Surge 3.1

2010, October 23: Brockton Bay, NH, USA

I hopped first to the workshop beneath Harvey's to collect the last of my seastone and wapometal ingots. I'd need more raw materials to make more. Every time I looked at the little refinery I had under Harvey's I told myself I'd build a DSS port there. I'd finally managed it a few days ago during a materials run so all I needed to do was digitize the materials and pick them up at the Gullrest. After depositing the ingots in the DSS, I picked up the eight expanded bags.

I changed into my costume and made myself invisible before running directly to the Palanquin. Sneaking inside, I reappeared in the hallway outside Faultline's main office and knocked.

"Come in, Creed."

I entered to find Faultline and Gregor going over some papers. Faultline had foregone her traditional welder's mask and settled for a domino mask. "How'd you know it was me?"

"Newter doesn't knock and Labyrinth in her room busy with something," she said. I took it to mean she wasn't having a good day. I felt for the waifish blonde. Maybe once I got the right specialization, I could help her out.

"Indeed. Is he still using the dance floor to work out?" Gregor asked in that melodic, Jazz-smooth voice of his. I still had no idea where that accent came from.

I shrugged. "I didn't see him when I came in. I just snuck in through the back while cloaked."

She narrowed her eyes. "That is a dangerous ability to have."

"It is, which is why it's not in the catalog." I reached into a large duffel bag and pulled out Accord's commissions. "Here they are."

"So I see. I'm sure he'll be happy to receive a prompt delivery."

"I hope so; I didn't get to make much else this week."

Gregor nodded exaggeratedly in my direction. "I take it that pistol is 'not much else?'" he said humorously. His voice then took on a warning tone. "I hope you are aware of what kind of message that sends."

I presented it to the gentle giant grip first. "Here, take a look. I tried to keep the old-timey aesthetic because I thought that would look less threatening. I also purposely kept the caliber small. Do you think this is still too much?" I asked seriously. I wanted their honest opinion. Had I shown this to Amy, she would have vetoed it immediately simply because it was "unheroic," never mind that Kid Win had a laser pistol of his own and Miss Militia's power was "all the guns."

Faultline and Gregor would not be so biased.

"I take it that this is the 'anti-Lung' weapon you were talking about?" Faultline asked rhetorically.

I nodded. "You remembered?"

"Yes. I can only assume that the caliber means little. Is it a tranquilizer meant for brutes? Or maybe something that can depower capes?"

"You think too highly of me if you think I can reverse Lung's transformation."

"At this point, I'm just grasping at straws. I don't know what your specialization is so I wouldn't rule it out as impossible."

"Well, it's definitely not that."

"Fine, keep your secrets. To answer your question, it fits well with your aesthetic, but remember that some capes may use your possession of a gun to immediately resort to lethal force."

"That's ridiculous. I could dropkick them from four stories high and it'd be far more lethal than any bullet. You're saying I'd get treated with kid gloves if I stick to that but I can expect duels at high noon if I wear an antique pistol?"

"I didn't say capes made sense," she said wryly, "and no one is going to be treating you with kid gloves, not after your stunt with the Empire and Merchants. That said, the gun does represent a willingness to kill. Whether you mean it that way or not, that's how it will be interpreted. I take it that that's the message you're trying to send?"

"Yeah, I want people to know that I'll happily play by the rules so long as they do. And well, I want them to know that I can escalate a lot higher than most realize."

"Are you ready to invite the same escalation then?" Gregor asked.

"My suit can handle it."

"That wasn't what I asked, my friend. I have no doubt that your costume can keep you alive. I asked if you are ready," he said gently. "There will be capes who use your possession of a gun as an excuse. There will be capes who try to force your hand by targeting civilians or other such means."

My mind immediately went to Coil. This was exactly the sort of thing he'd use to paint me as an irredeemable villain, all in an effort to isolate then forcibly recruit me. "I'm not responsible for the actions of others," I said finally, "but that doesn't mean I want to give them an excuse to resort to that kind of response either."

"The Protectorate has a bit more leeway than an independent such as yourself. They can carry lethal weapons because they are recognized law enforcement officers. If someone goads Miss Militia into using lethal ammunition, she is still likely to be seen as being in the right, whether that is true or not. Or at least, she will have a far easier time avoiding reprisal. I recommend keeping it in your hammerspace bag until you need it."

"Agreed," Faultline said. "If you don't need it, don't flaunt it so you don't invite trouble on yourself. If you do need it, well, the situation will be long past the point where you should care about measured responses."

I nodded slowly. "I guess a part of me wanted to show off the cool pistol. I made it and it looks cool so… Is this the pride of a craftsman? I'm being an idiot."

"Teenagers usually are," she said with a gentle smile to take the sting from her words.

I took the pistol back and removed the visible holster before putting them both in a thigh pouch. "Thanks for the advice," I said sincerely. "I appreciate it."

"I'm glad to have met a reasonable cape; there are few enough of us around. There is one more thing I wanted to talk about regarding your commissions: banking."

I groaned. Between the excitement of getting my catalogs off the ground and tinkering, the more mundane aspects of cape life had escaped me. Faultline, Gregor, and I spent another half hour hashing out the details. She agreed to set up an anonymous bank account for me through several proxies. As I understood it, the Number Man happily managed criminal accounts in exchange for a small cut of all transactions. Hell, the man even had a website for online banking.

If I needed hard cash, I was strongly advised to use an ATM.

In exchange, I agreed to provide the Crew with Germa fiber. No tech, just the fabric. I showed them some of my most basic AT designs, mostly ones I'd doodled into the margins of a notebook, but they chose durability over maneuverability.

I knew I was getting ripped off from a business standpoint, but I meant it when I called her a friend. Her organization remaining healthy and hale was worth more to me than a few thousand dollars. The payment for her help wouldn't even take much effort on my part. SAINT knew how to make the chemical solution needed to make the fibers and it would be the work of a few minutes to set the sewing machine to weave a bolt of cloth.

I also had her acquire more volcanic dust, even paying her with almost half of my cut from Accord, a whopping forty-five thousand dollars. With it, she assured me she could hire Strider for a bulk purchase and delivery.

"Tell Strider that I'll sweeten the pot. If he accepts the deal right away and agrees to be my courier in the future, I'll tinker him up an expanded bag to help him carry it all. He can keep the bag as a bonus."

"Are you sure? A suitcase with your expansion capability would be worth two or three times what the backpacks are worth based on storage capacity, right?"

"Yup. Accord paid seventeen grand per bag. An expanded suitcase should be in the ballpark of thirty-four grand or better."

"Can I ask why? That's a lot of money, not to mention the exclusivity of tinkertech."

I gestured to the studs on my knuckles. "These are made of a substance called seastone. They've got the durability of diamond, but without the crystalline structure that causes it to fracture. They can be molded into whatever shape I want. I plan to make my main lab a fortress." 'And maybe get the rest of the ship working too,' I thought. It was a matter of time until I could build something that would help with large scale construction and when I did, I was going to turn my lab into an actual ship, something to evade Leviathan when he showed.

"That seems like a challenging undertaking."

"I need to upscale, and that means I need the best courier in the business on my side. Thirty grand is nothing if I can have Strider on retainer."

Faultline nodded slowly. "I wish you the best of luck."

"Thanks," I stood. "Was there anything else?"

"There is. The Palanquin will be hosting a Halloween party in a week's time. You're free to show up, in costume of course."

I thanked her for the invitation and faded from sight with a lazy salute.

X

2010, October 24: Brockton Bay, NH, USA

Sunday found me at the lab bright and early. I'd told mom I was going to be at the library for a school project and to not expect me until dinner. There was much to do. Design after design, failure after failure, I tried to build a working model of the hybrid soda engine. The theory was sound, at least as sound as any tinkertech could be, even if I'd yet to build a working model. In the span of a single day, I'd worked through four different prototypes, most of them turned to scrap.

"Trial log: Hybrid soda engine test run five," I spoke into my PokéNav. SAINT floated by my side, dutifully observing the creation process. "Start."

The engine, an unholy fusion of a fridge, ramjet, and miscellaneous car parts, whirred to life with a smooth hum. It'd taken me four tries just to get the noise down to this hum rather than the loud drone of spinning motors. The single coke bottle was drained, its contents being funneled into a chamber for pressurization.

The key, I found through multiple rounds of testing, was to combine the air intake chamber with the pressurization chamber for the cola. By putting the turbine so close to the fluid, I could use the natural suction of the engine to help compress the fluid, accelerating the process. Now, it was just a matter of streamlining the process and making sure the body was durable enough to handle that kind of heat and pressure.

Then, with a sputtering cough, the engine came to a stop. "Well, at least it didn't explode this time." A bit of cola had flowed back up the pipe to leak onto the fridge compartment. "We're going to need some kind of one-way valve along the pipes."

"Reee."

"Yeah, bud. Me too." I stood and walked back to the table littered with a dozen different design ideas. "Well, back to the drawing board…"

X

"Trial log: Hybrid soda engine test run seven." I figured out the valves between runs five and six after I returned from my self-imposed break. I was so frustrated that I had to focus on something else less intellectually demanding for a time.

Stolen novel; please report.

I ended up creating a pair of AT skates to distract myself. They were bog-standard, a set of two motorized wheels set into each boot, but they could be used to perform almost every trick in the world. Not well, but doable.

I put them on and raced around the interior of the oil tanker for a half hour at the speed of a freeway car, more or less sixty miles per hour. It was this that really elevated becoming a gravity child as a priority for me. I'd like to claim that I was a natural and that I learned to ride like I was born on with wings, but SAINT had the video to prove me a liar. More than once, he had to activate the Germa suit's shield before I scattered my teeth all over the cargo hold.

Towards the end, I got curious and tried to run up a wall. Because, yes, that was a thing storm riders did on the regular. I failed the first time and caught myself with Magnet Rise. The second time, I pumped my legs with Agility and learned to fly without the cloud-stepping boots from Germa.

"SAINT?" I called as I lay there atop a metal walkway, exhausted with only a half hour's exercise.

"Pory?"

"I take it back. I need a set of ATs for myself."

"Porygon. Por."

"Yeah, I'm going to have to incorporate it into my hover boots. Shouldn't be too difficult."

"Gon?"

"Lower priority, but damn if this wasn't a ton of fun."

"Porygon. Pory-gon. Reee."

"Yup. Hybrid engine. Gravity child project. Pledge Regalia. Maybe Key Mother? I don't know. Spitfire was pretty badass…"

The specifics could come later though. In the immediate, I had to return to the hybrid engine prototype. With fresh eyes, I started to pore over the blueprints. Several minutes later, with my mind on regalia, I had my answer: The best way to make sure that all the pressurized fluid was contained in the chamber long enough to go supercritical was to rely on yet another regalia, the Water Regalia.

It was a specialized weapon used by Ōm, a king-level rider and member of the legendary team, Sleeping Forest. Her ATs were designed specifically to draw in water vapor and pressurize them into explosive bubbles. It took some finagling, but the same tech that let her bubbles retain their shape and pressure despite the constant vibrations from within could also be used to keep all the fluid in the chamber. Now, it was just a matter of making sure everything was durable enough to last.

The hybrid engine hummed to life with the satisfying noise of jet turbines gearing up for explosive output. I held my breath, ready to interpose my cape in front of me at the slightest sign of danger. It hadn't exploded since the third test, but I'd rather be safe than concussed. Trying to focus enough to use Recover with a concussion was a bitch and a half. For several minutes, SAINT and I watched the engine as it whirred along like we were looking after an armed bomb.

"Did we… do it?" I asked him.

"Pory?" he replied, questionably optimistic.

"Huh, that wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be. I assumed I'd be working on this for a week if not more. Let's save the cores. They'll come in handy when I want to strap them to my feet later."

X

That night, I laid in bed and allowed my thoughts to wander before I realized something important: The engine still wouldn't work. Or rather, it was incomplete. The engine converted cola into a supercritical fluid then used that for energy in the form of electricity, but it ultimately produced too much electricity. Without a place to store and safely release all that power, it'd mostly go to waste. The transformer I had currently couldn't put up with the strain.

In normal electrical grids, power plants generated a consistent current of electricity at high voltage then transmitted it down to each individual household, where the current was transformed into a lower voltage for use. A transformer used in this manner could last from anywhere between thirty to fifty years, assuming the amperage of the current didn't fluctuate drastically for some reason.

That was for standard flows, not tinkertech ramjets that somehow used fizzy sugar water more efficiently than actual jet fuel.

"Shit," I muttered. "Is this what it's like to be crippled by my own success?"

X

2010, October 25: Brockton Bay, NH, USA

Now that I had a working version of the hybrid engine, albeit an incomplete one, I decided to switch my focus to the gravity child project. I wanted to try for the Pledge Regalia, but without the genetic enhancements, I just wouldn't be able to use it with any competence. Kururu, the Pledge Queen, wasn't a gravity child as far as I knew, but she was also something of a once in a generation genius, a freak of nature wrapped in an adorable pink-haired anime girl package.

Whatever I was, I wasn't that.

After Monday classes, I met Hannah Chong in Mrs. Young's office at the Lafayette Middle School. She was a pretty, half-Asian, half-white girl with light brown hair. She wore a baby-blue shirt with fashionably ripped jeans and a large flower hairpin that stylishly framed her face. I'd pegged Matt as the stereotypical cape-geek. Hannah was a bit harder to pin down. Had I met her on the street, I would have glossed over her completely as part of the background scenery, just another middle school girl in a city of thousands.

She was punctual and attentive. When we left for the library, she shot Mrs. Young a sweet smile that the old lady couldn't help but return. My impression of her was good, a generally unremarkable but likable girl.

I couldn't be more wrong.

Within a minute of us sitting down, she'd pulled out her phone to text a friend. It took a minute of pointed looks and faux coughing to get her to put down the phone. She rolled her eyes.

"Let's just do my homework and get out of here," she drawled.

"We're here for more than your homework, Hannah. Your mother asked me to go over last week's test with you as well. Sixty percent, was it?"

"What the hell? Mrs. Nakawa has it out for me."

"I take it that's your math teacher?" She nodded petulantly. "For now, give me your test so I can see where you lost points. While I do that, you are going to do your homework."

"Why do I need tutoring?"

"Because you got a D on your math test." I was starting to get the impression that this would be a long two hours.

She let out an angry huff but finally got to work. It became painfully obvious as the session wore on that she was the sort of girl who smiled for authority figures but acted out to anyone that wasn't an adult. Unfortunately, despite my mental age, I definitely didn't look like an adult. To her, I was that nerd who was only a year older than her. After a less than productive session, I packed up and headed home for dinner.

'The shit I put up with for tinkering time…'

X

I sent Amy a text that evening, telling her that I intended to remain out of the spotlight for a few days. To my surprise, she called back at around nine.

"Bryce?"

"Hey, Ames, what's up?"

"Nothing, I just got back from the hospital."

"Ooh, that sucks. You eat yet?"

"What are you, my mother?" I could just about hear her rolling her eyes. Ironic, since I didn't think Carol was the type to make sure her unwanted daughter kept up with her meals. "Yes, I ate. The nurses sent an intern to buy us dinner."

"You get the royal treatment, huh?"

"Damn straight. I deserved that meatball sub, damnit."

"Of course, your majesty. Why the call?"

"So, you're going to lay low?"

"At least for a bit," I said. "I have a lot of things I want to work on."

"What sort of things? You're not building a doom-laser, are you?"

"Your faith in me stirs my soul," I said dryly. "No, actually. You're alone, right?"

"Yes, or I wouldn't ask if you planned to build a doom-laser."

"Just checking. I love that you don't question that I can build a doom-laser, only whether I'm planning on it. I have a few projects I want to work on, but not everything I want to do is tinkering."

"That's surprising coming from you."

"I know, but I learned from last Saturday that I was lacking a lot."

"Like what?"

"For one, Carlos was right. I do suck at boxing. I could stand to learn a few more moves before I make a fool of myself. I've been cruising by against mooks purely because my suit's so great."

"So what? You're going to get swole?"

"Yup. That's me, Bryce the uber-Chad chick magnet." Not going to lie, the snort of laughter that followed hurt, just a bit.

"Right, that's what you are. I'll just watch in awestruck wonder while girls throw their panties at you."

"Again, your faith in me is a delight to behold."

"Cool, good luck getting shredded or whatever. What's your plan after that?"

"I'm going to go around pranking the city's capes to showcase my tech, maybe commit some petty crimes so people can shut up about calling me a hero."

"Bryce," she said warningly.

"Nothing over five hundred dollars," I promised. "Anything more than that and it's officially a felony."

"I still don't like this."

"Of course you don't. You're a hero," I encouraged. This was one of the major reasons behind involving Amy in my cape life. I wanted her to see that her morals weren't screwed up, she wasn't a single step away from "going villain," nor were "villain" and "evil" synonyms.

"And what's that make you?"

"Someone who's willing to inconvenience others to improve his brand." I offered her an olive branch. "If it makes you feel better, I promise I'll stop any violent crimes I come upon during my outings."

"Swear?"

"Pinkie swear," I said solemnly.

"You better be serious about this."

"Like a heart attack."

She sighed, dissatisfied but unwilling to argue. "Fine, go ahead."

"Thank you, oh mighty GOAT."

"…" I could hear the uncomfortable silence. "Fuck you, Bryce. Seriously? You even made a PHO handle for me!"

"Uh oh, so I take it you're not happy?"

"No, what gave you that idea?" she growled.

"Would it make you feel better if I gave you the account password so you can weigh in on your own?" She mulled it over for a minute. "You could use it to vent your frustrations and troll everyone while pretending to be an out-of-town cape. I mean, right now, everyone thinks The GOAT is someone who has my contract. You could spend all day shitposting and it wouldn't matter so long as you're seen curbing my more 'villainous' impulses."

"Fine… but stop doing stupid shit like this without telling me!"

"No promises. It's not like I told everyone Panacea was my sponsor."

She grumbled some more but didn't try to talk me out of my plans so I considered that a victory. There was still my biotinkering to explain, but I'd cross that bridge when I got to it. I needed to slowly mold her morals into a healthier perspective before I even considered broaching that question. Eventually, I wanted her as a partner, not just because Shaper was one of the best possible assistants I could have, but because the act of exploring her powers represented a fundamental shift in Amy's character.

In the meantime, I'd just settle for being grateful that Amy wasn't much of a hugger. We talked a bit more, mostly her venting about one entitled idiot at the hospital or another.

"Okay, so there was this woman who received a false positive for breast cancer, right?" she started.

"Meaning she thought she had cancer?"

"Yeah, one of the new residents made a mistake during the initial testing. A more experienced doctor went over his work and found out that she's clear. You'd think that'd be great news."

I hummed and checked through PHO headlines. "No cancer sounds like a good reason to be happy. Leave the hospital, buy a prime rib, pig out with family and friends, that sort of thing. At least, that's what I'd do."

"That's what a reasonable person would do," she grumbled. "She didn't believe the doctors and forced them to test her two more times, all negatives. She'd gotten it into her head that she's going to die so she kept making herself sick."

Hypochondria, or illness anxiety. It was something I'd encountered a few times as a PA in my past life, but I couldn't exactly tell her that. Besides, she needed to get this off her chest so I let out an appropriate gasp of interest. "You can do that?"

"Ehh, kind of, you can trick your body into a lot. Placebo at its finest, except she's convinced herself into thinking she's ill instead of thinking she's well."

"Okay, so they eventually got fed up with her and kicked her out, right?"

"You'd think so, but her husband's some executive at Medhall so they couldn't. She threw such a fucking fit that the head nurse begged me to drop by. For fuck's sake, Bryce, whose fucking idea was it to make hospitals political?"

"I thought you didn't do requests."

"I don't," she stressed emphatically. "Bitches like her are exactly why I don't. She legitimately threw a tantrum in the lobby. I mean full on kicking legs, screaming she's going to die and that we won't treat her. I grabbed her and told her she didn't have cancer just to get her to shut up."

"Huh, you didn't just put her to sleep?"

"No, we have enough people who need the beds, thank you."

"Fair point. You have it rough, huh," I said sympathetically.

"Tell me about it. She was stopping the doctors from treating other patients because she's a paranoid, selfish bitch!" I heard knocking and muffled voices. "I'm fine, Vicky," she called back. "Sorry, I got a bit loud, didn't I?"

"A little, but completely understandable. Don't let them get to you, Amy."

"I'm trying," she huffed. "Bryce?"

"Yes?"

"It's supposed to feel good, right?"

"Sorry, I don't follow."

"Doing good. Being good. It's supposed to give me the warm and fuzzies, right? Helping people?"

"It can."

"Visiting the hospital just makes me annoyed," she confessed. I could hear the shakiness in her voice. I doubted she'd ever admitted as much to anyone, maybe not even Vicky. "I should be happy I'm making a difference, but…"

"But they get on your nerves," I finished for her.

"Yeah… Bryce?"

"Yes, Amy?"

"Am I a bad person?"

"You're a better person than me," I told her honestly. "You know what I think?"

"What?"

"You're burning out. It's normal, natural even. Even doctors and police get time off."

"You sound like Vicky."

"Because she's pretty smart. You know, for a blonde."

"Fuck you. I'm offended for my sister."

"More importantly, she cares about you. I care about you. And if we're both telling you to cut back on your hours a bit, maybe you should."

"Maybe…"

"Ames, your sister and I aren't conspiring together to get you to be an awful person. I mean, I'm a villain so I might, but your sister?"

"It's like having a shoulder devil and a shoulder angel."

"And we're both telling you the same thing, hmm? What does that mean?"

"Maybe… I'll think about it."

"Okay, you do that. And if you get too annoyed with someone, give them a giant zit, right in their asscrack next to their anus."

"Bryce!" she shouted. "You're fucking awful."

"Heh, you'd be more convincing if I couldn't tell you're laughing."

"Whatever."

I let the conversation drop into a comfortable silence. What was the best way to get her to play with her power? Maybe I could get her a small succulent for her window? Or introduce her to my funky fruits? Not bad ideas, but now wasn't the time.

Instead, I said, "I'm going to head to bed, Ames."

"Yeah, alright. Bryce?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks for listening."

"You're not a chore, Ames. I'm happy to listen."

"Night… Creed."

"Night, The GOAT."

Author's Note

Have an animal fact.

Koalas have the smallest brain to body ratio among mammals. They're also smooth-brained, which means they're about as dumb as your two year old nephew. Most of them, a massive eighty-five percent, have chlamydia.

Yeah, ain't fucking cute now, huh?

Energy ranges differ obviously, but it isn't unusual for a jet engine to produce 230 megawatts of power at takeoff. That's 230,000 kilowatts. The average American home used 10,649 kilowatt hours (kWh) of electricity in 2019 according to the US Energy Information Administration (EIA). Bryce's miniature engine, despite its size, is comparable to a jet turbine.

Yes, I'm intentionally glossing over the gravity child project. Not just because I know little about biology or genetic engineering, but because canon does not go into just what the projects entailed. We know the gravity children were products of a genetic engineering project designed to create the optimal storm rider, but not any specific details. We have no idea if there was animal testing, dead children deemed failures, or some other crime against nature. For all we know, Dr. Minami, the chief scientist, came up with some bullshit serum a la Captain America.

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.