2.18

Muscles are complicated. They’re strong enough for most things, and generally pretty efficient, but like anything else, they have their limits. At some point, the kind of power I need to produce would require muscles too large to fit on my body.

I need more available force, but I don’t really want to sacrifice my agility for it. I’ve been relying on my power to tell me what’s viable in terms of increasing my muscle efficiency and power, but it never really gives me a clear picture of the optimal construction. It gives me a complete ledger of everything currently happening in my body, and then when I make a change, it tells me whether the change will ‘work’.

If I want more power, I’ll need to look elsewhere.

Obviously, I can’t develop a muscle blueprint from scratch, so my first thought was animals.

The issue here, at least with mammals, is the same as in humans. Animals have a similar size restriction, and the majority of the time, their muscles are specialized towards their niche in the ecosystem. I can’t afford to have a niche, not with the kind of stuff I somehow always end up doing.

One exception, interestingly enough, is bugs. Spiders, specifically. They still have muscles, of course, but their legs are primarily controlled by a mini hydraulics system — the fluid is still pressurized by muscles connected to the inside of their exoskeleton, but the legs themselves are animated by fluid.

Hydraulics… are used by construction vehicles, right?

I spend a night nose-deep in my notebook, in spite of my reservations about surveillance. I keep my notes simple and vague, just descriptive enough to remind me what I meant, but hopefully confusing enough to be dismissed at first glance. I also take the time to stock up on calorie bars, in preparation for the modifications. I plan to make them right before the ambush, so I’ll need to burn extra to speed up the changes.

I try to avoid the others. It’s not hard. They’re always on a mission, or training or whatever. The forced leave is a convenient excuse to be a shut-in.

Livvy’s words sink into the back of my mind. I’m planning for something. I’m just… not sure what, yet.

Durability is the easy part. Obviously size is still an issue, as well as material — I can’t make anything out of a material that isn’t already in my body.

Also, again, my agility. Can’t make anything to heavy, or too restricting.

Still, I just need something that can prevent damage to my bones, at least initially. Bonus points if it’s cheap calorie-wise to repair.

I settle on a number of small scale lattices. They’re effective, at least against slicing or piercing, and they should still help increase my general durability by adding a more solid structure to my body. Not as bone-breaking resistant as I’d have liked, but they’re usually made of keratin, which is cheap to produce, at least. They’ll also allow me to keep my agility.

Finally, I decide to add a blade. Something that extends from my left forearm, nestled in between bone and under skin until I need it. It’ll be complex, and it’s not like there’s really anything I can copy from nature to make it work, but…

Two days before Faust’s scheduled meet, I wake up at the crack of dawn, throw on some baggy clothes, grab a couple calorie bars, and make my way down to the training rooms. I take my pager, just in case.

I’m let in without much fuss, passing by a janitor mopping the hallway and stepping quietly into a training room at the back of the floor.

The dummies are stored, and a cart with an assortment of measuring equipment sits stashed in a corner. I make my way to the back wall and take a seat.

I open my notebook.

I start with the muscle changes. Looking into hydraulics, it seemed like their main use is in applying sustained force, like when lifting and moving heavy objects. They aren’t usually as effective when producing instant force. So, if I used hydraulic muscles, I’d get really good at lifting things, but less good at punching them.

Not ideal. Plus, I don’t exactly have a steady supply of industrial hydraulic fluid, so they wouldn’t be as efficient as they’re supposed to be.

Instead, I’ve planned out a ‘pressure booster’ system. Pressurized chambers of air stored in each of my limbs, feeding into piston-like organs attached next to my existing muscles. When I release the pressurized air, they’ll expand the pistons rapidly, boosting the force of one movement from one limb each.

In combat, I’ll be able to release them when I know I’ll have an opening, catching my opponent off guard with a strike strong enough to break concrete.

Or at least, that’s the idea. I won’t be able to store enough air to produce force for more than about half a second, and the chambers will take about a day to refill through openings at the backs of my elbows, but assuming I can manage them effectively…

This should help.

My power slides over me as a slippery film of red, clouding my vision and feeding me a stream of information that filters through my consciousness like fine sand.

There are a few issues with the placement of the piston organs, and initially I have trouble making sure the pressure chambers will hold up to the force they need to withstand, but any catastrophic errors are corrected by my power, and I’ll take the time to test them before any serious combat.

The pressure booster installation goes well. I take the time to resurface from using my power and tentatively move my arms.

It’s weird. The easiest way to describe it is, it’s like there’s something inside my arms and legs. Which, obviously, but…

Next up is the scales. At some point I’d like them to grow naturally, but for now, I’ll just create them manually. As such, it’s not really necessary for me to implement any of the adjacent functions reptiles usually have regarding their scales.

It doesn’t take very long for me to cover every larger surface of my skin with thick, off-white scales. My shoulders, my outer arms, forearms, my shins. My neck, and a large part of my chest, all of it gets a fairly thick layer of frosted-glass plates, a little larger than you would normally see on a lizard of — well, my size.

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They’re crude, but they’ll do for now.

Lastly, the blade.

The plans for this one aren’t… totally finished. I have an idea of how I’ll design the extension system, pretty simple musculature with a locking system made from dense bone struts, but I’m a little stumped on how I’m going to expand the thing.

I wanted to plan it out more, maybe make a couple prototypes, but the date’s getting closer, and the next operation could be announced any day now.

I leave the blade half-finished. Maybe I can work on it some more after I test the pressure boosters.

I let my power drop and immediately startle. My pager vibrates in my pocket. I pull it out and it almost jumps out of my hands as I fumble for the button.

The screen lights up. Rook wants me in the briefing room on one of the lower floors, suited up as soon as possible.

Well. Guess I’ll have to skip the testing bit.

—

I stand in the center of my room, the place I’ve been living for the past couple months, stashed away in the tallest building in Westpoint. I hold in my hands my old, cracked hockey mask. Looking back, I never really got that much use out of it.

I slip it into my bag, along with my personal notebook, and Faust’s smaller ciphered one.

Time to face the music.

—

The meeting room is a large one near the bottom of the tower, and not one I’ve actually been to before. Usually deployment is standard procedure, so planning out the encounter is always secondary to arriving on time.

This time, though, we have the advantage. If Faust hasn’t realized his stuff’s been tampered with, he’ll arrive to his appointment on the specified day, meaning we can take the time to develop an effective strategy.

And, it seems, gather reinforcements. Stepping into the meeting room with the other members of the Junior Division, I’m met with the gazes of a couple other people sat around the meeting table aside from Rook.

The first wears a practical combat uniform labeled ‘USMW’. His graying hair is cropped close, and only stubble dots his face. I assume he’s the USMW’s coordinator.

Next to him sits a younger man, with a mane of thick brown hair, the top part tied at the back of his head in a haphazard bun. He wears weirdly-shaped sunglasses, ten-sided glass panes with a slight yellow tint to them, and his stubble grows in a scruffier manner than the coordinator’s.

He’s also wearing a tank-top, shorts, and looking extremely unimpressed.

Across from him sits a greasy man in a suit, seeming fairly unremarkable. I can’t tell his affiliation, he’s not wearing any identifiers. Maybe he’s with the police?

We filter in and take our seats.

“Juniors, welcome. If that’s everyone, we’ll begin the briefing,” Rook begins, standing from her chair at the head of the table and clicking a small remote. Behind her, a screen lights up.

“As you all know, the USMW has been monitoring the situation in Westpoint involving multiple sightings of unregistered supers. Normally, this would be rare, but not abnormal. However,” Rook says, clicking the remote. The screen flickers, displaying a formatted list of some of the monster sightings, including that first one with the big muscle guy.

“The frequency and variance of these events is what caught our attention. As you can see, the first encounter was generally standard, and we expected to locate the rogue super soon after the encounter ended. This did not happen.”

“Instead, the super somehow slipped our surveillance. Then, less than a month later, a similar incident.” Rook points to the encounter with the giant eel, listed under the first one. She sounds genuinely annoyed.

“From this point, we’ve managed to connect the emergence of these unidentified creatures with a spike in gang activity downtown, with close to forty suspected members going missing in recent months, as well as a string of obscure robberies and public disturbances.”

“The pattern continues, and with definitive evidence from an anonymous party,” I try not to look around nervously, “we’ve managed to establish grounds for an ambush.” Rook pushes up her glasses.

“Commander, if you’d like to take it from here?”

The older man in combat gear nods, and leans forward. “Commander Burke, pleasure,” he grunts, eyes sliding over everyone at the table. “We’ll be setting up a stake-out. The place is an old motel downtown, slated for demolition, but y’know nothing gets done over there.”

Burke swipes a thumb across his nose. “We expect to see the target, as well as some of Panda’s goons, an’ at least one of their supers. Obviously, this estimate’s gonna be wrong. We’ve prepared within acceptable margins,” he says, nodding at the other two men at the table.

The man in the suit folds his hands over the table. Sunglasses guy rolls his eyes.

“I’m sure,” he mutters.

“The real issue is the target. We have data on the constructs he’s made so far, but we’ve got no idea when or how he can make them, or if he can make more — the best strategy here, is to catch ‘im off guard.” Burke vaguely waves a hand at the screen. Rook takes the hint, and clicks the remote a couple times.

“We’ll establish a large-scale discrete quarantine around the building,” Burke starts, pointing at the screen. It displays a wire-frame layout of the apparent location, as well as small markers dotted around it.

“You’ll be split into strike squads, an’ positioned at different entrances. At least one team will be able to get to the target, and dispatch him quickly.”

Burke sighs. “As such, you’ll all be working with at least one heavy hitter.” He waves his hand again, and Rook switches the slide.

“Here are the teams. The Brightheart Association’s requested to work as a contained unit, and I’ll oblige,” he comments, haphazardly waving at the suit guy.

Suit guy nods back. Guess he’s corporate, not police.

The rest of the teams are listed on the screen. I scan the list, searching for my name.

Team One lists Rook. Just Rook. Makes sense.

Team Two lists Shield Warrior, Rebound, and Boy Gadget. Who’s the heavy hitter on that team?

Team Three lists Lancer and Beeline. Brightheart Association heroes.

Team Four lists Decagon, Jackie Jet, and — Redline. Me.

Decagon… I think he’s a USMC hero, but he’s not usually on the news. Is he…?

I glance at sunglasses guy, who’s scowling.

“Dude. Are you serious? I can’t be stuck babysitting,” he whines.

Burke’s expression hardens. “If you can’t handle it, I’ll mark you an infraction and remove you from the operation.”

“Ugh. Fine. You’re the boss.” Decagon, apparently, pushes away from the table and starts spinning around in his chair like a toddler.

Burke scowls.

“You’ll all be sent a digital copy of this briefing and its specifics. Memorize them.” Burke lets out a huff and leans back in his chair. “Any questions?”

“How viable is a film team during this operation?” The suit guy — Brightheart liaison, I guess — asks.

I catch Burke’s eye twitching. “Not very. If the association insists, I’d authorize use of the USMW’s on-duty recording equipment —“

The liaison smiles, and holds up a hand. “That won’t be necessary, I’m sure we can come up with something on our own.”

“Good,” Burke grunts. “Anything else?”

Decagon cuts in. “Yeah, uh, how long d’you think this whole thing is gonna take? ‘Cuz I got a date at like, seven-thirty…”

I watch with a sort of sick fascination as Burke ages another fifty years in real time.

—

I spend the night looking over the information I’m sent on my pager, which is admittedly not much, before I send myself to bed. It’s difficult.

It’s not the anxiety, I don’t think, but I end up laying wide awake in bed for most of the night.

The next morning, the piercing alarm of my pager startles me awake at a ridiculous hour.

“Ugh.” This is gonna suck.