Antebellum 2.6

2000, June 24: Phoenix, AZ, USA

I was always an early riser in both lives. When my family moved to California in my past life, my dad looked for any jobs he could find with his limited English. That turned out to be construction work from the crack of dawn to sunset. My mom made me and my sister wake up at six in the morning each day so we could have breakfast with my dad before he had to head out to work. "Family should eat together," she'd said.

Despite being a single mother, my mom was in a much better place than my old parent thanks to the benevolence of the PRT. She may have refused any stipends, saying they were for me when I got older, but that didn't mean the PRT had done nothing about our situation. Every weekend, she had English classes at a local community college, with tuition mysteriously waived.

That meant Saturdays found both me and mom up and early, sharing a breakfast of rice, fried eggs, and kimchi. A glass of neon-pink sat on the table.

"Where are you headed today, son?"

"I'm going to the PRT as soon as Agent Morrison can pick me up, mom," I told her. "They need me there."

She looked at me with a proud smile that warmed my chest. "Don't work too hard."

"You don't have to worry. I enjoy this; I promise. Besides, the more I make, the safer my friends will be."

She cleared the table as I took a morning shower. Half an hour later, Agent Morrison picked me up just in time for mom to see me off before she too went off to class.

"Thank you for taking care of my son," my mom said in her broken English. She bowed deep, in the same way she used to bow to my tutors in Korea.

"Aww, shucks, ma'am. Don't bow. It's my job."

"Thank you for picking me up anyway, Agent Morrison," I added, bowing with her out of courtesy. "I'm sure you'd rather be doing something else."

We got into the car with a final wave.

"Ya know, son," David's dad began in his old country drawl. "You're supposed to be watching children's cartoons and eating cereal in sludge that's more sugar than milk, not going off to work."

I shrugged. "What can I say, Agent Morrison? Tinkering is my hobby."

"Maybe, but it shouldn't be your only hobby, ya hear?"

"Yes, sir. I listen to jazz."

"Oh, right, you still trying to learn music like your mama?"

"Yes, sir," I lied. I knew a bit of piano from my past and I could sing without being completely off-key, but I didn't exactly have an instrument to practice with here. "Mom says I should start learning notes and pitches, then work on learning to read sheet music."

"Hah, like studying, eh? You got enough of that fancy pink juice for that?"

"Yes, sir. The potions last longer when I drink them."

He nodded and focused back on the road. My apartment, located in the hilariously unimaginatively named Phoenix Heights neighborhood, was not quite in the downtown area, but close enough that it received regular visits from hero patrols. At only fifteen blocks from HQ, it was only a few minutes' drive.

X

I sat through my mandated remedial PR sessions and was in my lab after snagging a ham and cheese sandwich from the PRT cafeteria to go station for lunch.

I them made full use of the alarm system built into my lab to multitask. Now that the PRT knew my potions could be condensed into pills, each final output would require two Mana Crystals rather than one. I'd thought about not mentioning it for a while in order to further build my crystal reserves, but in the end, I scrapped the notion. It wasn't worth making a fuss over, especially since the dehydration process was such an uninvolved process on my part.

After loading the dehydrators for the next twelve hours, I picked out the bricks of high-carbon steel they'd provided and melted them down in the furnace provided. While I waited for those to melt, I sketched out a simple design of an amulet for Raquel alongside knuckle dusters that could be inserted into Stingray's gloves. Hopefully, she wouldn't need them, but Petricite knuckles couldn't hurt.

Technically, I could just give Bandit a little lump of Petricite and call it a day, but that wouldn't do. She'd have to be holding that lump constantly if she wanted to suppress her power. My idea was to make a two-sided amulet, one face made of regular steel and one with a Petricite-infused alloy. The amulet would then be attached at two ends to a rotating joint and chain so she could wear it as a necklace. She could then flip the coin whenever to forcibly shut down her power in her civilian life. I hoped that this would let her get out more; we were the only friends she had thanks to being homeschooled because of her power and it wasn't healthy.

The furnace was uncomfortably warm at over 2,700 degrees. I gingerly took out each vat of metal, only a pound each so I wouldn't strain myself and spill it on accident, and stirred in the ten bags of Petricite. After loading another, much smaller crucible with steel, set aside so as to not make Petricite alloy, I returned to my sketchbook.

By the time evening rolled around, I had two, flat discs of metal, one the characteristic sheen of carbon steel and the other an ivory-white. Tomorrow, I'd forge them together into a single disc, stencil on a design, and slap a chain onto it.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Next to those were two sets of knuckles, made in several disjointed pieces that could be inserted into the padding of Stingray's gloves. I had to take her measurements from the spare costume she kept on base, but I thought I got it right. They weren't just so she could punch harder. Pieces of Petricite could be made to protrude from her palms and fingertips. They'd come into contact with her opponent and allow her to shut down their powers at close range.

I also intended to make something for Ranchero and Hat Trick, but they were difficult for different reasons. Ranchero didn't rely on any weapons, nor did he have trouble controlling his power. For lack of anything better, I set aside a few pounds of the alloy so I could hammer them into plates. I'd sew them into his shirt later. Even if they saw no offensive use, they would insulate him from cape powers.

As for Hat Trick, she had the opposite problem: She was too good at using… anything, depending on her headwear for the day. I considered a baton or spear as she liked to use her riot police gear or knight's helm, but decided to get her input.

It wasn't entirely altruistic. The last thing I did was take Three pounds worth of the miracle alloy and shape it using the drop hammer until I had an even, rectangular block with a single protrusion at one end, vaguely gun-shaped "L." I smuggled that back home with me and left the designs for my teammates' gear strewn about the lab. By leaving the lab intentionally sloppy, with future designs clearly on display, I hoped to ensure that the bit I was taking for my own use wouldn't be missed.

X

2000, June 25: Phoenix, AZ, USA

I ate an early breakfast with mom on Sunday morning and bid her goodbye for the day. I was wearing a thick pair of shades to hide my scar along with a wide-brim sunhat, shorts, and t-shirt. In my pocket, I held both an Elixir of Iron, Elixir of Wrath, and several Oracle's Elixirs in pill form. Most people wouldn't pick on a blind kid, but I refused to not have any options in an emergency. My backpack held several empty bottles.

Rather than call Agent Morrison to head to HQ, I stepped outside and tapped my way to the stairs. I wasn't supposed to know how to read the numbers.

"Hello, dear," Mrs. Clarkson called. She was an elderly black grandmother who lived four doors down. "Do you need help getting down the stairs?"

I bowed. "That's okay, ma'am. I don't need any help."

"Nonsense, young man. I'm going down anyway to water the flowers. Come on, take my hand." She grabbed my sleeve with surprising strength. I sighed internally and allowed her to lead me down. There was just no arguing with grandmothers.

Mrs. Clarkson lived alone, retired from her work as a chef some years ago. She was friendly, though a little too mothering in my opinion. She had a son who visited often named Shawn, a tall man who worked as an electrician. Mom was scared of him, though perhaps "scared" wasn't the right word. Nervous? Wary? Suspicious? I could only hope that her behavior was dismissed as the shyness of an immigrant lacking basic language skills.

It was fucked up, honestly. In both my lives, my Korean parents were some of the most racist people I'd ever met. The worst part was that there wasn't even any actual malice behind it, just a nervousness stemming from being an immigrant from a homogenous culture. No matter where it came from, they were very quick to stereotype. I'd thought it was funny when I was much younger than I was now. Spiritually, I mean. Now, I could only try to befriend the man as much as possible. Exposure therapy was a thing, right?

When I got to the ground floor, I bowed, thanked her again, and made my way towards the nearest Catholic church. That turned out to be the Immaculate Heart of Mary. There, I was greeted by a priest.

"Father Morales?" I asked.

"Yes, who are you, young man?" I'd done my research the night before. The Heart of Mary was a mid-sized church catering to the Spanish-speaking population. Father Manuel Morales was the head priest here and liked to greet his congregation by name.

"My name is Andy and well," I gestured to my eyes with my walking stick. "I know I'm a little early, but do you mind if I come inside to pray before the altar?"

"Of course, my son. God has a place for all his lambs."

And with that, I was in. He showed me to the altar and let me be as I sank to my knees. I surreptitiously swallowed a single mouthful of Oracle's and allowed my vision to bloom outward. While the father prepared for his sermon, I feigned prayer. Was it sacrilegious, what I was doing? I wasn't sure if the God existed anymore, but I used to be very religious because of my previous mother. Still, I couldn't deny that the supernatural was a verifiable existence, one I couldn't ignore.

'Should I pray to you, abba? Or does my soul belong to another? Bard? Aurelion? Another Aspect perhaps? Would Kayle hear me and grant me justice? Would Taric give me his protection? Can Atreus make me brave? Or maybe, it is the Kindred who claim my soul now. I did die after all…'

I blinked away tears. My mother in this life wasn't religious, so this was the first time I'd stepped inside a place of worship. There was something weighty in the air, an almost palpable feeling of reverence and history. Sitting there at the altar of the God I used to worship, I couldn't fully suppress the feeling that I'd been lost to another. A heavy melancholy filled me. Was it divinely inspired? Or merely the sorrow of a man who'd lost his identity?

'Perhaps one day I'll find my answer.'

I had come planning to meditate while feigning prayer for lack of anything else to do, but the hour passed quickly and soon, I'd taken a seat at the corner of the furthest pew, listening to the father's sermon.

When the sermon ended, I remained in my seat and ignored any attempts to welcome me into the flock by the local parishioners. At last, everyone but the priest left and I tapped my way to the altar. I soon caught his eye.

"Andy, my son, what troubles you?"

"What makes a man?" I asked him. "Is it the god he worships? Or his history?"

"You have deep thoughts for someone so young."

"I've been told, father."

"I believe the answer is up to the individual. But there is one thing I know: Seek and you will find."

"Matthew? Ask and it shall be given, right?"

"Indeed. That is not to say that all answers are given to us immediately, but the first step of any journey is to begin at all."

I nodded. In a way, they were empty platitudes, meaningless nuggets of wisdom. And yet, hearing his words made me feel a little better. "Thank you, father." I opened up my bag and showed him the empty containers. "Father, would it be much trouble if I took some holy water home?"

"No, of course not. I'd be happy to bless some water for you."

"Just some from the stoup should be fine."

"It is never a burden to pray over a child, my son."

I bowed. "Thank you, father."

Author's Note

Most Catholic churches have stoups, little basins or fountains where priests can wash their hands for sacraments. This holy water, sometimes even on a spigot, can be taken for free by the churchgoers. It's encouraged that you donate, but it isn't always required.

If you were curious, holy water isn't chemically special. It's just regular water prayed over by a priest, with a dash of salt for purification purposes.

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