Omen 6.2

2001, September 22: Dnipro, Ukraine

I was in Babylon, the place I went whenever I wanted to make something no sane adult would allow.

My lab had grown over the past year. Initially, it was just a hastily constructed warehouse containing my Nexus, that giant shard of quartz I'd turned into a Mana Crystal and attuned to my soul. Hooked up to the Nexus were conduits that channeled the mana into different assembly and production lines: one for the Water of Life to nourish Babylon's soil, one for health potions, one for sump tonics, one for brightsteel, and so on.

Within months, that basic setup was expanded rapidly into a full-blown industrial complex. Cauldron built fast using the same methods they used to establish a multi-continental headquarters. I asked the Number Man how it was done once, but the full explanation made me drowsy. What I did glean from his impromptu lecture was that it was a combination of extremely efficient logistical multitasking, cheap multi-dimensional labor, and industrial-grade fabricators from multiple tinkers.

And Hero of course.

By studying fabricators from other tinkers, Hero was able to make his own, using his expertise on wavelengths to pause certain atomic processes, effectively restructuring subatomic wavelengths into the exact molecular structure desired. He used the Stilling to mimic cold fusion. Or at least, the energy was being shunted out of this dimension.

Because the manufactured materials were mundane, mostly cement and concrete and the like, they required no maintenance. He still didn't fully understand the process, but his fabricators greatly expanded Cauldron's network of bases. If it wasn't for the need to maintain the fabricators, he likely could have solved the US housing crisis on his own.

As for the imported labor, they were either resettled into different parts of the globe or paid and returned, always with their memories altered via the Slug.

Signed contracts and generous compensation or not, memory modification still made me feel a little dirty. I wondered if I'd ever be comfortable with knowing that all the resources and foundations that my work rested on could be traced to some shady action or another. I didn't want to think about that day.

In the end, I had a full, professional-looking alchemy lab that overlooked the factory where I tested different formulas. At the moment, I was brewing booze.

Yes, booze.

Graggy Ice to be specific. There was a barrel of the stuff I'd been working on for the past six weeks. It was brewed using Gragas' personal recipe, or as close to it as I could get. Freljordian grain milk was the base of the lager, a practice the wandering brewmaster picked up from his dealings with the Avarosans. There was even a shard of True Ice inside, enchanted to age the lager to perfection, and not a second more.

It was, without question, the best alcohol on earth. Several earths, not that I could appreciate it in my current body.

"I… may have gotten sidetracked a bit…" I laughed uneasily. Beside me, Fortuna leaned against the barrel wearing her typically smug smile.

"You did," she said in that stoic tone of hers, though I could hear a hint of teasing mockery.

"You didn't feel like stopping me?"

"You looked like you were enjoying yourself. Besides, it's not as though you didn't make anything else of use over the past few weeks. You've been productive. Are you truly so against recreational alcohol?"

I thought about the less-than-proper things I'd done in my college days. "Well… no…"

She smiled. "Exactly. Not everything you build needs to be for the ultimate betterment of mankind or for your own personal power. Sometimes, a bit of recreational tinkering is permissible."

"Did Eugene talk to you?"

"He did. So did Rebecca. In the past three months, you've added six more cities to the Worldstone Network, perfected a potion that prevents organ rejection without compromising patient immune response, and created pyro-gel. And you did this all while developing a unique martial art style and undergoing your idea of immersion therapy. Any of the above would be full-time commitments for virtually anyone else. A few extra hours of work are not worth your long-term emotional health."

I sighed. "Fair enough. Is that why you're here? To tell me to make something silly once in a while?"

"No. I'm here to try this new lager," she said with a smirk. She produced a shot glass from her breast pocket and filled it before bringing the golden brew to her lips. She stiffened before carefully, almost gingerly, putting the shot glass down on the table. After a long minute and a deep, fortifying breath, she spoke. "That is… dangerous…"

"You know I can see every muscle in your body lock up, right? Path to not hacking up your lungs?"

"It's stronger than a lager should be," she defended, "though I have to admit it's delicious."

"Of course it is. And you already knew that because the Path shows you what I've already made. You don't need to turn yourself into a comedy sketch to get me to loosen up."

"I don't, but it's convenient. I also wished to feel its effects for myself. Why do I feel so powerful?"

"An alcohol is a downer, right? Normally, it slows reactions and whatnot? Well, the Elixir of Wrath is an upper. It makes you really active. I decided to mix the two, something that will tone down the anger-inducement while providing a similar strength boost. Drinking it should give you a sense of calm contentment, like a light buzz, while also making you much stronger."

"You realize the Protectorate cannot endorse such a product?"

I nodded. "Of course. I made it mostly as a proof of concept. You know, just to see if I can fuse the effects of two alchemical solutions in beneficial ways. Normally, if anyone else tried to make something like this, they'd end up with a stupid cocktail that makes people drunk, pissed, and Hulked out. If I removed Wrath from this, would you let me sell it?"

"Perhaps as a joke," she humored me. "How does 'Witches' Brew Distillery' sound for a company name? Is that what you want? A microbrewery to add to your pharmaceutical empire?"

"Nah, I kid. Even if I remove Wrath, Graggy Ice is still magic booze. You might be fine, but that was only a shot glass's worth and you have the restraint to keep yourself from drinking more. You were expecting it and it still almost knocked you on your ass. Can you imagine what'll happen if magic booze became a thing normal people could buy?"

"Chaos."

"Chaos," I agreed, "and Rebecca would have my hide for making this her problem. I might send a bottle to David though. Help him loosen up a tad."

"Perhaps."

"Speaking of, how goes his therapy? Is he more mellow now?"

"Somewhat. I'm not certain how effective therapy is for him. He has relaxed some and participated in more PR-friendly operations as you are aware, but that is not our goal. Our goal is for him to place less of his self-worth into being a heroic savior who requires worthy foes to challenge himself. There is no easy metric for such a thing."

"And you can't Path him, only make estimations," I sighed. "Maybe increase his self-validation somehow? If he feels that he can't improve further, that there is nothing beyond the ceiling he's reached, he wouldn't need to seek worthy opponents."

"But does," she pointed out. "Scion and the endbringers exist to prove that there is something greater than himself. Convincing him that he can go no further might make him unstable unless we deviate his self-worth into more than being a hero."

"That's what it comes down to in the end, huh?"

"Quite. Rest assured, Rebecca and I will monitor his sessions discreetly. Perhaps a small bottle of this lager as a holiday gift would help?"

I smiled wryly at her. Believe it or not, Fortuna could joke. I was reasonably sure that a fair chunk of our interaction was scripted on her end to make me feel more at ease, but she was making an effort in her own stilted way. Amidst all the Sisyphean doom and gloom was a girl who never got to have an equal. Unfortunately, the only way she knew of to interact with others was to manipulate them into liking her.

It was less effective with me because I knew what she was doing, but I couldn't pretend I was immune. Even so, I chose to believe she was loosening up around me, if only just a bit. The knowledge that one day, I would be beyond her ability to Path made our interactions that much more organic.

I glanced behind me to the electrolysis machine behind me. This was the real reason for my foray into brewing. Initially, I wanted to isolate glycerol, the same chemical used to make nitroglycerin. I was wrong of course. Although glycerol is an alcohol, it is not the same as ethanol, or drinking alcohol. I ended up looking pretty stupid, but with a new hobby to pass the time.

I did do it right eventually.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Glycerol was used in a number of industries and when not being made to explode, could also be used as a sweetener or a thickening agent in liquors, which was where I'd initially made the mix-up.

Could I have just ordered a crate-full of the stuff via a shell company? Yes.

Did I think of it? No. I still had difficulty remembering just how much money I had at my fingertips now.

When I eventually did get my hands on glycerol, I drew from Ziggs' unique brand of alchemy to make his pyro-gel, the Runeterran equivalent of blasting jelly that could blow apart a small house, certainly a decent-sized living room, with just a single fingernail's worth.

Okay… so… significantly more dangerous than blasting jelly.

I opened a premade batch that had been left to set. I carefully measured and packaged the pyro-gel into five pound packets, each containing enough firepower to turn most brutes into a Rorschach test. Or, if I was being honest, a city block, one more thing for my unofficial S-class loadout.

"Do I want to know what you want with twelve packets of these?"

Beside me, Fortuna shrugged. "Do you?"

"Is it going to kill people?"

"Do you want me to lie to you?"

"No. Never. Not even to spare my feelings."

I saw her nod. "Then definitely."

I sighed. "Then yes, I do want to know why you want enough explosives to level a small town."

"There is a geokinetic cape in Indonesia who wants to make Mt. Merapi erupt as an homage to Behemoth, who he believes is the manifestation of the divine wrath of Batara Kala, the Balinese and Javanese god of the underworld."

"And… you need this much pyro-gel because…"

"I want to create a secondary vent for the lava to flow through so as to divert much of its pressure. Otherwise, Merapi will explode and cover most of Yogyakarta in a lahar wave. Of the nearly four hundred thousand who live there, I expect eighty percent to either die or be grievously injured if I do nothing."

"You have Petricite. Can't you just shackle him and whisk him off somewhere?"

"I will not."

I leveled her with my best exasperated stare. "Why. Even if you divert some of the pressure, people will die as a consequence of the mountain exploding."

To my extreme annoyance, she as completely unfazed by my glare. "Yes. However, rather than lose the city, a controlled eruption will end in the deaths of only two hundred."

"Well go on then. You clearly came here to teach me something."

"He is, despite his lunacy, a prominent member of the royal family. He's a bit of a black sheep in the family in that he holds to traditional Javanese and Balinese myths rather than Islam as his faith of choice. I can kill him now, but doing so will cause infighting that will snowball into widescale political instability in Indonesia, a problem I simply do not have enough hours in the day to address. The same happens if I ensure he goes missing altogether.

"I can expose his lunacy to the public and make him a laughingstock, Yogyakarta is predominantly Muslim, but he has his share of admirers and lickspittles. If left to his own devices, his stupidity will take root in enough people to incite a surge of endbringer worship across Southeast Asia."

"How? If the population is mostly Muslim, why would they care about some old Balinese god?"

"Yogyakarta is Muslim. That doesn't mean there aren't traditional holdouts in the rest of Java or its sister island Bali. This problem isn't unique," she explained patiently. "The problem with religious extremism is that it inspires other idiots to push the envelope, be more radical than the last guy. He's not dangerous for what he is; he's dangerous for the ideas he puts in people's heads.

"I need him dead, Yusung. I also need his stupidity publicized in such a way as to present a clear threat to the people, while leaving Yogyakarta mostly unscathed. If he dies without accomplishing anything of consequence even as the volcano goes off, the majority of those who are likely to buy his stupidity will come to the conclusion that their god never intended to destroy the city."

I tried to make sense of that. "Any chance you can't just social-fu him around? You know, charm him into becoming more moderate?"

"No. He is not useful enough for me to try and appeasement would cost too much compared to the utility he brings."

"Even as a prince or whatever?"

"Even then. We have enough agents there. His showy death will spark enough tensions to increase the likelihood of triggers while not destabilizing the city in the long run. Removing him from the line of succession will allow his far more moderate and even-tempered aunt to raise her daughter for the throne. Even considering our objective of cultivating strong parahuman leadership, this really is the best Path."

She held out her hand expectantly. I sighed. I could see my hand trembling a little. But even so, I put the packet of pyro-gel in her hand. Here I was again, a co-conspirator to the murder of hundreds.

"I hate this," I spoke bitterly.

"I know."

"Warn who you can?"

"As you wish."

She turned to leave.

"Fortuna?"

"Yes, Yusung?"

"Make these count."

"Of course," she said, favoring me with a surprisingly gentle smile.

X

Speaking with Fortuna always left me feeling conflicted. Even now, hours later and back in my house, I continued to wrack my mind over things I could have said differently. 'Could I have convinced her to find another way? Could I have convinced her to invest more effort? More of the Path? Was warning a few people really the best she could do in that situation?'

The trouble was that it was impossible to know. Ultimately, Fortuna was her own person; she made her own choices and the rest of the world had to live with them, even if most never got to see the woman pulling the strings.

Did that make me cursed or privileged?

I honestly didn't know. The truth was, I failed. A lot. I set out the year prior with the goal of becoming a beacon of hope for Cauldron. I wanted to make sure they ended up in better circumstances than in canon, ended up as better people than in canon.

This wasn't the first time.

No matter how many times I spoke with her, Contessa's decision concerning Jack did not change. Broadcast would be permitted to remain active, nor was I to release any details of Jack's true power. Just about the only compromise I could get from her was that she would arrange for Riley's rescue following her trigger. She was too versatile, too valuable to just butterfly away her trigger. January of 2005 if I remembered right.

Four years, I swore. Jack had four years before I took his head.

Thinking of the cause of the apocalypse inevitably made me think of the man who held it off for so long.

Kevin Norton did a fine job making Scion a hero in 1999, the same year I arrived. And then, he became so afraid of the control he had over Scion that he ran, abandoning the bridge he called home. The homeless man would meet Lisette twelve years later, bringing her to that bridge and handing over Scion's reins to the young woman.

Contessa did get the man an apartment condo from a "long-lost relative" as a belated thank you. He'd never know what he'd done, but he had single-handedly postponed the apocalypse. He deserved it and more in my opinion, but that was as far as she was willing to divert from the Path for the "most powerful man in the world."

We talked about perhaps using Norton to manipulate Scion. The truth was, approaching him with a parahuman in tow, actively drawing his attention to the Shard network and our activities, was too risky. It wasn't as though he would simply leave Earth at Norton's request after all. Things were never that easy.

And yet, that was one avenue we had, one big reason to keep Norton alive. When we were ready to begin Gold Morning, we could steer Norton to him, manipulate him into making the first move, a move we'd already planned for.

And then there was Peter Pan. Nilbog. Jamie Rinke.

I still hated meeting him. He was a complicated man and though complete isolation hadn't regressed him to the mentality of a child playing god in his own sandbox kingdom, he wasn't exactly the picture of mental health. Call it paranoia, but the very first thing I did with the Unsealed Spellbook was add the Cleanse spell to my Ymelo. If it could dispel Lulu's polymorph, I didn't doubt that it'd at least buy me time should Rinke turn hostile.

And yet, for all the danger he posed in canon, I had to acknowledge that this Rinke, Peter Pan, was a different beast altogether. He loved his creations, as he had in canon, but he went beyond that. Nilbog was a petty king who surrounded himself in a selfish love, greed if I was being honest. He surrounded himself with his adoring subjects, fearing ever letting them go, fearing absolutely anything that could intrude into his perfect kingdom.

Pan was not that. He didn't just see himself as a king, but a chief, a friend to the lost. He adopted all Case-53s in his own Neverland, an area adjacent to my own Babylon. Every Case-53 that arrived was changed, made closer to human. Their monstrous traits could never be fully removed, there was always something that set them apart from baseline humans, but they could disguise themselves given a bit of effort and most saw an increase in control over their powers.

Every new addition to his domain came with fragmented memories of spiraling Shards and a golden hand that left them the way they were.

"The Great Other," Pan had taken to calling Scion.

That was the doctor's ultimate decision: Blame Scion for the creation of Case-53s. Use the Slug to implant a false trigger vision, one that would facilitate the cultivation of an avenging army for the "grand battle."

At first, Pan was hesitant. He'd set up his own area as a refuge and shelter for the lost. But as more and more Case-53s appeared with these visions, his resolve firmed until he began to organize the more combat-oriented members on his own. His group would still provide refuge for Case-53s, but there was a sizable number who were dedicated to Scion's demise.

It was heartbreaking. Every time I read more about Pan's activities, I felt as though I was being pulled in two directions.

On one hand, Case-53s had an unequivocally better circumstance here than in canon. They had family and camaraderie here, a true community. Purpose and ambition that gave their lives meaning. Hell, that purpose was even a noble one, the salvation of all mankind across the multiverse.

I did that. My heart swelled with pride knowing I arranged for that.

On the other hand, we were lying to them. Controlling them like puppets knowing that the vast majority would die within moments of drawing Scion's attention. Cauldron would not stop making more Case-53s until we had a better way; we simply couldn't afford to stop, not when Scion actively turned his gaze away from Case-53s, away from our home base. Even so, the manipulation and loyalty induced by Pan's power, the mastering, rubbed me the wrong way.

Every time I met with Peter Pan, every time I saw the respect and awe in the eyes of the denizens of Neverland, I couldn't help but be reminded of this duality.

Thus, I loathed meeting him. He was a reminder that every success would be accompanied by a bitter pill to swallow, one I'd swallow anyway in the name of the greater good.

It had only been a year and already I was having trouble distinguishing my failures from my successes.

Author's Note

In the Paint the Town comic, a customer comes into Ziggs' and Heimer's workshop and complains that he bought some pyro-gel to clean out his chimney. Ziggs said "use a pinch," but the customer apparently blew apart his entire eastern wing. We don't know how big that house was, but if he wasn't exaggerating, it's safe to say that Ziggs' pyro-gel is really strong.

Everything about Indonesia in this chapter was pulled from my ass. As far as I'm aware, Wildbow never mentioned Southeast Asian in any real detail. I wanted to highlight just one example of something Contessa might have done, and how she might use it to teach Andy a bit more about the art of weighing lives.

Mt. Merapi is the most active volcano in Indonesia.

Yogyakarta is the only city in Indonesia ruled by a monarchy and is given special political right to do so. It is a center of Balinese culture and fine art. As a highly traditional place, it's also precisely the kind of place that a lunatic screaming about Batara Kala would come from.

Yeah, Peter Pan… Kinda fucked up, huh? But did you expect otherwise? I dislike fix-fics, though this technically is one. I dislike it when authors simplify Cauldron like they're just cartoonishly evil. They're not. They're a complex organization with noble intentions and shit options.

My professor of international relations once told me, "Politics is not about picking the best answer. It's often about picking the one with the least shitty outcome." Truth is, as dissatisfying as "greater good" morality can be, it's also not wrong.

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.