Wake 1.11

2010, September 16: Brockton Bay, NH, USA

Becoming an electric type using Conversion really helped SAINT pick up new moves of the same type far faster. He already had a good grasp of Shock Wave and the bare bones of Thunderbolt. Perhaps it was because most electric type moves had the same foundation and he could simply retread old ground. Or, our relationship was improving and he was growing faster because of it. Or maybe he just really liked sugar-crusted nuts.

Who could say where pokémon were concerned?

I stumbled through school with bleary eyes, barely aware of my surroundings. My friends were somewhat concerned but I waved them off with an excuse about Mrs. Currie's yearlong project that I studied for. I did send a picture of my suit to the Dallon sisters so Vicky would get off both our backs about coordinating outfits.

After school, I hadn't taken four steps away from Arcadia when my phone rang.

"Hello?"

"You're a hard man to get a hold of," Faultline's crisp voice rang through my headphones. That was enough to bring me to full attention. My PokéNav, disguised as my phone, wasn't something that could be hacked or traced traditionally so I wasn't worried about wiretapping, at least from my end. If Faultline was satisfied with safety on her end, I'd trust her.

"What can I say? I'm a model student. You wouldn't deprive an impressionable youth like me of his compulsory education, would you?"

"Yes, impressionable youths often make deals with mercenaries," she said dryly. She got straight to business. "I have three locations my contact can get you on short notice. They're places I considered before setting up the Palanquin that haven't been sold yet."

"Great, I'm on my way home. Can you brief me and send the files to my email?"

"Not worried about security?"

I laughed. "No, no I'm not. I code in a completely separate language. My computer speaks Swahili and yours speaks Italian. Besides the translator included into my tech, there isn't a frame of reference to even begin a hacking attempt. I guess Dragon could figure something out if she was forced to? But that says more about Dragon than anything."

The benefit of having systems designed to house a porygon was that my servers functioned on rules and algorithms alien to anything found on Earth-Bet. The sheer unfamiliarity of my systems, computer and PokéNav both, would make it all but impervious to standard Trojans and viruses.

"That for sale?"

"Negotiable," I teased. "So, brief?"

"The first is a warehouse six blocks north of my club. It used to belong to a ship repair company specializing in smaller fishing vessels. Before I settled on a club, I considered having a seafood restaurant and bar. It's sixteen thousand square feet of floorspace divided into two floors."

"The size is nice, but probably a bit flashier than I need right now."

"That's what I thought, too. It was also a bit too deep into Merchant turf for me to consider it. It's not a hotspot, but I've seen them crawling about."

"Well what're my other options?" I had the Gullrest. Strictly speaking, I didn't need a safehouse and second lab so I was ready to decline if I didn't like them.

"The second is a small house, two thousand five hundred feet, located near the Towers. It's a safe neighborhood, but Empire turf."

"Hard pass," I said as I strolled down a side street. "I don't want to set up too close to the Empire. They're the ones I'd have the hardest time running from."

"The last one is three blocks away from Brockton College and five from Hillside. It used to be an old corner store that went out of business when the mall went up. Five thousand feet with a basement and second floor."

"Isn't the college New Wave's turf?"

"As far as I can tell, yes. They don't patrol much so that shouldn't be a problem. I want to set up a business front while you take the basement for your workshop. No cape business, at least officially, so no reason for any heroes to snoop."

"Sounds like you have plans for it already."

'Whoever "owns" the place will likely be keeping tabs on me. Is this worth it?'

"How do you feel about a bar?" This was the first hint of excitement I heard from her. "I have some connections in the restaurant industry and I wouldn't mind another method to launder money."

"Why not just keep it a drugstore? That way, sourcing materials for me would be easier, right?"

"It would," she agreed, "but a store like that has already failed in this location. My contact would look suspicious if he opened up a drugstore in a location that's already failed at it."

"No investor wants to repeat a proven failure."

"Exactly. So, do you prefer a bar or a café? We would be catering to the college crowd either way."

"Either should be fine then. I have no preference."

"Bar it is. It's easier for me since I already own one. You wouldn't believe what they charge for a liquor license these days."

"And keeping tabs on your new tinker buddy has nothing to do with this new business venture?"

"Of course it does," she scoffed. "You represent a significant investment of both my time and resources. Isn't it natural that I want to know how you develop?"

"I'll check it out tonight," I promised. "I should have an answer for you tomorrow."

X

2010, September 17: Brockton Bay, NH, USA

Early Friday, just a hair past midnight, I toured each of the three sites.

The warehouse that used to repair ships was tempting. A part of me felt that I could take on any questing Merchants. Then I reminded myself that despite their hilarious incompetence, they were dangerous. They weren't dangerous because they were powerful, but because they were unpredictable. Drugs could make anything seem like a good idea and with a tinker of their own and the element of surprise, even the most bullshit ideas could potentially succeed. The Archer's Bridge Merchants were the definition of failing successfully.

There was also the fact that if I ended up fighting the Merchants, staying under everyone's radar would become impossible. Right now, I was counting on Faultline's professionalism and mercenary greed to keep my presence a secret.

Simply put, she wouldn't sell me out without good cause and no one knew about my existence to try to buy my location from her. The possibility of monopolizing a potent tinker's contracts was too tempting. On the other hand, a large warehouse like this one wasn't exactly subtle. It'd draw in Merchants, who would then in turn act like fireflies that attract bigger dangers.

The space was tempting, but I moved on.

I completely dismissed the house near the Towers. If I remembered right, Purity lived nearby. While she herself wasn't much of a danger on her own, she had a soft spot for white children and no reason to attack me, her mere presence meant heavy Nazi patrols. Judging by the obsessive, controlling behavior Max was known for, I figured it'd be best to assume that area was under constant observation.

The house was both too small and too risky.

That left the last option, a corner store near the college. I sailed across the rooftops, leaping from a ventilator to the top of a light pole using the ambient electricity to glide with Magnet Rise. This kind of flight was hard. I wasn't very fast, hardly faster than running, but the sense of weightlessness thrilled me nonetheless. It took me only seven minutes to make the distance, the wonders of straight lines.

The location was, as Faultline pointed out, perfect for a small bar. I had no idea how much renovations would cost, but that wasn't any of my business.

The corner store, Harvey's Drugstore apparently, was an old school brick building that stood two stories tall. It looked like it was built during the Revolutionary War, with occasional touch-ups every few decades. The roof was sloped and shingled in a way that suggested it had been a house at one point, or was built back before commercialized retail spaces all had squared and flattened concrete roofs.

It wasn't exactly hard to sneak in. Unlike Good Neighbor's warehouse, the place was actively registered for sale, being in a safe neighborhood made realtors hold out hope, so there was an electrical lock attached to the place. I landed behind a gas station and used the texturing function to disguise myself, a nondescript, middle aged white man in canvas work clothes and a high visibility jacket. Hopefully, I'd look like some poor construction worker or property manager with a late night.

The electric lock required a passcode input into a generic number pad. "SAINT, can you crack this?"

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

"Reee," his trill was curt, almost offended that I dared think a measly four digit combination could stump him. He activated the hacking suite without my say so and the lock popped open before I could even reach for the handle.

"You're the best," I said, soothing his ego. I closed the door behind me gently and turned on the lights. If anyone saw me enter, it'd be suspicious if I started sneaking around like a thief.

It looked more or less like a drugstore, or a 7-Eleven if all the shelves were emptied. There was a counter that divided the ground floor in half, the front for customers and the back for employees and incoming stock. Everything was varnished wood, from the floors to the shelves, giving the place an old-timey feel. I assumed that if I accepted, the counter would be repurposed into a bar.

I walked upstairs to find what used to be a studio apartment. It was carpeted with pristine cream carpet and even boasted an in-unit washer and dryer, something the realtor insisted on to jack up the price no doubt.

The basement was basically a copy of the studio upstairs, without the appliances or carpeting. It was just plain concrete with a row of shelves on one end. I wasn't an expert, but I'd guess both the studio and basement to take up a thousand square feet each, leaving three thousand or so for the business area. It'd be a very small bar, but I supposed it didn't matter. What mattered was my basement, my lab space.

I looked around and tried to imagine all the equipment I could cram in here. It wouldn't be pretty. It'd be a little crowded. In anyone else's hands, it might even be a safety hazard, but I was a tinker. 'I can do it,' I thought, and that was when I knew I'd accept Faultline's offer.

"SAINT, dial Faultline, please."

The phone rang for only a moment before her stern voice filled my ears.

"Faultline speaking."

"Creed," I answered the unasked question. "It's about Harvey's. I checked it out. I want the basement."

"Good to hear," she said, pleased. "It will take roughly two week to remodel the place into a restaurant layout, another week to get approval for safety, sanitation, and liquor."

I winced. "That's longer than I'd expected. Any way we can rush that?"

"I understand you're eager for your lab, but no, not unless you have money to grease palms. It's best to do things legally in this case anyway. We want as few insinuations about illegal activities as possible."

"Fine, you're the expert. Do you have a plan for the studio upstairs?"

"The owner will be a long-time partner of mine, the same man who set me up with the Palanquin. He operates a real estate management firm out of Buffalo, New York so he won't be in the city."

I shut off the lights and exited the building before ducking behind the same gas station parking lot to remove my disguise. Floating to the rooftop, I continued. "Is that good or bad?"

"It has its advantages. On the downside, we'll have to be responsible for all maintenance and repair. The advantage is that the studio will go unused, a safe house if either you or one of mine needs it. Fair?"

"Fair. You said three weeks," I said. "Could I get you to help me acquire some equipment for my lab during that time? Order something of mine while you find yourself a walk-in fridge and restaurant quality dishwasher or something?"

"Maybe," she said cautiously, "no promises. I would want to be compensated for my troubles. Our deal was for lab space, not for equipment."

"Point," I conceded easily. "I didn't mean for free. I'm going to drop by and run a few ideas by you if you don't mind."

"Come through the back," she hung up.

X

2010, September 17: Brockton Bay, NH, USA

Compared to my Thursday night/Friday morning activities, school was a chore. I'd left the Palanquin yesterday with an agreement for the newly named Harvey's Bar & Grill and one bug box lighter. I left the bug box with her so Faultline could personally test the quality of my tech.

The agreement was that she'd get a week to test the tech on any type of electrical lock she could get her hands on then quote me a price she'd be willing to pay. I also left her with files of all the things I was willing to sell to her, including a stealth suit for Labyrinth and Newter.

As my only current customer, I had little choice but to trust Faultline's sense of fairness. As the only tinker in the city willing to supply her, she'd have to treat me with care in turn. It was a partnership founded on pragmatism rather than any affection or higher moral cause, but we made it work.

Now that I had a sizable library of moves learned by the porygon line, I found that my biggest limitations were the time I had available to practice and the lacking stamina inherent to my weak, human physique.

Theoretically, I could get Amy to turn me into Captain America or something then work out like Elite Four Bruno and meditate like Gym Leader Sabrina to raise my proficiency, but that was the work of years if not decades. Once again, I felt the cold truth: I was no Ash Ketchum, spitting image of Sir Aaron of Rota and some kind of aura guardian prodigy, Chosen One of Arceus and whatever other stupid title Mr. Protag had.

I wasn't salty. Fuck you.

All I could do was optimize my time spent working out. To that end, I began to mull over a more efficient workout regimen. By rotating physical exercise and aura training, I could hopefully train even

while resting.

I was brought out of my musings by a junior named Jim. "Yo, Bryce," he shook me shoulder, "you good? Class is over, man. You should pack up before Mr. Fauver notices."

"Thanks, Jim," I said. Mr. Fauver taught AP European History at the tail end of my school day. He was a strict man who genuinely loved his subject and hid nothing from his students. We learned about the dark and corrupt aspects of human history just as much as we learned about great kings and nations. Erasmus and Voltaire, but also the Chestnut Festival.

He was a great teacher.

X

Two weeks at minimum to get the restaurant set up. More than likely, that meant a week or so after that for my own equipment to be installed into the basement, even if I could get Faultline to rush things. We'd have to bring in lab equipment after inspections after all, a crucible in the basement might be a tad hard to explain.

That ruined my plans in a major way. My specialization would change in a week. It meant that no matter what, I wouldn't get my lab before the shift. No lab meant many of the things I wanted from the Pokémon franchise could not be acquired.

Team Rocket's completely electric proof insulators used several times to capture Pikachu required a special vulcanization process to make a unique rubber polymer. Warp pads found in psychic gyms and criminal hideouts required complex machinery to develop and install. Hunter J's petrification gun would have been amazing but was now a pipe dream. Even the jetpack I wanted to build for Newter needed special equipment to distill the fuel, something I absolutely refused to do in my all too flammable room.

Worst of all, I wouldn't be able to acquire a forge and crucible to refine crystals. Maybe my power intentionally made stronger tech harder to make, but a z-crystal was nothing like an eviolite.

The eviolite, I could make with some electricity, my own aura, and crude carvings engraved via makeshift chisel. Purple agate wasn't exactly rare.

A z-crystal was significantly harder to make than that apparently.

'Are you trying to make me work for a z-crystal, power?' I thought, 'or is it that because z-crystals are rare and only found in one region of the pokémon world, you can't make it as easily?'

Either way, I received no answer as I ran Agility-boosted suicides from one end of the frigate to the other. Agility felt a little strange. I knew that as a psychic type move, my mental energy completely supplanted the physical, but I couldn't explain how it happened or why it reinforced my body the way it did. I was just too inexperienced with aura and my power didn't help beyond basic instructions.

"SAINT," I called, "let's play tag."

He emerged from my PokéNav with a shower of pixels. "Po?"

"We're going to try to tag each other with Thunder Wave, Protect, and Agility only. No other moves."

"Reee," he agreed, then immediately fired off a Thunder Wave that I barely blocked with an emerald shield.

"Really? That's how it's going to be?"

"Gon!" I received a hazy image through our bond, a bag of his favorite almonds. His ability to communicate was increasing steadily and I resolved to get him started on more psychic type moves to hopefully nurture this talent.

"A bag of crusted almonds if you win," I promised him. I coaxed my aura to take shape around me and dashed forward. "You're a shameless-" I ducked beneath him even as I kept talking. "-glutton, SAINT. You should watch your weight!"

A Thunder Wave of my own was sent his way and SAINT dodged by allowing gravity to take hold of him.

"Pory!"

"You started with a cheap shot. Don't be surprised when I hit you from behind."

That kicked off a rapid flurry of electric projectiles that I dodged only thanks to the Expansion Suit's enhanced agility. I rolled on the ground, shoulder twinging painfully as I rolled over my spine. Without SAINT to act as the onboard AI, I lacked the elegance and refinement to make use of my agility to the fullest. I could see another volley of Thunder Waves coalescing in front of his blue mouth.

"Agility!" I shouted. My aura pulsed brightly and I made to dash, but stopped at the last second. He whirled his head, preemptively turning to lead the target. I didn't move though and that gave me enough time to bring my sparking finger to bear.

"Just kidding," I laughed as I fired an arc of electricity towards my partner, positive he could feel the pure smug radiating from my end of our bond.

He rose into the air, letting my attack sail beneath him. "Porygon!"

'The attack isn't fast enough,' I realized. Despite being an arc of electricity, it wasn't lightning. Whatever bullshit aura mojo let us bypass the insulating properties of air to lob bolts of electricity as viable attacks also seemed to be limited to much more manageable speeds, at least at my level. That meant that although porygon were notoriously slow until their final evolution, a singular blast of Thunder Wave wasn't likely to land.

We traded blows furiously as we raced around the empty room for a few minutes. I was much faster, but he had a far larger aura pool to draw on so wasn't shy about wasting Protects. He could also use his moves much more quickly, and even stack them like he did with a volley of Thunder Waves.

I made good use of his subpar speed, shocking him as soon as a Protect wore off.

"My win," I said, panting. I made a note to improve the ventilation in the Expansion Suit as soon as I could.

"Pory…" my training partner slumped. I could feel disappointment through the bond.

"We'll try again. This is as much about stamina as it is about winning one round."

He made a determined trilling noise and took up position. He was paralyzed, but that would teach him how to fight under unfavorable circumstances.

This round, I kicked things off by lunging towards him.

He chimed in alarm and backpedaled up into the air. I jumped to get in range for another close range Thunder Wave.

A bolt of blue electricity fired from my hand and dispersed into so much pretty colors against the emerald shield of SAINT's Protect. Then, even as the shield started to come down, SAINT fired a rapid counter that nailed me in the torso.

"Protec-"

I tried to shield and twist out of the way, but the attack landed faster than I'd expected, ending the round almost as soon as it began. Electricity coursed through my body, disrupting any attempt to make use of my limbs. I suspected this is what having Regent troll me would feel like.

I lay on the ground, unable to do anything but pant in a pool of my sweat. The pain of the Thunder Wave was negligible in comparison to the sheer discomfort of having a body that refused to obey.

"Shit," I swore.

"Reee?" SAINT hovered lower with concern.

"No, you did great, buddy. Give me a minute to recover."

The eighteenth was Saturday. Seeing how I had no commitments, I drove myself hard long into the night.

Author's Note

An extra safehouse is never a bad thing, especially if a trustworthy ally can back your claim with a legitimate front. Even better, it's not attached to any of the major factions.

That said, I know nothing about restauranteering so if I got some of the details like the floorspace or time it'd take to acquire appropriate licenses, please forgive me. I did some research into how big a corner store 7-Eleven seemed to be and it came up to be something close to five thousand square feet.

I know nothing about boats. I looked up the length of an oil tanker and went from there so I don't actually know if an oil tanker that doesn't transport oil is still called a tanker. I'll probably call it a frigate, tanker, or the Gullrest interchangeably. Forgive my ignorance.

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.