can't stop moving now. A single twist transitions the momentum into a different direction as something feels like it rubs over my shoulder. No time to ponder that, though, as the motion carries Glefe's blade into the shoulder of number three.
The final two are making for the door, now, apparently sensing things aren't going their way. One final cast of Gewehrkugel lays out the first, but the second barely manages to make it through the door before the bullet is upon him, rending deep divots into the brickwork as they impact the wall.
I let him go. He's not going to raise any alarms that the gunfire hasn't tripped already, and hunting him down will take time I don't want to spend.
[Glefe, you're up. How do we do this?]
[Let me see… Desk at the far end, briefcase on top, that's your target. Go up to it, and I'll walk you through it.]
---
Brad Meadows was not having a very nice day. He'd spent the night emceeing a dog fight at the new location and didn't get home until the sun was peeking above the horizon. Then, instead of at least getting to sleep in, an urgent call from Kaiser woke him up at ass-o'clock in the morning. Apparently, the 'Allies in Europe' were sending over an inspector, as if James wasn't enough, and that meant that he had to sit on his ass in a meeting room for three hours for some fucking reason.
Now, hours after he'd planned on, he finally has the opportunity to pick up the cash from last night's fight, and what happens as he's on the way? A fucking gunfight breaks out in the venue.
It was at that moment that Brad decided that someone was dying today.
Just as he approaches the front door, the gunfire stops. Brad pauses to listen, and the muscle he has with him has to abruptly halt, nearly running into his back. He picks up the sound of running feet. Brad positions himself in the doorway, and the now-visible man on the other side skids to a stop inches from collision.
"O-oh, Hookwolf, s-sir! I'm g-glad you're here!" The panting man stutters out.
"The hell happened here?" Brad grumbles.
"W-we were just finishing u-up the count, sir, but then this cape s-showed up. The first I realized was when the doorman got blown off his feet, and then she started going through the others like a woodchipper through a watermelon field! I had to get out and raise the alarm!"
"Settle the fuck down. Anyone dead?" Brad asks.
"I didn't check, but I think so, sir."
"Alright." He nods. "Raush, make sure this idiot doesn't do anything else stupid. The rest of you, form a perimeter, and ventilate anything leaving that isn't me. Got it?"
"On it, boss!" A chorus of obedient voices ring out.
Brad casually strolls into the ring, calmly observing the visible guards: passed out, or dead, it doesn't really matter; they're out of the fight.
Then, through the door, there's a flash of light. Perfect. Whoever did this is still here.
"Hey, why don't you come out and we'll talk about this? You never know, you might even live!" He calls out, with a malevolent chuckle.
After a short delay, a figure exits the office. It's a woman; long curly black hair cascading down her shoulders as the weird-ass split dress thing she's wearing swishes with the movement. In her hands is some kind of funky-looking spear.
"Wow, I wasn't actually expecting that to work." Brad muses to himself. "Still, I do always like to look a person in the eyes before I kill them. Even if they robbed me first."
The woman's eyes widened for a moment before she schooled her expression. "Ugh, you really like the sound of your voice, don't you, Hookwolf? Thinking of a rebrand to Yapdog?"
"Ohh, and she's got a mouth on her, too! Let's see how long that holds up once I start cutting you up!"
There's a beat of silence as the echoes fade.
The woman shrugs, muttering something, before a dozen or so orbs of iridescent light materialize around her strange weapon. "You're welcome to try." She states, before with a flick of her hand, the orbs streak out towards him, impacting in a great burst of dust.
Not his first rodeo, Hookwolf fluidly transforms, lashing out at her last location as his vision clears. The shots stung hard, even through the layers of metal. She must be a powerful blaster.
Aside from an audible, but not tactile crunch, the blow seemed to have no effect.
As the dust cleared, Brad found himself alone in the building. A quick survey of the scene shows a clean, person-shaped hole in one of the skylights.
"Motherfucker!" Brad curses.
---
The wind whips through my hair as I dash through the Warehouse District, at below-roof level in order to evade any pursuers. After a few jinks, I manage to make it to the Docks, and by extension, the bay. Once over the water, I assure myself that any followers are long gone, and so I begin the somewhat longer, and less interesting flight back to Lord's Park as I try to get my breathing back under control
[For completeness's sake, I should ask you, why did you run?] Glefe asks, voice free of judgement.
I pause for a moment before answering. [Well, I had what we came for, and I wasn't sure that I could take Hookwolf in a stand-up fight. So, I left, since he couldn't follow.]
[Did you consider that he's the Empire's single most powerful asset? Defeating him would have been a severe blow to your enemies.]
[No, it doesn't matter.] I reply, becoming more confident in my choice as I speak. [He, a melee fighter, had me in an enclosed space, where I'm at my weakest, and where using my most powerful abilities is difficult. Besides, I wouldn't gain much. Your risk-reward ratios? Yeah, they were all out of whack for continuing.]
Several seconds passed where the only noise came from the wind rushing past my ears.
[Good.] Glefe finally responds. [That means that my tactics lessons are working.]
[Eh?] I dumbly reply.
[One of the hardest lessons to teach a young and inexperienced officer is that just because you can fight, doesn't mean that you should fight. Innumerable young soldiers have ended up dead because someone, somewhere, got too caught up in shooting the bad guys to truly think about what the consequences of accepting a battle might be. That you, in the heat of the moment, and without prompting, recognized that your objectives were complete and disengaged, speaks well of your intelligence and ability. I'm proud of you, Lady Taylor.]
I feel as my cheeks heat, but for a good reason this time. [Thanks, Glefe.]
[You're very welcome, my lady. On an unrelated note, consider brushing off your left shoulder. It appears a few bits of projectile have lodged themselves in the fabric.]
Narrowing my eyes, I run a hand over the indicated location and feel a few rough granules in the stitching.
Bringing my fingers up to my face, I'm greeted by an even split of tiny, shiny copper slivers and larger, flat, and dull silvery flakes.
"Huh." I muse, brain struggling to come to terms with the fact that I'd been shot, and I hadn't even noticed.
A low hum of conversation hangs in the air of PRT ENE Secure Briefing Room 2. The entirety of the Protectorate and Wards are in attendance, save for Velocity and Aegis, who are performing a foot patrol through Downtown. This is per standard operating procedure, as otherwise, the duration of the briefing might be seen as a moment of opportunity, should a villain learn of its scheduled time.
At the moment the clock strikes 6:00, the door swings open, and Armsmaster strides into the room. None of the assembled heroes so much as raises an eyebrow, so accustomed they are to the Protectorate Commander's eccentricities.
He strides behind a podium, set up beside the room's projector screen, and across from the three-tiered lecture hall-style seating occupying the majority of the room. The assembled heroes quickly quieted as their commander reached his position.
"Thank you all for being here so punctually." He starts off, head slightly turning as if he is reading words on a page. "I appreciate that many of you find these monthly briefings tiresome, but they are necessary for the effective dissemination of information, so your presence here is appreciated."
Several pairs of eyeballs roll behind masks in the audience section, but Armsmaster has no way of seeing them.
"As always, we'll start with the local threat update. Militia, if you would?" The blue-armored man yields the floor to his second-in-command.
"Thank you, sir." She graciously acknowledges, as she steps up, and inhales. "Starting off with the Empire, there's good news to report. As many of you have likely heard, Krieg and Stormtiger were taken into custody late last week by a new vigilante. I'll hold further discussion of the fight until we discuss our new player. More strategically, it's a loss for Kaiser, but not a particularly big one. Those two are the Empire's best all-rounders, but their absence won't create any holes their existing lineup can't fill. More notable is the propaganda impact; Kaiser won't take this lying down, and Thinkers have evaluated the threat of a breakout attempt as exceptionally high. Armsmaster will discuss our countermeasures during the deployment section. Any questions?"
She pauses for a moment, long enough for one hand in the audience to go up. "Yes, Dauntless?"
"Enhanced containment procedures are in effect, correct?" He asks.
"They're being held on the Rig, yes." Miss Militia affirms. "We expect the breakout attempt when the prisoners are moved, which is currently scheduled for Monday, the 10th. That sort of thing has always been the Empire's specialty."
There are numerous grumbles throughout the room at this comment. It's no secret that the gangs generally, and the Empire in particular, have penetrated the local PRT deeply, yet the assistance the national organization promises always tends to go missing prior to actually materializing.
"If there's nothing else, we'll be moving on to the ABB." Miss Militia continues once the discussion dies down. "They haven't seen much activity in the past month. While their territory hasn't seen much movement, though, as we discussed last month, there is significant circumstantial evidence to suggest their income may be in a shallow decline. The last time this occurred was back in 2008, which Lung responded to by recruiting Oni Lee. Expect the unexpected whenever you find yourself in their claimed territory."
There are a few murmurs, but nothing of substance to dwell on.
"Moving on to smaller organizations, we'll kick off with New Wave. They're lying low following Glory Girl's infamous billboard incident last month, and they haven't taken any patrols not connected with Panacea's volunteer work. Brandish, however, has indicated to us that they intend to pick things back up further into the new year."
There are a few chuckles from the assembled heroes; it's a safe bet that everyone in the city with an internet connection had, at this point, seen the teen cape's misadventure. It was, in fact, the title slide of a safety brief on 'distracted utilization of mover powers', put on by Armsmaster the previous month.
"On a less funny note, a group of armed men we've identified as being affiliated with the villain Coil ambushed a high-security transport on I-95 just before New Year's. We've determined it is highly likely to have been carrying tinkertech of some sort; however, the owners have not been able to locate a cargo manifest. Finally, a small association of narcotics producers located in the vicinity of Archer's Bridge has recently acquired cape support, making them now within our purview. Of note are Skidmark, a blaster/shaker 2, and Squealer, a vehicle-focused tinker 3. They both have a minor criminal record from their home in Providence. Expect a more detailed briefing on them once the Thinkers have a chance to go over their operation. Questions?"
"Yeah, are they serious with those names?" Clockblocker calls out. "I mean, I know I'm not exactly one to talk, but come on!"
Miss Militia sighs. "Any other questions?" She waits before continuing. "Then it's time we talked about our newest independent. Armsmaster, I believe you wanted to take this one?"
"That's correct, thank you, Militia." He says, before retaking his position behind the podium. "At 10:13am on Friday, December 30th, the automated Boat Graveyard observation post registered a single individual entering alone. That was followed, about two minutes later, by the detection of anomalous energy readings. As such, the listening post raised an alarm with the console duty officer at PRT HQ, who began organizing a response."
Armsmaster pauses, taking a sip of water before continuing. "Through as-yet unknown means, the Empire learned of the existence of the presumed new parahuman at approximately the same time, and was quicker to respond. At 10:25, three black GMC Yukon SUVs entered the boat graveyard, containing the villains Krieg and Stormtiger, as well as eleven unpowered Empire members, with the presumed mission of capturing the unknown cape. This is the observation post's recording of what happened next."
He presses a button on the back of his left wrist, causing the room's lights to darken and the projector to switch on. After the bulb warms up, the picture shows a view from the second floor of a waterfront building, overlooking the Boat Graveyard. At the bottom of the screen, the three SUVs enter, taking the access road, before stopping in front of the second-closest ship. The doors open and disgorge their occupants, who move to surround the vessel.
On the ship's deck, a door opens, helpfully magnified by a picture-in-picture view, though the quality is barely good enough to make out shapes. The figure walks to the edge, before seemingly engaging the Empire members in conversation briefly, before doing something which blows out the camera's sensor for a time and obscures the ground in smoke. Seconds later, a second blast illuminates the gathered dust briefly, but doesn't shine any further light on the events transpiring inside. Finally, after a few more seconds, the entire view is blown out in a bright flash. Once the sensor readjusts, and the smoke clears, the unknown cape is gone, and all the Empire members are lying on the ground.
"Jesus." Dauntless mutters. "How long did that take them?"
"Total engagement time was fifteen seconds. Forty-five if you count from when they revealed themselves. Of note is that, while the collateral damage was significant..."
He presses a button and switches the slide from the now-finished video to a photograph of an armored door, dished in from a great impact, eliciting a few mutters of exclamation.
"...None of the empire members bore injuries not consistent with a hard fall to the ground from standing. This cape, given the provisional name Rainbow, is currently theorized to be a Manton-limited, but high-tier blaster, and this is backed up by thinktank analysis."
There are a few whistles in the audience. "Tactically, Rainbow is being given a rating of Blaster 6, until further information becomes available. Operationally, standard unknown approach procedures apply. Remember that while demonstrably dangerous, they aren't suspected of any criminal activity. Utilize a soft sell, and hopefully, we get a new coworker out of the exchange. Any questions? Good." He finishes without pausing.
"We'll now move on to next month's deployment billet. Triumph and Velocity will be sitting alert-"
"Uhh, sir?" Kid Win pipes up, his hand swinging in the air for emphasis.
"Oh, Kid Win, my apologies." Armsmaster apologizes robotically.
"Uhh, yeah, sir, it's just that you mentioned anomalous energy readings? Could you elaborate on that a bit? We don't have to deal with, like, a Plutonium Man situation, right?"
There are a few murmurs of assent from the other heroes.
"...Ahh, I see that explanation did not make it into the final talking notes, my apologies. Rest assured, the anomalousness was not due to any present radiation; in fact, the reverse was true. The sensors picked up repeated flashes consistent with either small explosions or magnesium flash-fires, but lacking any of the temperature variations these events would create. Thus, the origin was deemed likely to be parahuman in origin, and the alert was sent out. Any other questions on Rainbow?" He asks once again, actually pausing this time.
And this time, no hands rise.
"Excellent, we can move on. Now, as I was saying, Triumph and Velocity will be the ones sitting alert, until the Empire makes their move..."
Stepping through the door, I practically fly up the stairs to my room.
Now that I say that, though, since I can, you know, literally fly now, maybe I need a new turn of phrase. Point is, I'm very excited to see just what I got out of my excursion this morning.
Finally, I come to my door, rip it open, and approach my bed.
"Glefe, if you would? Over the bed, please." I chirp, and with a flash, my loot appears, thudding into the sheets.
When I was in the thick of the action, I never had a chance to actually examine the case; I just took it on faith that Glefe knew what was inside. Now that I'm actually looking at the thing, it seems an awful lot… cheaper than I'd imagined. In fact, I think that Dad has one of these in the basement, full of poker chips he bought at Walmart a few years ago.
Ignoring its shabbiness, I hoist the thing up and walk it over to my vanity, the closest thing to a table I have in my room. It's a little heavier than I'd imagined, but with all the untold riches doubtlessly stuffed inside, that's to be expected, surely.
I undo the clasps and…
Oh.
You know, in the movies, these things are always neatly organized, and completely full of bundles of hundred-dollar bills. This, though, is about half-full of haphazardly thrown bundles of all denominations. The bundles themselves? They don't even have those pretty, neat, colorful bands with the denominations printed on; these are plain white paper straps or rubber bands, with values written on the bills themselves in permanent marker.
"Oh." I mutter, the disappointment leaking into my tone.
Well, I guess I shouldn't be too disappointed. This is still, far and away, more money than I've ever seen in one place before. I'll just have to go through and count whatever is in here…
And I'll probably have to double-check the counts within each bundle, too; don't think I can trust criminals to count right...
Yeah, fuck all of that. I root around in the case for a bundle of hundreds, slip three off the top, before snapping the case closed, and squirreling it away between my bed and the wall where nobody is finding the damn thing.
I have (uugh) shopping to do.
---
I scowl at the white camisole Glefe had me pick out. I'm not even wearing it, just holding it up to my chest.
The changing room's mirror, faint amounts of grime barely visible in the overhead lighting, stands unhelpfully silent as it ignores my plight.
[I think not.] She observes, not elaborating.
[You know, you're awfully opinionated, for a piece of jewelry.]
Glefe had been very vocal about "Finding clothing befitting of my station", yet was not nearly as talkative regarding what, exactly, that station is.
[As my master, you are representative of me, my lady. Additionally, even though you are not formally a member of the Special Air Service, you are still a practitioner of Belkan-style magic, which means you are representing them too. You are better than baggy sweatshirts 24/7.]
[But, they're comfy.] I whine, already knowing I won't be winning this argument.
[It's possible to both be comfortable and look like you have any degree of care for your appearance at the same time.]
[If you say so.] I cede the point. [I'd rather we get this over with, mind if I go back out there?]
[It is why we are here, is it not?]
[Smartass.] I mutter, before leaving the changing room.
I walk out of the changing room hallway, and into the main floor of the shop. Re-surveying the floor, I make my way to the top… section? I don't know how any of this works; Emma always helped me with these sorts of things back before, well, you know.
Shaking my head to arrest the spiral I was descending into, I walk over to a rack, and start paging through the shirts there like a book. Not really sure as to what I'm doing, I zone out as I haphazardly pluck hangars from the rack, with only minor input from Glefe.
"You look like you could use some help."
I jump what seems a foot into the air, before I school my face and turn to the newcomer.
Long, blonde hair cascades down the sides of a girl about my age's head, framing her freckled face and deep green eyes in an almost deliberate-looking fashion. Wait, no, that's the kind of thing that most girls try to do, right? So it is deliberate.
It takes my mind several seconds to process my diversion before what she said registers with my brain.
"I… do?" I ask.
"You just look like you're here a bit less voluntarily than most of these other girls." She says, gesturing to the handful of other school-aged girls in the store.
Now that she mentions it, they do have a particular look to them, buzzing from display to display like bees gathering nectar from flowers.
"Lemme guess, something happened that means you need to buy new clothes right before school starts again? A growth spurt, maybe? That hint of midriff doesn't look intentional…"
I'm beginning to get more than a little unnerved by how this random girl seems to be laying my whole life bare based solely on how I look. Maybe all that psychobabble nonsense Glefe was spouting has something to it?
"Anyway, trust me, you'll get nowhere just grabbing whatever off the racks and throwing it together. You want some advice? Grab, say, three outer layers you're happy with, five tops that go decently with all three, and two bottoms. Congrats, you now have 30 different outfits, and it took you, like, ten minutes. Should at least tide you over until you get the rest of your wardrobe dealt with." She adds with a wink.
"Uhh, thanks, I think?"
"Anytime!" She chirps, before busying herself with whatever it was she was doing before deciding to bother me.
I stand stock still for a precious few seconds, flabbergasted by the interaction that just occurred.
Truly, the extrovert is a strange and terrifying creature.
Still, though, the advice seemed sound, so I move to follow it. Dumping what I'd gleaned so far back onto the rack, I move to the opposite side and start browsing.
Okay… this sweater is my size. And this cardigan looks nice…
"Hey!" The girl from before calls from across the store. "Behind you, second shelf on the right! You'll look great!"
I glance at the shelf she's indicating, and it's this thing that's a tight leather jacket with full sleeves, but cropped just below the bust.
I skeptically glance back at the girl, who shoots me a thumbs-up before turning her attention back to an ugly purple jacket.
Fuckin' weirdo.
Whatever. I grab it just in case she's watching, before proceeding back to the scene of my ambush.
---
For the second time this hour, I scowl at the mirror in the changing room.
"Ughh." I groan, glaring daggers at my reflection.
I put on that stupid crop jacket thing, and the unthinkable happened:
It actually looks kinda good on me.
That means I'll probably end up buying it.
That means the weird girl will see me buying it, and she'll probably act smug about it.
[My lady, please get over yourself.] Glefe shoots me the telepathic equivalent of an eye roll.
[Shut up, I'm brooding.]
[You're agonizing over maybe interacting with someone whom you don't have a great impression of. Just like your father was a few days ago, you are acting unreasonably. You are a Mage, she is not, buy your damn clothes.] Glefe states authoritatively.
[Ugh. Fine.] I grumble, not quite storming out of the changing room with my purchases and to the checkout.
The weird girl gives me a jaunty wave, and I reply with the bare minimum required for politeness.
The cashier rings up my purchases and… wow, that's more than I expected. It's almost all of the money I brought! That was, like, double what I thought it would cost. Is this how expensive clothes are?
Suitably deflated, I bag up my purchases and begin my walk home.
Or, at least, I try to. As I enter the boardwalk proper, Glefe once again interrupts, in a much less teasing tone this time.
[My lady, magical signatures detected on approach to your location. I recommend setting up, and assuming a defensive posture.]
Of course there fucking are. Can't have shit in Brockton.