Chapter Seven: Testing, Creating, Becoming
"-and the Celtics lost, so Cody was kind of upset, but I didn't really care either way. It was awesome to hang out with Danny's friends though, they're a riot."
Jasmine leaned on the vending machine opposite me. We were out back behind the south building, right where the band room exits into the greenspace.
I missed lunch with my friends because I had to go to a meeting down at the main office -my parents had shown up to explain that I would be "shifting my vocational studies to a different area focused on cape costume design and merchandising"- so I was catching Jasmine up on my weekend, sans the power/Wards related topics.
"It was awfully nice of Danny to offer the tickets to her siblings first. My sister could learn a thing or two about family loyalty from yours."
Er, yikes, avoid that topic, Veronica's relationship with Jasmine and her family was… strained, and drama had unfolded at the shrine over the weekend while I was indisposed (on a shopping spree), as Cass and Ymena had let me know.
Luckily, I didn't have to skirt around talking about Veronica, as Jasmine changed the topic herself, "So, where were you at lunch today? We missed you."
"Well," I gathered my response, "You know how my mom works for the PRT? In the image department?"
"Yes? You've caught my interest with that opening. Do go on."
"Yeah, so, she and I had a discussion about her job on Saturday," a completely true statement, "and it got me thinking about the impact cape merchandising has on society. You don't really think about it, but it's a multi-billion dollar industry, basically just from branding deals alone!" still telling the truth and nothing but the truth, "I thought to myself, 'wouldn't it be awesome to apply my talents in a cape-related field?'," truth, even if I'm omitting critical information, "So I asked my mom, and she suggested that I could intern for the PRT's image department," mostly true, Mom suggested I use that as a cover for the Wards, "How cool is that? I might get to work with the Wards, the heroes. Anyways, to make a long story short, I was at the office during lunch so I could register to change my vocational study. Today's gonna be my first day."
End it with a winning smile, not that I had to fake the very real excitement bubbling up.
"Wow, that's great Sam! I'm so happy for you!"
She approached for a hug, and I didn't hesitate to hug her back.
Oh wow, Jasmine's hair smells great today. She's so tall, and soft, and amazing…
I snapped myself out of my reverie before intrusive thoughts took over. We separated, but the faint scent of cinnamon lingered in the air.
"Mom's gonna be picking me up soon," I said, "I can't wait, I'm like a kid on Christmas."
Seriously, I was vibrating -several of my classmates may have gotten annoyed by my leg tapping in Current Events- and I couldn't stop.
"I can see that," ah, there's that melodious laughter, "Before you get going though, I've got an important question for you."
Important question?
"Have you had a chance to talk to Amy yet?"
Oh shoot, with all the distractions and discussions of the past few days, I hadn't spared the Dallons a second thought.
"Er, not yet. There hasn't been a good opportunity to talk to her where I felt like I wasn't intruding," not that I had been looking for opportunities.
"The perfect moment won't magically fall into your lap," she was right again, but did she have to chastise me for it? "If you're still serious about what you said on Thursday, then don't be afraid to take your chance. It's alright to be nervous, but you can't let that stop you. Just be yourself, give it your best shot, and even if it goes horribly wrong, it won't be the end of the world."
Says you.
I hated this part. The lying. The disconnect that hiding my metaknowledge was causing. She didn't understand, couldn't understand that this was about more than just trying to make a friend.
But I can't blame her for that, it wouldn't be fair.
"If I catch Amy and Vicky alone, I'll go for it."
"Good to hear. I actually had some more advice for when you talk to her. I was thinking that you should try-"
Fate chose that moment to cut Jasmine off, when from my pocket came Mom's cheery ringtone. I answered the phone.
"I'm at the north parking lot, in front of the trees," her voice carried over the cell.
"Okay, I'll be there in a few," I tapped to end the call, "Mom's here, gotta go. I'll talk to you later!"
"Bye."
"Bye-bye."
I took off at a jog, eager to reach the meeting as soon as possible. Rounding the bend by the gym, I saw the van parked in all its cobalt blue glory. I opened the passenger door and jumped in.
"Hit the gas, we've got destiny to catch," I cringed internally.
Wow, that was a terrible one liner, why would I think that sounded cool?
Mom rolled her eyes at my antics, "Glad you're excited, Sweetheart. Now put on your seatbelt."
We then drove at the speed limit while following traffic laws, as we should. There's no reason to endanger others with reckless driving just because you have a meeting to attend.
From departure to arrival, the ride took just five minutes, Arcadia being relatively close to the PRT building. My nervous energy had dialed up the whole time to the point where I was fidgeting with the van's upholstery and moving my seat back and forth. I don't think Mom appreciated it.
"Remember your lessons from yesterday, be professional, know when to push and when to back off," she would brook no nonsense.
I simply nodded in understanding.
As we reached the building, Mom drove past the parking lot out front, turning the corner into a ramp leading underground. PRT vans lined the center aisles, confirming my suspicions that this was employee parking only. We pulled into a spot along the far wall next to a row of civilian car models.
Mom and I disembarked and made our way over to an entrance that resembled an elevator door, a slit down the middle indicating where the two stainless steel halves would slide apart.
Flanking the entrance on either side were two uniformed individuals unmistakably identifiable as PRT troopers. Their uniforms were very riot-trooper-chic, all bulky black body armor with kevlar and bandoliers attached for an assortment of equipment, but with a soldier-of-the-future twist present in chest plates and arm guards with rivets and plated ceramics. On the upper chest was emblazoned the insignia of the PRT, a winged shield with crenulations, a statement of design that said "We may be guardians of peace, but we will not hesitate to topple the tower down upon you. Don't step out of line" They carried a stubby flamethrower like weapon that I identified as a likely candidate for a containment foam device -the fluid packs worn on their backs were not as large as you'd think, smaller than a diver's air tanks for instance- and the soldiers kept the tubes pointed away from us while remaining at attention. In most of the interactions Taylor had with PRT troopers, their outfits came complete with riot helmets and blank, dark face shields. While they were wearing the helmets, they had forgone the face shields, perhaps in an attempt to appear less intimidating to incoming guests and workers.
"Please present your identification," The guard on the left said the command non threateningly, but with a monotone authority that allowed no argument. You will follow this trooper's orders, or you will find yourself having problems.
Mom swiftly lifted her wallet and showed the trooper the documentation they required.
It must have been satisfactory, as the guard -she had a feminine sounding voice- told us to step up to a screen for a retinal scan. They really take security here seriously with this James Bond type stuff. Good.
I was expecting a laser to flash across my vision, but we apparently live in a world too lame for something that cool, and the verification was over in a metaphorical flash rather than a literal one.
"You may proceed," the female guard said, swiping a card into the reader by the door.
The steel halves silently separated, pulling into recesses and revealing that the entrance was in fact an elevator. We got inside, and Mom pressed a button that read "3F" which I assumed means we're headed to the third floor.
Before the doors closed all the way, the female trooper spoke up, "Good luck, Brown."
"Heh, that was pretty cool," I said to Mom, getting a snort back from her.
"You'll get used to it," she said.
"What if I don't want to get used to it? Why let the magic fade?" Sci-fi soldiers will never not be awesome. Images of NCR Ranger gear and Brotherhood of Steel power armor were brought to mind.
Our conversation was cut short as the doors reopened to a generic office hallway. These elevators of theirs move fast to go from basem*nt level to here in a matter of seconds.
Standing just to the side of the door was none other than the leader of the Brockton Bay Protectorate himself, the one and only Armsmaster, as always accompanied by his silver and blue power armor -vaguely reminiscent of the Power Rangers shows that Samuel had watched as a kid- and the iconic halberd strapped over his back. The lower half of his visor was withdrawn, revealing a sternly lined expression framed by a meticulously groomed beard.
That is quite possibly the squarest facial hair I have ever seen.
"Mrs. Brown, Miss Brown, follow me to conference room 3A. Put on this mask," He handed me a thin domino mask, "It will conceal your identity," There was the blunt language Armsmaster was famous for. Hearing it and seeing him in person, he didn't come off as socially awkward or robotic like in Samuel's impressions of the man. Rather, his refusal to use more words than strictly necessary to convey his meaning came off as (and I hate to say this) egotistical. More than anything, the proclaimed greatest Tinker in the Bay radiated a surety of self almost to the point of arrogance. To him, I was a waste of time, as was everything else not related to his hero career or his tinkering. Maybe it was my bias of knowing that he had acted very un-heroically in the original timeline, but my first impression was not a positive one.
Regardless, I pressed the domino mask to my face, assuming it was one of those Tinker created masks that generate an optical disguise.
We followed him through the hallways. The layout of the floor was easy to understand, being essentially one large rectangle with rooms both on the interior and exterior of the loop. I noticed indentations set into the floor and ceiling at regular intervals, Are those for blast doors?
Office workers moved about here and there, nobody sparing more than a glance in our direction. They must be so used to capes that this doesn't register.
We stopped in front of another door, this one hewn from a solid wood with a plaque that read "Conference Room 3A" just as Armsmaster had said. He knocked on the door and opened without waiting for a response.
Dad was already seated at the short conference table, closest to our side. At the other end of the table sat a woman I could only assume to be the director, heavyset with trimmed blonde hair and a gaze that could wither flowers. Emily Piggot retained the hardened comportment of a career soldier even with all that her service had taken from her.
"We're all here, so let's get started," The director's voice held that jowl-induced quality that being overweight sometimes causes, but she sounded no less commanding for it, "It's good to meet you, Miss Brown."
Yeah right, I know you're just saying that to show professional courtesy.
She continued with her spiel, "You've made the correct choice in joining the heroes. We'll go over the initial paperwork, you can voice any questions you have, and then we'll get you in for power testing. Before we begin, Brown, you said you have some documents that should precede the meeting?"
Dad produced his small leather bound journal from his coat pocket, rifling through the pages and withdrawing a stack which he handed over to the director.
"When we learned about our daughter's powers, we had a talk with her about responsible power use, during which she disclosed the extent of her abilities as she understood them at the time. These documents contain descriptions of said powers in her wording in addition to my own notes. I have not copied the contents of these pages to any other format, digital or otherwise, and if I may, I would suggest that Level-5 security protocols be engaged for all information pertaining to the new parahuman disclosed within, codename undecided."
There was a lot of bureaucratic formality thrown around in that statement, and apparently I warranted Level-5 security clearance, I have no idea how high that is.
"Requesting permission to transcribe notes to Power Armor v.2.0.31 internal database," Armsmaster said it more as a statement than a request.
His suit must have been considered secure enough because Piggot gave him an affirmative and nobody else objected.
Both hero and director read through the documents without comment, faces schooled, betraying none of their inner thoughts. The only reaction either gave was a single raised eyebrow from Piggot near the end of her perusal.
Once finished, she made to speak, "I find myself agreeing with your assessment, I'm instituting Level-5 security protocols for parahuman codename: Dimension Pull, effective immediately."
Color me surprised, that codename wasn't too terrible, although not at all what I wanted to call myself.
"This is going to be unorthodox," she continued, "but I think we should do things out of order. If it's alright with the both of you," so she was only considering my parents' opinions here, "We can proceed with power testing right away. I want verification of the contents of these documents before we discuss contract clauses. Brown, we can get the paperwork all laid out and ready to go."
Dad nodded.
Okay, no one asked for my opinion, but I'm fine with this anyways. Power testing sounds fun.
I looked to my parents for guidance. Mom seemed uncertain, on the verge of speaking up to Piggot, but Dad gave me a nod and told Piggot, "My wife should accompany her during the testing process."
"Of course, that was our intent," Piggot didn't hesitate.
Seeing no reason to hold, I consented.
"Excellent," the director said, "Armsmaster, please escort Dimension Pull and Mrs. Brown to the main power testing lab."
Mom and I got out of our seats to follow the armor-clad hero as he set off at a brisk pace. She shut the door behind her, leaving Dad and the director alone for what I belatedly realized might be an animated discussion. I hope Dad doesn't get fired for this, talk about a conflict of interests.
"Uhh, so that was strange right? I didn't expect that all to happen so quickly," I wasn't sure if I was searching for a response to my open ended statement or if I just wanted to make some small talk, but Armsmaster took it as a chance to comment.
"No. Wards power testing is generally completed after some signatory paperwork, although supervised testing is available to all parahumans without a criminal record," his language was clipped. He didn't sound upset or frustrated per say, but there was undeniably a tension to his bearing. What does he feel after reading about my powers?
Our route backtracked exactly along the path to the conference room, all the way to the elevator. We got off back at the garage. Why would we be led to the garage, I thought we were going to the testing lab? Oh duh, I forgot that the lab was at Protectorate HQ, also known as The Rig.
Unfortunately, I did not get to ride on the Armscycle, instead being shuttled with Mom onto one of the black and green PRT transport vans. Mom and I shuffled into the back of the transport, two troopers taking the driver and passenger seats. This pair had their face plates up, increasing their intimidation factor.
The van pulled out of the garage, Armsmaster following behind on his tinkered up motorcycle.
Mom hadn't said a word since the drive from school, more nervous than I was. I searched for a way to break the tension, not wanting to suffer the whole ride in awkward silence. She did say to maintain strict professionalism, but surely that was just for the meeting with the director and didn't count in this situation.
"Excited for all the merchandise you'll get to make of me?" I blurted out.
Mom blinked rapidly, coming out from her thoughts, "I'm sorry, what was that?"
"I asked if you were excited to make some me-themed merch."
She shot a glance over to the troopers, "S- Dimension Pull, I don't know if this is the best time to discuss that," she said my codename with every syllable on stilts.
Okay, now she was just being paranoid. I was the one who had to worry about Coil's plots and gang moles, and even I thought this was too much. I just want to lighten up the mood, gosh darn it!
So I did my best, "I wonder if I'll get my face on some panties like Armsmaster."
That got a response out of the passenger side trooper, "No no, you're going about this all wrong. You gotta think about your target demographics," was that a Spanish accent? "Obviously, you go for the boxer briefs market."
"Absolutely not!" "Méndez." Mom yelled out at the same time that the driver-side trooper chastised his partner.
This could work now that I had someone else to bounce off of.
"You're right Mrs. Brown," I need to at least maintain the illusion that I'm not talking to my mom, "I should at least wait until I'm in the Protectorate for that."
"Eh, but you'll be missing out on those royalties in the meantime," Méndez bantered back.
Mr. Driver just sighed in resignation, muttering about NDAs and disciplinary training.
Mom stared crossly at the back of Méndez's head, a complete improvement from her earlier mood in my opinion.
"Wards get age appropriate merchandising," Way to call me out, Mom.
I was smiling now, "Fine, fine. Sooo, how do you feel about putting my image on ceiling fans?"
"Why ceiling fans?" Mom, you make the setup all too easy.
Méndez beat me to the punch, "Cause she's gonna blow away all the competition."
This guy is a natural.
Mom groaned, face in her palms, commiserating with Méndez's misfortunate partner.
"That's it, young lady, you will be getting the blandest PR campaign our team is capable of. I'm talking about your hero name on tees in comic sans and a C-list voice acted guest appearance in the Wards cartoon levels of boring."
…
"Look on the bright side, kid. You're gonna be so famous they can't even afford your time in the studio."
I nodded sagely, "Comic sans is in with the post-ironic crowd. This'll be a huge boost to sales for my demographic aged 13-25."
"She forgot to mention your action figure. Everybody gets an action figure."
"True. I think I saw that mentioned somewhere in the Wards introductory pamphlet."
Mom was spared the horror of more banter when Mr. Driver called out, "We're on approach to PHQ."
Living in Brockton Bay, I had of course seen the hard light bridge that connected The Rig to the mainland, but I had never ridden over it. Looking out the front window, a wave of vertigo washed over me, quickly passing as I adjusted to the disconcerting view. A glowing blue path less than a millimeter thick was all that kept us from a watery grave.
It's really awesome up close, I thought, What I would give for a personal inspection of the technology, really get into the nuts and bolts of how it works.
I considered how I would implement forcefield technology. Fallout's forcefields worked using a principle called projected photonic resonance, essentially a method for trapping specific wavelengths of light using electromagnetic fields. However, my understanding of both science and Science was lacking, so I would need to put more points into the skill before I gained the know-how to build a working model.
Science for understanding the advanced physics, biology, chemistry, etc. behind Fallout's greatest inventions and Repair for the engineering practices required to build it all. Those two Skills would be what I dumped my level up points into for the foreseeable future, assuming it worked the same as in the game.
Focusing back on The Rig, the architecture had a lot in common with a modern art piece, defined by sweeping arches and pointed spires seemingly meant to impose a grandeur rather than facilitate any functionality. Then again, the missile platforms and forcefield bubble were functionality enough to deter all but the most hardened of villains.
A wide metal door gaped open at our approach, a maw of metal teeth that led into a large indoor hanger.
We climbed out, and I bid farewell to my new favorite PRT trooper.
I got a "knock 'em dead kid" in return.
Armsmaster pulled up alongside the van. He took off with a gruff, "Follow me."
We were led deeper into the structure, descending a few stories below what I thought would have been the bottom level. I was a Brockton Bay resident, so of course I had taken the tour before, but they clearly curated what the public saw. Last time I was here, I had taken the ferry to a landing on the opposite side of The Rig.
The tour immediately greets you with the giftshop, followed by a trek down sleek metal hallways leading to Armsmaster's tinkering lab and the hero training facilities.
This route was decidedly less exciting. Generic plaster walls. Office rooms. Living spaces? Not nearly as incredible as the exterior would have you believe.
After what felt like several minutes of walking, we circled back around to a familiar section. If I recalled correctly, we were nearing the training rooms, a more than plausible location for power testing. Indeed, we stopped at a room that was recognizable as a gym, with rows of treadmills, an assortment of weights, and some machines that I couldn't ascertain the purpose of.
A man and a woman, the former dressed in business casual, holding a clipboard, and the latter in a lab coat, were looking expectantly at us.
"This is Doctors Kasumi Watanabe and Kent Rivers of the parahuman research division. Please follow their instructions for the duration of the testing. If you have any questions they cannot answer, I will be observing the procedures as well."
And with that implied dismissal, Armsmaster marched off to the observation box, leaving me and Mom alone with the scientists.
"Yes, as he said, I am Dr. Kasumi Watanabe, but you may call me Dr. Watanabe or just by my family name," She was older, I placed her at maybe mid 40s.
"And you can call me Dr. Rivers, or Mr. Rivers, or Kent, I'm not too picky," he was younger than his partner, unlikely to be a day over 30, and he spoke with a joviality to contrast Dr. Watanabe's flat tone.
"So, Dr. Rivers, I see lots of gym equipment, are we testing my physical fitness first?" I asked.
"Aha, you're an observant one."
Why yes I am, see powers, my Perception should be higher than 2, I agreed with the good doctor.
"We'll start off with a series of baseline tests before getting into active power use," Dr. Watanabe explained.
"Um, there might be a slight problem. I actually have passive abilities that would interfere with getting a normalized reading."
"Not a problem at all," Dr. Rivers said, "by baseline, we mean without generating any forcefields or wind currents or what have you that you need to actively engage to use. We can't expect every parahuman to be able to deactivate innate superstrength on command."
"Oh, right," I said sheepishly. Duh.
"By the way, what do you want to be called?" he asked me, "I can't keep referring to you as 'kid' of 'you' the whole time."
"I don't have a name for myself yet, but the PRT has me provisionally codenamed as Dimension Pull. It's not a bad name, but it's not gonna be my hero name."
"Pull, it is," he said.
What followed was a series of tests that wouldn't be completely out of place in a high school standardized fitness exam.
First up was the treadmill. They had me begin at an even jog, the speed slowly increasing at regular intervals. As the pace ramped up, I had to pump my legs harder and harder to keep myself from flying off the treads. It was both tiring and not tiring at the same time, my body functioning at constant maximum output but without muscle fatigue or getting winded. My Stamina was draining fast, however -I had never tested this amount of strain- and I worried I'd run out if this kept up much longer.
I had no idea how fast I was sprinting, but even with Stamina, my lungs and legs were burning, and it was becoming impossible to keep up. The speed increased again. If I could push just a little farther…
I lost my footing. Ground rushed up to meet my face (or my face rushed down to meet the ground), slamming into my nose and jaw. At the speed I'd been running, I couldn't get my arms up in time, and they were awkwardly pinned beneath my chest during the collision, resulting in another painful point of contact.
Mega-ow, I never want to know what it feels like to hit the teeth first ever again.
Apparently, my slip up was damaging enough to cause severe physical harm because my Health bar was cut in half, Yikes.
"Sam!"
I think you're forgetting the whole secret identity thing, Mom.
"Oh my God, are you okay, Sweetheart?"
"Pull, are you alright? Why didn't you tell us we were pushing you too far?" Glad to see that the doctor is concerned as well.
"I'm fine. It just hurt," the pain response was still fading, "My um, my overshield protected me from injury," I tried to reassure the two mother hens and Dr. Watanabe, "I didn't realize that I couldn't keep up with the treadmill until it was too late. My- I suppose you would call it an energy overflow, keeps me from getting winded," Although I had been close to hitting empty when I took that fall.
"You're really fine?" Mom was still dubious of my safety.
"Really," I wiggled my fingers and flashed my teeth in a smile. I didn't even get a bloody nose, "Um, could we perhaps take a break to let my overshield recharge, unless we're on a tight schedule or-"
"That's perfectly fine," Dr. Watanabe assured me, "Let us know when you're ready to continue, and we'll more closely monitor your limitations from now on."
Five minutes later, I got back to it. The next few exercises were much less likely to result in a faceplant.
Do as many pushups as you can in one minute. I did 40.
Now do the same but for sit ups. I managed 62.
How long can you grip onto this pole without slipping? Until I ran out of Stamina plus 20 seconds for a total of 403 seconds.
Okay, now my arms are tired. I remember why I hate exercise, if I'd worn my Pip-Boy I'd be curious to check how much AP was used for the hangbar test.
Grip strength. I measured 18kg (My arms were still tired).
Sit and reach. 63.5cm. I was a flexible girl, and it helped that I could push past the pain without fear of tearing my muscles.
"We're going to have you lift progressively heavier weights," Dr. Watanabe explained, "Are you familiar with proper lifting technique?"
I was directed to a black pillar spanning from the floor to the ceiling and wide enough to fit three of me comfortably side by side. The pillar turned out to be composed of two parts, the dark outer sheath and a metal cylinder on the interior. The interior portion was enclosed on all sides except for the quarter circle facing towards the observation window. The metal cylinder was raised seven or so feet above the ground, and upon closer inspection, it was segmented into plates by thin, nearly invisible, horizontal gaps. The plates got thicker the higher the cylinder climbed. And there were two handles on the underside of the bottom plate.
Comprehension was beginning to dawn on me as to the purpose of this machine, conjuring images of Atlas holding up the sky.
I think Dr. Rivers saw my incredulity because he felt the need to explain, "Big Bertha here may look scary, but she wouldn't hurt a fly," I gave him a deadpan stare, "In all seriousness, it's completely safe. There would have to be hundreds of catastrophic failures involving shearing of dozens of steel carbide inserts over three centimeters in diameter before failure occurred. It's physically impossible for multiple weights to activate at the same time, controlled by analog mechanisms. It's not crushing anything or anyone anytime soon. The treadmills are by far the more dangerous pieces of equipment."
I looked at Mom.
She shrugged, "It's handled all the other Wards, including the ones without Brute ratings. I trust you'll be fine."
"And why can't we just use the weights you guys have lying around?" I hoped they realized how overkill this was for me.
"It's not as accurate," was the response from Dr. Watanabe.
I thought she was supposed to be the responsible one, and here she is running an orphan crushing machine.
Alright, let's do this.
I dismissed my survival instincts and positioned myself underneath the
strength tester.
"Adjusting height," came Watanabe's voice.
The cylinder lowered a few inches to where my arms were able to make right angles when gripping the handles.
"We're gonna start you off at the five kilogram plate and work our way up from there," Dr. Rivers informed me.
There was no sound or other indication that the first plate had dropped, I was just suddenly bearing its weight. I could handle this.
The weight increased every few seconds, warnings given by the researcher duo of how much weight would be added and what the new total would be. From five to ten to fifteen, incrementing by fives. At 35kg, my arms and chest were straining, and it's at this point that I would have quit if I didn't have superpowers. Stamina drained more rapidly the heavier object I was lifting, and I was hitting the halfway point. The pressure went up again, this time to 40kg, and I grunted in exertion, my face likely turning a shade of tomato red.
I grunted out that I was reaching my limit.
"Acknowledged, slowing the rate of increase," Dr. Watanabe flipped several switches on the control panel.
Weight was added one meticulous kilogram at a time, my arms now shaking, not from exhaustion but from the sheer mechanical inability of my muscles to bear the weight.
At 44 kilograms, Watanabe called the end of the test, and while I maybe could have forced myself to take a little more weight, it was nearing the point where that would cause damage to my Health.
The older researcher was looking over the results, "Interesting, you were able to lift more than expected of a girl your age, weight, and training ought to. I would say your energy reserves provide a minor yet valuable Brute rating, although it almost seems like an involuntary Breaker state."
It's a fascinating experience to push your body to its absolute physical limits, and then immediately afterwards go back to being completely fine, but that was my reality now. For all the pain and immense pressure felt in the moment, I was back to baseline seconds after the experiment stopped.
Dr. Rivers walked over to me with a grin on his face, "We've got just a couple of physical measurements we want to take, and then we can get to the fun stuff. Don't worry, these last few should be a little less boring for you."
I was led over to, of all things, one of those standing punching bags, the kind that look like a tube attached to a thick base. This one even came complete with the PRT insignia.
"Now, based on your previous results, we're having you hit the non-Brute rated punching bag, but if you feel that you could potentially tear through a solid foot of sand, you should tell us now," he informed me.
"No, I don't think I could do that."
"Great," He fished out a pair of boxing gloves from a nearby trunk, tossing them over to me where I deftly caught them, "here's some padding. Put those on, and give it your best strike."
I did as I was told; I couldn't injure my knuckles, but I was still no fan of pain.
Now, I had about as much knowledge of fighting as Mom had of electrical engineering. That is to say, it was practically nonexistent. I did know one thing though. You don't aim at the target, you aim behind it.
I imagined a second punching bag sitting a foot behind the first. That's my goal, hit the invisible bag. So I squared my shoulders, turned my body, winding back my arm, pivoting to put my full force behind this punch, and I struck.
Thud.
A solid hit if I do say so, leaving my fist stinging for a second. I bet I would have generated an echo if the gym didn't have such effective sound dampening.
Dr. Rivers called out the results, reading off his pad, "2100 Newtons, not bad, not bad, delivered over that area gives 240 psi. Enough to knock someone flat with a good hit to the jaw, but definitely outside the range of what you'd expect from someone with Brute strength," He shrugged at me, "I think we can definitely say that your powers aren't enhancing your strength, but how that works with your increased durability, I have no clue."
His grin widened like a child's smile on their birthday, "Now comes the fun part. Looks like you're slated for blaster testing next."
I hated to interrupt what would undoubtedly be a fascinating experience for both me and the researchers, but I had a question, "What about durability testing?"
"Pardon?" I don't think Dr. Rivers quite understood what I meant.
"Wouldn't it make more sense to test my physical durability first? Don't you have equipment for that here?"
"Oooh," You could almost see the lightbulb over his head, "Yes we do have equipment for that kind of testing, but it's a tremendous hassle to get all the proper permissions to test it on Wards. Your Youth Guard representative would have a fit if we didn't get your signed permission, your parents' signatures, the director's signatures, a supervising hero's signature, our liability signatures, you get the point. It's a bureaucratic nightmare, which is entirely unfair. It's not like we're chopping off limbs over here, the tests are barely worse than a trip to the doctor's. At worst, it would be difficult if you had a fear of needles, but for some reason those prissies make a fuss and baseless accusations about 'traumatic experiences' and 'government endorsed torture', ridiculous I tell you."
That seemed exaggerated to me, but Samuel had read some pointed interactions between the PRT and the Youth Guard.
"Are they really that bad?" I asked.
Dr. Rivers was stopped from launching into another impassioned tirade by his colleague, "The Youth Guard is necessary to ensure the rights of minors in our organization are not violated," she paused, "Even if it sometimes impedes both of our jobs."
With that line of conversation thoroughly ended, I was led to the next testing site. The Blaster test chamber ran as one long corridor, resembling a firing range if all the barriers were removed. Etched metal targets bearing dents, scratches, and scorch marks lined the back wall, and extras were propped up against the walls.
Mom and the researchers posted themselves several meters behind me, further protected by some kind of reinforced plexiglass sheet.
Dr. Rivers glanced to his pad and then back to me as I waited somewhat impatiently to begin, "Our notes say you've got pyrokinesis, self-generated from your hands. Go ahead and fire downrange. Don't worry about damaging the room, you'd have to output a lot of energy to get that far."
I equipped Flames for the first time, wielding the spell in both hands. My very own fire, a coalescence of my inner flame meant to bring destruction to my foes. The tongues of fire in my palm licked my fingers, but I felt only a comforting warmth, not the burning of flesh.
I could hold the fire in my palms as long as I wanted, but the energy longed for release, to unleash itself against all that stood in my path. I obliged.
Twin jets of fire shot forth, burning yellow, orange, and red. Sweat poured down my face, but the flames did not hurt me. I held my hands out, awestruck by the beautifully dancing inferno until my Magicka reserves were empty, cutting off the streams and leaving a bright afterimage in their wake.
That was… exhilarating. There was nothing supernatural about that feeling, just the adrenaline fueled euphoria of controlling that much raw power. Instituting self-imposed restrictions on my magic use would be important to curb any power junkie tendencies. I promised to myself, Absolutely no Destruction training outside of the appropriate locations.
Dr. Rivers let out a low whistle.
"Impressive," Dr. Watanabe was checking over her own tablet, "Temperatures reached 1100℃ for around 11 seconds, held constant the entire duration. Maximum range estimated to be 12 meters."
"Was that the longest period of time you could maintain your flames?" She asked.
I saw no reason not to enlighten the doctor, "Yes. It relies on a sort of internal energy reserve, different from the ones that power my superhuman endurance and durability," I clarified.
"Your power is kind of complicated, you know that Pull? Three separate energy sources, and you can keep track of all that?" Dr. Rivers asked with bemusem*nt.
"Well enough. I have a rough instinctual sense of how much energy I've got left, and if I focus, I can find out exactly what percentage is remaining. I semi-regularly get the option to permanently raise the max capacity of one of them too."
"Duly noted." He typed into his pad, "Now, as much as I wish you could blast things with fire all day, we are unfortunately on a strict timetable."
I must have shown some of my disappointment, because he continued by saying, "Don't worry, you'll get plenty of opportunities to play with fire at a later date. Us researchers are always eager to get more data on parahuman abilities."
The day progressed through a series of tests meant to demonstrate the other abilities I had revealed.
Back in the gym, they had me blindfolded, moving me about randomly and asking me to orient myself to certain directions. Compass directions were child's play, then they began asking me to turn towards certain named landmarks. Using logical deduction and memory, I turned to face the door, then the observation window.
Facing towards downtown was easy with multiple map markers to orient myself. They had me spin around several times, and asked me to face away from the city, equally easy given the complete lack of markers in that direction.
Now turn to face my mom. Since people don't show up on my Compass, I had no clue where she was. Not one to be shaken by this kind of setback, I decided I'd give it a try anyways. I spun about randomly for a few seconds, coming to a stop with my finger pointed forwards.
"Did it work?" I asked, genuinely unsure that I had accomplished anything other than looking like a fool.
Dr. Rivers replied, "Yep, why did you spin that time, Pull?"
Not wanting to muddy their results, I explained how I was operating off pure chance and couldn't actually detect people with my direction sense.
I must have gained his curiosity because he wanted to try an experiment. He explained that he was going to have me wear a pair of noise canceling headphones, and he'd tap me on the left or right shoulder to turn towards either Mom or Dr. Watanabe respectively.
With the headphones covering my ears, I was now blind and deaf. He tapped my right shoulder. I spun. A minute passed, now my left shoulder. I spun again. Wait some more. This went on for several dozen more runs, until my hearing was suddenly restored as the noise cancellers were pulled off my head.
"You can untie the blindfold now," he helpfully told me, "You're sure you don't have some instinct you were following? You were able to pinpoint their locations a remarkably high percentage of the time, 14 successes out of 36 attempts can pretty much rule out random chance."
"I'm sure, really. You may as well have asked me to roll dice." I wonder if my Luck was influencing me subconsciously.
His eyebrows scrunched up, and he rubbed his pencil mustache in thought, "We might just have to test that at some point."
We moved onto generic Thinker testing, which consisted of a frankly absurd series of seemingly unrelated questions such as "What color is the stock market today?" or "Describe the temperature of nearby parahuman activity.", some of which were oddly specific and probably meant to target information gathering powers, with examples like "How many births have been registered within a five mile radius in the last hour?" or "List the serial numbers for as many electrically powered appliances as you can that are within 10 meters."
I, of course, didn't actually have a concrete answer to a single question, so I wrote nonsense and educated guesses. I told the researcher duo at the start that I didn't have the kind of Thinker powers this kind of questionnaire was testing for, but apparently it's standard procedure to screen all Wards. Minor Thinker powers tended to fall into the category that most often slipped under the radar (except for Stranger powers, but for much different reasons).
I couldn't have my exam "graded" yet, as a subset of the questions dealt with precognition. However, I wasn't holding out hope for a secret Thinker power.
Next on the agenda, the duo showed a keen interest in my inventory -although I referred to it as a pocket dimension- having me attempt to store a diverse selection of objects and substances, a much more thorough affair than my initial experimentation.
It started off innocently enough.
Metal cube, side length 5cm - It worked (obviously)
Plastic cube of the same size - Yes
Rubber ball - Yea
Wooden spoon - Yup
Ceramic plate - Indeed
My phone - Yep
Dr. Rivers' phone - Also yes
TV remote - Yes
A Tinker made, unspecified remote control device - Yes
5kg weight - Yes
10kg weight - Yes
20kg weight - Hrrrk, Yes
30 kg weight - Yes (with help from Mom to get it off the ground, I was able to keep it lifted long enough to count for my power)
"Wanna see what happens if we try it out on Big Bertha?"
"Kent, we are not risking the million dollar machine on your hair brained scheme."
Styrofoam cup of water - Yes
Water (just cupped in my hands) - No (Now my hands are wet)
Can of orange soda - Mhm
Orange soda cupped in my hands - No! (Why did we have to check that? Now my hands are wet and sticky)
I demanded a bathroom break to wash my hands before continuing.
Handful of dirt - Nope
Jar of dirt - Yep
The air surrounding me - No
The air surrounding my hands - No again
Empty jar (full of air) - Yes (Seriously guys?)
Opaque container full of a dubious sloshing liquid - Yes…
Granola bar - Yes
Dr. Rivers brought out a live mouse. Please, please don't let Mr. Mouse get hurt, I pleaded with my powers.
Live mouse - Didn't work (What a cuddly boy)
Live cricket - Same result (What an uncuddly creature)
Live mouse in a cage - No
Live cricket in a jar - Yes?
Live mouse in a jar - No???
Dead cricket - That one worked
"If you make me try to store a dead mouse in a pocket dimension, I'm complaining to the Youth Guard."
By now, the list of items I had been made to try my power on resembled a testing log from one of those SCP Foundation articles Samuel was fond of reading with an opinion of Dr. Rivers to match the reputation of that fictional organization's most eccentric researchers.
"I think we have covered enough materials," Dr. Watanabe said, "any further testing would be redundant, and we have other things to do."
Dr. Rivers did not pout -he liked to maintain a fun loving yet semi-academic demeanor- but his eyes dimmed in disappointment.
He picked his mood up a moment later as he announced my next task, "You're an unending waterfall of data, Pull, and while I would love to explore the minutiae of your plethora of powers, we only have enough time for one more slot today. Ah, I see that look of disappointment in your eyes-"
"Maybe you should have made parahuman research your vocational study, Sweetheart," Mom had really opened up over the course of the afternoon. Things had gotten off to a rocky start because of my slip up during the very first test of the day, but her mood had gradually improved as she made conversation with Dr. Watanabe -while Dr. Rivers put me through the wringer. She had even forgone the flimsy secret identity charade between the two of us -both of the doctors knew we had a familial relationship by this point, and they had already signed NDAs.
"I concur," Dr. Watanabe stated, "You possess all the qualities of an excellent researcher -a keen mind, patience in the face of failure, and a burning curiosity. Keep hold of these traits, and they will take you far no matter the field you study or the job you take."
She muttered in a quieter voice, "Virtues I wish more parahumans shared."
Dr. Rivers cleared his throat, "Anyways, I bet you'll be excited for the last bit of power testing, seeing as your primary power is listed as Tinker."
Finally.
The auxiliary Tinker lab was a treasure trove, an inventor's dream come to life. Cabinets stocked full of beakers and labeled chemicals, shelves overflowing with scrap electronics, sheet metals, and plastics, tools orderly lining smooth tabletops, appliances gathered along walls, a lathe and 3D printer for metals and plastic, a robotic gantry above an immaculately clear surface, all promised untold resources I had so far been denied.
That was only the visible portion, who knows what they had hidden in closed drawers?
"Sweetheart, you've got a little something on your chin," Mom's eyes crinkled in amusem*nt, a grin clearly held back.
I wiped my mount reflexively and came away with… Drool? I was literally drooling at the sight of the massive Tinker cache.
Even all-business Dr. Watanabe was smiling.
It was then that Armsmaster entered the lab. I hadn't seen the hero since the start of testing, checking my phone, four and a half hours ago. Knowing his disposition from Worm and the other whacky timelines, he might have been tinkering in his lab instead of observing the procedures, waiting until my Tinker time arrived. The man had a singular obsession with Tinkers above all other parahumans, sneering down at the dirty Brutes, Trumps, and Blasters from on high.
Okay, I was being unfair again, Stop letting your biases taint your personal opinion of the man. He can do good when he tries.
"I am here to oversee and observe your tinkering process. Please proceed," No wonder this guy so often got labeled on the spectrum, would it kill you to modulate that monotone voice? I know you're not a robot!
Well, I won't let this distract me any longer.
I had to make sure they wouldn't be upset by my resource use, so I asked to make sure, "I can use anything in this room?"
"Yes, and lucky for you, anything you make here can get grandfathered in since you haven't signed any official paperwork yet," Dr. Rivers assured me, "but it still has to go through testing before you're allowed to bring it on patrols," and crushed my dreams at the same time.
Here goes nothing.
Make a plan, first step, What do I want to build
Perhaps a better question would be, What do I need to build?
I had defenses, but my current offense kit was a tad… overkill. I couldn't imagine a scenario where going all out with a stream of fire longer than my house was tall would be considered acceptable force for a Ward, unless something had gone horribly wrong. Then again, I live in Brockton Bay, and something going horribly wrong is just another Tuesday for the heroes. I'd still like an offensive tool with more finesse, more fine control, that was decidedly less lethal.
Except, Fallout was a universe of decidedly lethal weaponry, with very few counterexamples to choose from, and my options from Skyrim mostly included even deadlier fire spells or sharp, pointy, killy swords, the most optimal utility spells being locked behind higher tiers and perks.
What I wouldn't give for immediate access to paralysis enchantments, spells, or even poisons.
However, New Vegas contained one option that would be incredibly easy, practically child's play to make, even with my low
skilllevels.
The Cattle Prod, originally used for tending unruly cattle, but in theory a tool that could be repurposed for human anatomy, was the perfect starting weapon. It's easy to use -just poke the enemy- and it's low technology, not very resource intensive.
Even Regent made excellent use of the weapon on non-Brute targets. And I could do better.
Fetch the materials. A hollow pipe ,looks to be intended for plumbing. A spool of copper wire, 6 gauge for use in heavy electricity flow. Two 12 Volt batteries. A roll of duct tape. Some odd bits of scrap metal.
Now put it together. I'll need protective gear and tools of course, a welding torch and mask, along with an apron and heat resistant gloves. My spells will come in handy here (Welding torches are great for attaching two metal objects together, not so much for shaping metal). With Flames, I superheated the scrap metal until it was glowing red -all done inside the blast resistant chamber- then I hammered away with some nearby blunt scrap. I scraped and shaped, forging a rough pair of prongs, and when the metal cooled off, I angle grinded until the tips would be sharp enough to reliably pierce thin clothing and skin.
SMITHING INCREASED TO 2
Mask and apron on, weld the prongs to the body. Take the copper wire, and coil it around the top of the tube -this will be good for instantaneous shocks over a large contact area rather than incapacitation- trailing off to the battery leads. Connect the batteries in parallel, increasing voltage. Duct tape the batteries to the weapon body.
Problem. The weapon can still easily deliver lethal amperage and voltage. Solution. Modulate current switch controlled resistors, using precisely cut thin sheets of rubber wrapped around important junctions thinly separated by mechanically controlled metal struts. Current follows Ohm's Law: I=V/R. Power source provides constant voltage, so engage the switch at three different levels to introduce three levels of resistance, and subsequently, three current settings.
Inadvisable to wield bare metal of shock inducing weaponry. Apply rubberized grip to the bottom.
I shook my head out of my intense focus. It was complete, and I didn't have to cheat like with the Pip-Boy. Anybody could build this with the proper technique and know-how, at best my power providing knowledge of engineering shortcuts and bypasses. Before the Cattle Prod, I had never encountered Ohm's Law in my life, my Science skill seemingly conjuring that information out of the ether and into my brain when needed. I understood it now of course, it was hardly rocket science, just simple circuit equations.
I turned towards my audience, hefting the Cattle Prod up to display my creation in all its rudimentary glory.
"What is it?" Thanks Mom for being the perfect audience member.
"I believe I have some idea based on my observations," Armsmaster stated in his trademark monotonic canter.
"This is-" I can't call it the Cattle Prod, or they'll get the wrong idea, "It's a stun baton, with three settings for non-parahumans, armored non-parahumans, and Brutes. That's just a generalization of course. Obviously, I can't cover all possible Brute powers with a single current, and if they're still susceptible to electricity, then I'd have to watch out for possible heart arrhythmia," I hoped those downsides wouldn't prevent me from taking my first creation into the field. If Glory Girl got to pummel thugs with dumpsters, then I could bring a measly stun baton.
"So, it doesn't shoot bolts of lightning?" Dr. Rivers didn't need to sound so disappointed. I'd tried my best with the materials and knowledge I was given!
"This is a normal stun baton." Armsmaster did a once over with his visor, probably scanning my work with his array of built-in sensors, "I detect no abnormal energy readings or aberrant material properties. It is completely unremarkable by every metric."
Way to put a girl down. Unlike you, I obey the laws of physics.
"This side of my Tinker technology will always be replicable by non-parahuman engineers. A stun baton is the least of what I can create. Give me time and resources, and I'll give you widespread forcefields, healing tech, and optimized nuclear fusion."
Chew on that, Arms-loser.
"You're telling the truth."
For the first time since I'd met the man, his stoicism had cracked. It was the subtle intonation in his voice, the slight posture tensing. If I wasn't putting my undivided attention on him, I would have missed it, and for the cracks to show through his rigid discipline, he must have been in turmoil inside.
I made an irrevocable decision in revealing my capabilities, but it would have come to light sooner or later. Better they know now than to stumble upon the truth after the fact, and if it raised my standing in their eyes, all the better.
Whether or not this would bring The Simurgh crashing down upon my head like an F6 tornado, only time would tell.
For now, I had a meeting to conclude and negotiations to handle.
