Athwart History (Closed)

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

“What makes this…’middle west’ location a concentrated metahuman focal point, I wonder.” He muses, thoughtful. Something in the water? The air? There must be something unique, something different.

“If parahumans are not a species that propagates itself, we can only assume it is an adaptation, a mutation of humanity. There then we have our answer-power determines personality.” He taps the softball against his thigh and leans forward, interested in this line of thought. “Or perhaps not. Perhaps physiology wise parahumans are only born with the mutation for more, born a species apart from humans. If abilities do not manifest until a later time, that then is evidence that personality affects the shape this ‘mutation’ takes. It was underlying all the while, just untapped. Could certain abilities then be cultivated under certain conditions? If you raised a parahuman-assuming you can determine one from a human infant-to appreciate art, would their abilities then manifest in the vein of Vivienne’s?”

“And is there perhaps a sliding scale of parahuman ‘strength’, and that determines the scope of power? A boy who can bend the minds of others to conceal himself, vs a boy who can bend the minds of others to whatever purpose he fancies?”

“Perhaps, at least in individuals with more fluid, nonphysical powers, perhaps they limit themselves in subconscious ways...not stretching their muscles to their full effect.” He begins, slowly. “Perhaps this boy could manipulate the mind of another beyond how they perceive him. Perhaps Vivienne could manipulate anything.” What then limits those who crave power? Those that sought to rule or overtake their fellows?

“Lana and I have an affinity, a mastery of water-we cannot extend this to other things. The magic is limited to the source of life. Perhaps...perhaps some mutations are really just a capacity to tap into certain magics. After all, how does Vivienne exert her mastery? How is the one called Peter able to conceal himself? Perhaps specific magics that are undefined.”

He considers the softball, and what little he knows of Laura and the other, vile woman-and now this new one he’s only had chance to see a handful of times.

“The speedsters utilize an external force through this proposed mutation, they do not generate it themselves.” He points out. “Perhaps a ready example?"

 

[Obuzeti]

Elias shrugs. "No one knows. If I had to ballpark it, the epicenter would be roughly in the Dakotas, and they're weird these days. Used to be big farming areas where we grew food, but apparently most got bought out and there's just this giant stretch of privately owned land no one knows about anymore. No visitors allowed. I've been curious, but haven't really had good reason to go breaking in."

He settles back in his chair and pushes the book aside to focus on Laurent now, fully engaged in the conversation. "Now, there's a thing termed Catalysis, which is a post-development change in a metahuman. It almost always comes after heavy overuse of a power, and has a very distinct bell tone; generally speaking, it changes the user's body to handle more of its power. Unfortunately, it doesn't prioritize keeping them alive too, and it's either lethal or causes catastrophic trauma. Vivienne has Catalyzed, for example; she went from being able to animate drawings she made, to fully inhabiting any piece of art she saw, and transitioning or animating them personally."

Elias exhales lightly. "As another general rule, anyone that survives Catalysis is much more powerful than before, at the expense of their body. Their control and that which they can affect expands, though it tends to stay on theme. I presume that what limits exist are there to prevent the - I don't know how to phrase it. The channel that communicates their power from causing Catalysis? It seems like a biological limiter. The number of people, ever, who have endured it multiple times can be counted on one hand."

Elias glances over at Laurent and nods. "In comparison, your talents don't expand, but they're also safer. You can overexert yourselves, possibly, but you and Lana aren't in danger of liquefying if they press too hard, the way a metahuman that commands water would be, I imagine."

"As for the mechanics," Elias says, and shrugs with a grimace. "I don't know how that works. It's certainly not based in any model of physics I understand. The end effects are, shooting fire, running fast, being strong, but the propagation and initialization of the power effect - where it comes from, what the energy cost is - that's a total mystery. It's like a projection, or something. Unconcerned with prior states."

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

Laurent has no idea what these ‘Dakotas’ were, but he doesn’t blink as Elias talks about them, the fins on either side of his head going still as he listens. He’s intensely, avidly curious, inquisitive rather than any sort of predatory concentration.

He makes a mental note of it-perhaps there are more metahumans there, a secretive society of them? Or an army produced much in the way he was suggesting an ‘art’ parahuman could be nurtured.

“Lana’s friend, Laura.” Laurent says with a nod about Catalysis, a slightly lowered tone and a glance towards the two sparring women, somber. One of her first friends, her and the one called Samantha. The three teenagers had formed a team, he remembers. Laura then was on Elias’, he thinks, where she later disappeared. Samantha had lead a different one, and his sister served on that. ‘The Muscle’, she had joked about at the time, one of their furtive meetings until Hero technology made communication possible.

He hadn’t known either, of course. But he has heard a lot about the friends and allies of his sister, and he remembers that first casualty.

“We will get stronger, over time.” Laurent notes. Not ‘can’, but ‘will’. They were both rather young yet, by Atlantean standards. “But there is no risk of this affliction of Catalysis, you are right. None of my house have ever suffered it at least, and we are the only ‘meta Atlanteans’ there are.”

“Atlanteans do die.” He states, sharing in return for Elias’ knowledge. “The rare disease, soldiers in war. But otherwise our life’s end is a time we choose. No one fears that rest.” He muses thoughtfully. “All choose it. We have no idea how long an Atlantean might live, should they refuse it. We do not pursue the knowledge-it is a mystery, much like the source of parahuman gifts.”

He glances around, then leans in again.

“But these ‘Dakotas’-are there walls, some sort of dome such as with Atlantis? Is it perhaps possible for a parahuman with flight to fly over the area undetected?”

 

[Obuzeti]

Elias nods, abruptly weary. "Yes. Laura was the first case we documented. It happened before her, but we didn't know what was going on, not really. Laura was a scientist and recorded most of her own symptoms before she vanished - as far as we can tell, accelerated out of phase with the universe. I still don't know if she's dead or not, but . . ."

He shakes his head and lets the subject change back to the Dakotas.

"It's not necessarily a measure of walls. We're talking about hundreds of miles of flat territory. I don't have any fliers anymore with the League, but I've never heard of any outright obstruction, and satellites pass regularly overhead like everywhere else on the planet but there's been no panic. I think it's - concealment by obfuscation. There's clearly something, but it's not immediately obvious, and there's just enough deterrent to make it not worth anyone's time to check it out."

Elias frowns. "It actually reminds me of Caliban's M.O., if I'm honest. Very subtle, understated. Effective. If it is him, I wouldn't want to go stumbling in there without a full team anyways. I still don't know anything about that guy."

The bit about Atlantean lifespan - he nods. He gets it, but a bitter twist quirks the corner of the big man's mouth, and he'd rather not drag the mood down further discussing his own hangups.

Still, it sounds pretty good.

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

ATLANTIS:

Laurent nods, thoughtful. “Better to know friend from foe, you are right.” He still wonders what might be on these private lands. It could not be coincidence, these concentrated parahumans and the secreted center of their occurrences.

He does not press further, nor does he speculate on the fate of Laura Mansfield. That was sensitive enough a subject he almost regrets bringing it up. To compensate, he doesn’t inquire further about this Caliban-a name he might have heard before, he’s not sure. But if the man gave Elias pause, he must be a very dangerous adversary indeed.

But the other man’s expression did not escape his notice as he spoke on his people’s final rest, and his earlier words come back to him-Elias’ reasoning for caring for the others. He decides not to press. The other man was not a specimen for study, but his guest.

Laurent’s luminescent green eyes flick to the encyclopedia he’d set aside for a moment, and then he’s struck with an idea, a natural conclusion to this sharing of knowledge.

“I wish to show you something.” Laurent decides, unfolding from his seat and coming to his feet in a single graceful movement. “We have time-these two will be at this a long while yet.”

“Not too long-!” Lana called with a sharp toothed grin as the two women slid away from each other after a strong simultaneous hit.

“Overconfidence.” Comes the response from the more mature warrior.

The back hall was smaller than the grand ones seen elsewhere in the palace, smaller than the one running perpendicular to it down the Eastern path.

Laurent went West though, passing the various doors to the private, long unoccupied quarters-including what must have been his own. The large door partway open and offering a glimpse of decorative shelves built into the wall, decorated with colorful glass bottles and other antique surface trinkets weathered by the sea. A dancing glowing light reflected off of the shimmering bottles, spilled over the walls, the sound of trickling water in there somewhere.

They passed the original room with the fountain, the hard teleportation spot-and kept going until they turned a corner and entered another grand hallway. If the guards stationed throughout it noticed his casual state of dress none commented-just silent salutes of their fists to their chests and slight bows.

Laurent swept through and only acknowledged the pair standing on either side of large ceremonial doors-shoving them open himself rather than allow them to open them for him.

"Welcome to the Atleantean archives, Elias.". Laurent took in the room anew, pleased to share. Tall, pitted shelves remenscent of coral or some other scraggly material rose high over their heads, scrolls and stone tablets rather than books, rows and rows of them in the cavernous, hushed space.

Indeed, no one seemed here at all...but Laurent knew that wouldn't last very long. "There are several written languages in here...but also reference guides to help you translate one from another. If that proves to be a little arduous, the Keepers might be pressed to inscribe a new translation for you."

He offers a sharp toothed smile. "This is one of my favorite places to be, here. I have spent many, many hours exploring what knowledge can be had here. I open it to you, now."

~*~

PROTAGONIST’S LAIR, SAMSON:

“Move your arms, try to tug it around.” Marie directed, wanting to ensure a tight fit. “Stab resistant kevlar.” She said of the muted black material. He was a skinny, slight kid seemingly always in a baggy hoodie-Sanderson too, come to think of it-but it looked alright given no measurements had been taken. At his size, there wasn’t much guesswork, and it was somewhat adjustable, a tightening belt sewn on the inside around the waist.

The long sleeved shirt beneath it was just a thin heat resistant underweave, same as the gloves. No fingerprints.

She nodded to the slim utility belt laid out on the table, the left most item now that the vest had been donned. It was empty so he could kit up himself-a way to ensure he’d know where everything was. She had the various items laid out in the order she intended to talk about them. Above the table and hanging on the illuminated wall, Protagonist’s costume and equipment loomed over them both.

 

[Obuzeti]

Elias follows with only a quirked eyebrow in question - Laurent's earned a measure of trust. The warmth he announces the archives with immediately marks it as the man's kitchen, and he really needs a better metaphor for that but it's honestly what it reminds Elias of: that immediate safety and surety of understanding within this realm, where the variables are known. "I get the feeling that young Laurent basically lived in this room," he noted. "You're looking at individual volumes on the shelves, not just skimming. Which probably means you've read them."

He glances around. There are rows and rows of shelves, probably about an acre's worth. Every one towers over his head to at least twice his own height - little rolling ladders are carefully shuffled into the corners to allow access to the top shelves. For some reason, the image of fish people climbing ladders terribly amuses Elias, and he has to turn away to hide a smile. By the time he turns back, his face is straight again, and he glances over at Laurent. "Sadly, I only know English, but it definitely seems worth my while to learn at least written Atlantean. I don't know if I can speak it. You have a lot of whistled and clicked consonants I can't really do."

He steps around to the nearest shelf and, rather than glance over the books, squats to glance at the base of the shelves themselves. They're one piece of rock, built right out of the floor itself like sculpture and hollowed out into smooth curves by what had to be either hand or a polishing stone. The outsides are softly sloped inwards to prevent the rows of tablets and scrolls from falling out.

"Somebody," Elias says, quite serious, "spent a lot of time making this place."

~*~

Peter grimaces as he shuffles inside the armor suit; it's not any heavier than the amount of stuff he normally hauls around in his backpack, but it's distributed differently and is a lot more containing than he's used to. "It feels sturdy enough," he admits, and knocks on one of the stab plates to the front; it resonates like he'd knocked on a tree instead.

It definitely feels more professional than the slightly-homeless look that Peter privately admits he normally sports, at least.

"Is there an order you put things in the belt?" he asks. "I imagine the emergency gear - like maybe a gas mask or some self-defense thing - are closest to the sides, and going inwards is more eclectic, so that you don't fumble in a tough spot."

Mainly, he can't imagine what all he'd put in these pockets. Lockpicks, maybe. Some other basic thief's equipment, though he's never needed any more than pipe cleaners and a stiff card of some kind. Electronic gadgetry of all kinds had always been beyond his means, at least, so there's that. Cid had never bothered buying anything for the Wards beyond the basic essentials, and anything else was a reward for performance, part of why he and Ellie had so little.

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

"All the time I could." Laurent confirms with a sharp toothed smile. "It was thought I spent too much, and Lana, too little." He laughs, warm and unopinionated on either-it was clear he thought they each spent the exact right amount of time doing as they willed. "Young Laurent and Lana's shared pursuit was exploration, not tablets and not spears."

"There is a gestured...hand? language you could learn. With it you'd be able to 'speak' to any Atlantean." He considers who might be the best tutor for that-and idly, amusedly realizes either Lana or himself might be. "There are three languages common to us. One of which became Greek on the surface, so similiarities there. The silent language. And then the 'clicks and whistles'." Laurent was amused. "Most of my council and some learned individuals know English, as you've seen." A nod.

"Somebody spent a lot of time making this place."

"Indeed." Laurent's right hand touches at one of the shelves, reverent. "Millenia ago, my people were by necessity creators. They desired this place, this city, this home."

"Every hand that worked this palace into being, every sculptor of that long ago 'new' city-it was a work of love and of life." He gave the shelf a pat and his awe turned a little melanchony. "We maintain and we should maintain such art-but I imagine that time of creation, and I wonder what it would be like if my people knew it again."

He was lost in thought for a moment, then remembered himself, luminescent green eyes flicking back to him, a smile. "But ah, to have it be new to you-that is a pleasure all its own, Elias."

~*~

Marie approves of the question. It was pertinent and had good purpose, as did most, if not all, of his questions. It made the boy infinitely more tolerable than most. She'd go so far as to admit appreciation, even.

"Yes. Store survival or combat items on the front and side of the hip. Always have a spare, one for each side. More flexible." A nod. "Shouldn't need any of these-" A gesture to the items further on the right side of the table, closer to her. "Today or anytime soon. If you do, mission is over. Return immediately to base."

She reached up to touch at her own throat, just over her jugular. "Inside of your collar has a hardwired port button. Someone gets a hold of you, use it. Otherwise, there's a regular one in your belt buckle." She didn't elaborate on it, but the preset button would dump him in front of her console. She'd have the channel open to make that possible, no shielding. She imagined she'd just beat whoever to death or unconsciousness on arrival-the boy looked like he'd bowl over in a light breeze, she's not about to send him into or expect competency in combat.

She's not El Cid. She didn't believe in 'negligible risk'-hence some of the equipment she's sending him in with-but she's not El Cid. And unlike Paige, she can reasonably trust him to do as she asked...and remotely initiate the port herself if necessary. There were realities, here. She had had an iron clad plan when she had gone in to drop Rush-but conditions wouldn't always be so favorable or controlled. She might be determined, might not be entirely useless-but she wasn't stupid.

But back to his kit-

"For the vest and center, back slots on the belt-" She gestured back to the items closer to him, the ones lined up on the left. There was a plasticized piece of canvas-the exact size as one of the slim compartments on the belt-with gunmetal lockpicks slipped through the sewn loops. Finely ground graphite dust in a capsule, a retractable brush, and peel and stick clear squares of adhesive for lifting prints made for a simple, if parceled fingerprinting kit. A particularly hardy multitool-gunmetal in color-an infared flashlight, some sort of malleable clay material pressed into a flat cardshape to match a compartment, a tight roll of zip ties, a thin plastic case that contained pills of all things-color coded powder capsules with purposes she wouldn't bother explaining until they eventually-if ever-needed use.

"Miniature laser torch-six minutes of use, but it'll cut through steel. Fingers too, be careful." She'd intentionally maimed that one bastard with it once, but whatever. "The usb tabs are keyloggers, the adhesive circle chips-only have two-GPS trackers. Wedge shaped things are listening devices...anything you plant, you'll have access to." She picked up the smart phone device she'd asked back, letting it read her fingerprint and flicking into settings, confirming her earlier remote changes had stuck. "I've unlocked more functions to make that easier. You can also read and copy most RFID chips...and print them on this." She slid a blank, black featureless card over to him, and then a small square attachment that would write to the magnetic strip. She slid the smart device into a flip case and slid that over too-it'd hook to the belt or slide into a slotted pocket on the back of the vest. "It's your camera and recorder, too."

They were to the 'mission ender' items now, the neatly laid out pairs receiving a sweeping glance and a slight frown before she starts in on them, picking up a slim inhaler looking object first.

"Three lung fulls of concentrated oxygen-just flip the top, bite down on this end, and depress. Simple enough." She slid both over, then picked up a set of gunmetal cannisters. She popped the lid off one with her thumb to reveal a wide nozzle. "Dispenses a green foaming material. Dries to a flexible adhesive-it's a medical tool. Strong enough to stop serious bleeding, temporarily patch you or someone else up in a hurry. Odorless, so won't affect stealth." She recapped and slid them over. Lastly there were seven metal ball bearing things in the same gunmetal color-everything she was handing over was either black or gunmetal-that should be relatively familiar to him. He'd been practicing hurling them at a dummy for a while now from various positions, for...reasons. These ones, however, had a depression at the top, a button. Close examination revealed there were holes cut in the metal, that there was an outer metal shell and an inner compartment of some kind. The ones he'd been practicing with weighed the same, but lacked these features.

Marie picked up one. "You are the primary objective on this-and any-mission. If you are forced to utilize these...it is only to secure your escape." Dark eyes flick to him, that all encompassing, piercing stare she had sometimes-reminescent of a coiled predator. Her face remained impassive, just those intense eyes boring out of it to reveal anything. "Return to base. No failure is possible here so long as you return to base."

She can't hammer that home enough, not without shaking him. Something akin to misgiving rolled through her, and suddenly Marie's not so sure this was a good idea, permissible. Two kids much older than him, two adults had just been murdered on a mission mere days ago, and she was sending out a fourteen year old boy to do recon.

Perhaps she was being irredeemably irresponsible.

But who else to send? He has to learn some way, and here was a simple, safe opportunity to do so. She'd go with him if she could. But as it was, even in this chair-she'd have eyes and ears and the power to zap him back to her lair in an instant. Nothing would happen to him. Her...anxiety? Trepidation? Was irrational.

But it lingers.

"Things even look like they might get hairy, you return to base." Marie rarely repeated herself, typically hated to do so. She's just making noise now, but his safety was paramount. He was intelligent, he was careful, he was suspicious-he was not foolhardy. He would be fine. Safe.

"Preferably with the same number of limbs you left with." She finishes flatly, finally glancing away again, back to the orb in hand.

"Three seconds to activation, six to discharge." She informs him, pressing in the button and holding onto the thing just long enough for the inner container to twist open, holes revealed-before flicking the gadget sideways and into the wall over the threadbare cot. Some sort of gel dispenses on the way, coated the surface of the orb and the wall itself-and it stuck fast before emitting a nasty looking shock of arcing electricity. It visibly scorches the wall.

"It's the only weapon you'll have, but an effective one. This is your base kit. Mission specific items are in a case over by the console...but this is your standard equipment."

She mentally runs back over the list for the hundreth time, but can't find much fault in it. It was essentially her own kit with less nasty to it-he wouldn't need it, he wasn't going to be entering combat. Her left hand lowers to a wheel, loosely grips it-she frowns a little, glancing to a passing, quiet Jasper-and then bothers with a little more noise.

"...acceptable?" She could...probably give him access to gadget blueprints after a few more outings. Maybe not wholesale-there were some things she didn't want anyone privy to...and some that had no real use, hadn't ever even been produced-just designed in the late hours of the day for the hell of it, back at her apartment a long, long time ago.

Maybe he'd want something printed on the vest, a shape to the buckle or a cross body belt or something, she doesn't know. That'd always been superflourus bullshit to her, but maybe he had something in mind. Even Jenna had gotten to choose between two styles of goggles after Rush had broken her simpler ones.

 

[Obuzeti]

"Sign language, yeah," Elias murmurs, "I think Lana mentioned something like that. Probably what I'll teach the kids. Can I hire an interpreter to teach the kids? Me and the other adults can probably learn on our own, but the youngest should have a hand. It'll help them to integrate here as well."

He glances around the library and rolls his neck, popping it absently. "Well, I can admit there's a few things I'd like to find out. How's this all organized? I'm not chasing down a Keeper every time I want to find a book."

~*~

Should is not a word Peter trusts. He double-checks the pockets in question, fingers flickering over the pouches. He hardly ever gets caught - only Tyler can, and he just senses vibrations through the ground and makes educated guesses from there - but going up against teenagers is different than professionals, probably. Less stupid.

The redundant port buttons, though, those are pretty cool. Efficient, too, but he gets to teleport home instead of walking around a lot, just do the job and extract out. Having that guaranteed safety is a feeling so strange he doesn't know what to make of it, so he pushes it aside and focuses on business, instead. She'd approve of that.

The gear though, it's information, customized to his own specialty of stealth, and the sheer array she has of it boggles Peter a little bit, and he leans back as he takes it all in. On the heels of that is the realization that she has to have used all of this gear, and he's suddenly surer than ever that he's made the right choice. He spent years at the Tower, and all he got was a room he didn't sleep in and clothes. The things aren't as important as the effort the taciturn woman is putting in to ensure - what?

It's weird. Peter's shoulders hunch involuntarily. Marie looks as awkward as he does, too, but determined to push through. Luckily, Elias had left him a scribbled note of what to say in this situation, though he doesn't really know what to make of it.

"Mr. Halwell said to let him have the fun parts," Peter says, a little dubious. "It doesn't sound fun at all."

He looks at the rest of it, and considers. "I'll practice memorizing what goes where."

Something makes his neck itch. After a moment, he capitulates to the feeling, as strange as it is.

" . . . thank you," he says eventually. "It's a lot."

Peter opens his mouth, and thinks about explaining, but the image of talking that long makes his hands shake a little, especially about something so pathetic. Cid's games really are, in retrospect. Petty, that is. This is real.

He swallows. Truth.

"This is all new. I'll get used to it. I promise."

Pathetic.

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

“An excellent idea.” Laurent agrees, pleased. “I shall assign someone to find them the best tutor.”

Elias’ next question is that much better.

“By...ages, mostly.” Laurent muses, looking around thoughtfully. “Much of it is the Great Story, but there are books on specific castes and their great story, some of the secrets of their trades. Some.” A rueful smile. He leads to a section for that, moves down the Story Keepers section to find a book on language. There was an Atlantean/Grecian language to Atlantean book, and then an Atlantean to English one-less than ideal, but the pair would suit well enough. Both were hefty things, but to either man it’d be unnoticeable. Laurent gathers them both and carts them along.

“Over there, books of names. All the deeds those that held your name have done. You see, an Atlantean is joined to their family, their caste, and then to their name. Three unchanging currents.”

He led over to the wall. “Ah, and information on plants, creatures, explored regions-! This book is entirely full of charts and maps, even. Granted, the ocean floor is not as segregated as the continents-but it is very interesting all the same. Some of these were dictated by Lana and I.”

“Beyond the arch there are books primarily about my family. Most were dictated by bearers of the crown-but still others that were not, and at least a little more impartial.” He pauses, still expecting to be descended on sooner or later-and then continues. “Special permission must be granted to read those books-and you have it, Elias.” He tells him cheerfully, and with something akin to near mischief.

~*~

Peter doesn’t like noise any more than she does, though perhaps for slightly different reasons. He struggles. They both struggle, and how they were each made was only compounded by how they had each spent the last few years-eight years of solitary confinement for her and several years in that impotent Tower for him. Not just impotent...but a near (and definitely now) prison under the rule of a preening egotist.

El Cid hid his ugly better than she did, made use of social skills she didn’t have and rhetoric she couldn’t be bothered with. Ugly, but a different kind of ugly, not necessarily worse, just different. His ugly desired power and prestige, affirmation. She lashed out with hers, but El Cid’s corrupted. Sarah’s denial of abuse even in the face of his deceit and control. The boy’s hunched shoulders and uncertainty.

It makes her want to hit something, the pool of simmering anger roil.

She might have just ground off a ‘Good’ and gone about their business, but his mention of Elias sticks somewhere, and she remembers what the big man had said about Peter being made to feel useful. How it would help him, somehow. She hadn’t considered much about it because Peter was useful. There’s also all he had said about guns in hands, and her turbulent thoughts about heroes deserving more than a purpose...

“Information.” Marie said somewhat out of nowhere. She blinks and casts a quick glance to Jasper, ‘consulting’ with the calm creature a moment-but the sleek black cat merely peers back at her, idly curious. It’s a weapon, a powerful weapon to be wielded against the scum, but that’s not something she needs...wants to talk about. He wasn’t going to be what she was. He was going to be one of them. Was one of them. Heroes.

Marie’s dark eyes flick back as she continues in a flatter vein.

“Being able to obtain information, knowing where and how to utilize it...it gives your allies the means to protect themselves, protect others. That’s what makes running top logistically invaluable, because it’s top that can direct those frontliners to where they need to be, to where that best end can be accomplished. Top that answers pertinent questions. A vital role, Bordet. Not everyone can fill it...I had...distractions.” She HAS distractions, and El Cid his, but- “You don’t. You simply want to know what is true.”

She gestured to the vest, his belt. “And in wanting to know, in agreeing to lend your talents to the cause, you deserve whatever tools I can provide.” Marie pauses. That. That word deserve. It sticks. She isn’t sure why it sticks, but it does. Something in her irritation felt like it was settling with it.

“Also…” She shifts a little, leading into noise, now. “Happen to be intimately familiar with being ‘squishy’. Equalizers are something of a specialty, so...you’re welcome.” The word felt foreign on her tongue and lips, because it was. Elias had thanked her the other day, too. And Lana before then, Jenna before then. Now Peter, but it was Peter she responded to with the expected follow up, because at least with this less projecting was involved. The goal and motive wasn’t shrouded in murk-he was the goal.

She’s not a hero...but she knows what they look like.

Settled fully now, Marie gripped her wheels and pivoted to start back over towards the console. “Cloth eye masks can become blindfolds-better not to bother. I used grease paint and a cloth lower face mask.” Unlike him she had had no family to put at risk, but she had still been a cop at the start, would have been recognized-and had someone else’s face besides.

She pressed in on a panel and abandoned the smoothly sliding open drawer for him as she returned to the console. There were a few options inside to choose from, from a full helmet to partial plastic casing designs to cloth-and then a new tin of said grease paint, each nestled or folded neatly in their insulating foam compartments.

“Also need a moniker. Tradition, but mostly to communicate when you’re running Blur.” Marie pulled up some notes, six monitors switching over to form one larger display of a text document. A rare moment of peeling away the curtain to show the circumventing of his abilities...well, if you could really call it circumventing. Because it wasn’t.

“It’s...difficult, but I’ve been able to use a placeholder, to a degree. I don’t remember who ‘X’ is or why I’m tracking ‘their’ movements, but I manage to hold onto the concept of their existence until you drop Blur-and it again matches up that this agent is you.”

The notes were rather bland. Dates and times were recorded at the start and end of each entry, which were mostly listed in formats such as ‘X exited at TIME. Traveled to LOCATION, reappeared at TIME.’ ‘X appeared at TIME in base. Length of use uncertain.’ In a small second column, a log had been started with a slightly different format showing what kinds of access the 'agent' had. ‘X granted passcode’ ‘X granted permissions for SYSTEM', and so on.

“When you’re in the field I’ll switch this on-” She gestured to a simple green indicator light wired into the console. “And we’ll establish communication at the start. I won’t...remember and will probably be suspicious.” Marie paused. She almost...almost sounded apologetic.

“So if-" Okay, when- "I demand a passcode, just use 091949.” The same code she’d given him to gain access to the building and her lair. “...might ask for it more than once while you’re deployed. Don’t always manage to stay focused even on the placeholder.” As obsessed as she was with total control of her own mind, it was more than a little unsettling. At least his abilities were limited to memories and connections made regarding himself.

 

[Obuzeti]

That worry assuaged, Elias follows behind Laurent agreeably, noting the different organizational strategies as they go. "I presume the Great Story is the one of all Atlantis or something, if the castes have their own splinter tomes," he muses, running a finger along the worked stone of a bookcase as they stroll. "I'm surprised that so much of it is history, in point of fact; tradition and the record of passage is a central tenet down here, isn't it?"

He had been expecting it, a little, but the Atlanteans are extremely practical. There's nothing like a fiction section, or philosophical or religious treatises yet, or the wandering alchemical texts that had consumed the lives of the earliest English academics. Life beneath the sea is purposeful, and not given to idle whimsy, it seems. That said, the records of the sea floor immediately grab his attention, and Elias heads that way to scan the spines. Almost all of them are in Atlantean, but he grabs a reference guide and determines to fight his way through it.

"You know up on the surface, we know less about the sea floor than we do about the surface of the moon. Visited it less, too," Elias murmurs, picking up what looks like an almanac of sea creatures, recognizable by the long lists of scientific phyla that consume the first pages. "Can't help but be curious, myself."

Reading material secured, he heads back to a table. "Curious societal influences, though," he says, slow. "Never heard of a name lineage. How's that work?"

~*~

Peter's eyes flick to Marie, suddenly sharp, but he doesn't interrupt or even open his mouth. He listens, and contemplates. Takes in the words like water into mulch, seeding ideas. Knowledge is more than just his function, it's his raison de 'etre. Truth, and information. She's speaking his language, but he's already fluent, in this at least. It's just that he's not sure that he's capable of fulfilling the promise.

"For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God," Peter says quietly. "Romans 3:23. We try anyways."

Saying that leaves him feeling unaccountably naked, and he shivers, and hurries over to the drawer where he takes the helmet immediately and tries it on, then pulls a looped buckle out of his backpack and wraps it around, turning it into an improvised mining helmet. If he clips a bright light on it and uses dark facepaint, the light pollution will cover his features. He doesn't have to worry about anyone seeing the light directly, either.

"Axiom," he says, after a second of thought. "A statement that is self-evidently true. The basis of rational knowledge. I would like that."

As for the password, he doesn't do anything as gauche as write it down; he memorizes it, and then goes back to applying some of the face paint. It's cold enough to make him recoil a little, but he keeps smearing it on. It smells like petroleum. "It might help if you have a label on our connection that reminds you a memetic agent is in play," Peter says, still barely at conversational volume. He never talks loud, if he can help it. "I think that's what my power is, technically."

Again, it was something Elias had mentioned, in between shoving enormous amounts of pastrami on his plate, which had honestly been intimidating.

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

“Oh yes. The title ‘Keeper’ is rather literal.” History was sacred, and the rule of law even more so. Changes did not come often nor easily...and unfortunately he and Lana stirred things up a little too often for the more conservatives members of the council. But there are allies there too, other progressives.

“Space.” Laurent breathes. “I cannot quite imagine what that must be like, to be so far from ‘home’. And in an environment unsupportive of life...it is strange, this ‘little’ biome of Earth. Amidst so many distant stars and planets, our problems are rather miniscule.” He taps one of the language books he had picked up.

“Of course, I have not set foot on the surface, myself. It is not quite as alien to me, not with what Lana has shared, but still.”

"Never heard of a name lineage. How's that work?"

Laurent follows him to the table and helpfully sets the other two books down on its polished surface. “Very old tradition, and not given lightly. By carrying on a name from generation to generation, there is a sort of immortality. You stand on all that came before you. It is...a lot of pressure, I understand. Second names then are usually bestowed later in life, some carrying great significance and honor within the individual’s caste.”

“We are all of Atlantis, but only the royal family are of Atlantis. Lana, Lawrence, Laurent-and my father’s mother Laendra, and her father Laurus-you see the pattern, there. We only have one unique name, and that ‘L’ sound is reserved for us.”

~*~

"For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God,"

Some more than others.

Marie leaves it, finds his reciting of the verse noteworthy-something to file away for later. Maybe he’s religious. Maybe someone with influence over him was or had been. Maybe it was just part of him being so well read. There’s no telling right now.

She keeps the same impassive mask, but religion had never really been her poison of choice. She doesn’t doubt the existence of an afterlife, or higher powers-how could she, all the other crazy shit that was in the world, poorly understood and barely scratching the surface? But the dogmatic crutch good people leaned on and bad ones hid behind, the comfort some derived from it-it wasn’t her thing. She’d always been too focused on what was in front of her to bother with a God that didn’t seem to give a damn.

”Axiom.”

Marie listens to the definition and then gives a nod, approving. It was certainly fitting. “If you want a symbol or something sewn into your vest...” She offers, a little slow, a little awkward. She taps it into the find and replace function, then gruffly adds- “...good enough name.”

She’s not sure why she’s making noise, but it’s what Elias would have probably said. Well. Something better, but she doesn’t know what that would be.

It did sound like a good hero moniker. Better than letting the papers dole one out anyway, not that he’d be getting a lot of press. The Samson Sun had tried to dub her Blue Cloak or something, before. And then Fearsome Protagonist. Stupid bullshit. Despite having stolen her name right out of her head, Sam had tactfully used the second part of the latter, and that had been what stuck.

"It might help if you have a label on our connection that reminds you a memetic agent is in play, I think that's what my power is, technically."

“Hn.”

That was a good idea. There was also second document that went into more detail she’d pull up once he set out-it read a little irrational in parts, parts she had preserved so she could more accurately study the effects of Blur on her own cognition. It was odd trying to outpace your own paranoia.

She opens the ‘junk’ drawer, finds a pen and a post it pad that hadn’t been used in...God only knows how long, before she scribbles off a note and sticks it on the light indicator. She then picked up the case with the cameras and what not, wheels back a half turn. He had chosen the helmet and some facepaint, and Marie approves of that too.

“Look it over, make sure you’re familiar.” He should be. “Clips to the back of the belt.” More noise, but noise less about poorly attempted social niceties and more about that irrational whatever again.

 

[Obuzeti]

Elias grimaces. "I don't know that much about space myself; had more practical subjects to concern myself with. I'd have to refer you to Montgolier on that, he spends about all his time up there. I understand it to be pretty unfriendly, all things considered. Hard enough to find single-celled organisms that can stay alive, much less anything like us."

He shrugs, brow crinkling. "That said, Vivienne lives in two-dimensional spaces, and Tweedledee in something that clearly doesn't exist as the current model of physics would explain it. There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed of in my philosophy."

The explanation of the name lineage brightens him a little further too, the big man's smile broadening. "That's unique! We have family surnames on the surface, and in certain cultures titles are given to reflect personal accomplishments, but to keep histories of individual names like that, it's a unique influence. Almost a personal chronicle."

~*~

Peter isn't anything religious, perhaps precisely because his mother had been a Bible-thumper. He remembers pieces and bits of scripture with color-coded notes, to a system he'd never learned and she'd never explained. Green in Corinthians, red for Judges, black in the Book of Paul. He doesn't know what it means.

Sometimes, though, the words come to him and crowd out the things he would have said. And that verse came from him like rain. It couldn't be stopped. Peter grimaces at the uncontrolled response - he hadn't meant to say it, and her lack of comment is as good as condemnation. He's not Elias. He can't speak like - he does.

Truth is bare and naked like a sword, the weight awkward in his hands and clumsy on his tongue. He turns to the practical instead.

"No pictures," he says with a shake of his head. "Who would see?"

He'd also never worn brand clothing or talky t-shirts and they made him uncomfortable at this point. Plain was the way to go. Any points he needed to make he could emphasize on his own. He busies his hands by taking the camera case, clipping it to the back of his belt, and practicing the reach-around to it. It'll take time for it to become reflex, like everything else. Just the weight of the belt now is enough to feel strange; it's more than he's ever carried. The clinking of things is befuddling.

"Jenna," Peter says abruptly. "She's doing an interview today, should be starting soon. Her own, not - Tower sponsored. It's on Vivienne's network."

Vivienne's show is mostly artsy auctions and history programs, but airing an interview with another accredited heroine is a steal no one will ignore. It comes with the benefit that the host is a British Broadcasting Channel import, very straightforward and unflappable, rather than the host of talking mouths that Cid owns down to the marrow. The audience, predictably, quintupled its normal audience and has only gone up since the sudden announcement.

"It might be worth watching," he suggests. "To see what her plan is."

Good woman that she is, predictability has never been among Jenna's traits.

~*~

Daniel Avenhart flicks away the hovering intern that tries to get at him with a powder brush, scowling with that minute crinkle of the forehead that's endemic to Englishmen. "I'm old. I will continue in this manner until existence ceases all that racket. Powder is not going to reverse the process, now go away."

He sighs and turns to look at Jenna, situated across from him on an interviewer's couch. The older gentleman has a tweed jacket, impeccably dressed but for the beaten-up bowler hat that looks about as ancient. "Now, unfortunately, you possess some semblance of youth and are female, therefore wrinkles are grounds for excommunication. Let them get some blush and smoother on you so that the gentleladies don't bring out the pitchforks, and we'll get this show on the road. You check your questions?"

It was an improvised thing, but a chance to peer into the shifting hero politics is always welcome - particularly with the late, destructive engagements that have been fought, trashing a city block in Samson, an oil rig out near Africa, and a couple of houses on the West Coast. Odd, remote locales, and as genial as Adamant usually is, he hasn't shown up for comment. This is a gold mine in the making.

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

"No pictures. Who would see?"

“You, but I never bothered either.”

She approves of Peter’s decision, though she wouldn’t have judged him much for wanting one. She had never much liked ‘advertisements’ herself, ever. Bumper stickers, symbols on shirts and jewelry, quotes and sayings-had no need or desire for visual indicators to clue people in on anything that she was, anything that she liked, anything she had an opinion on. It wasn’t anyone’s business, and there’s very little she cared enough about to want to bear banners for anyway.

The cloak had scared people plenty, no need for a viper or some shit emblazoned on her chest. Adamant hadn’t had a symbol either-just that trademarked jacket, and the literal shining light to match the internal one.

On the news about an interview with Velocity-Marie frowned at the start of his sentence, settled a little on mention of it not being El Cid’s idea-the kid had resisted being pimped out thus far-and then the frown deepened into a brief but visible scowl on learning it was being aired on Vivienne’s network.

God dammit, because that’s what they need. Did anyone else know about this before she did? Was it Vivienne’s idea?

"It might be worth watching to see what her plan is."

“Hn.” Couldn’t argue with that. She’d rather read the transcript later, but if he wanted to watch it that was fine by her...hopefully it wasn’t going to be a prattling fame piece. Paige had avoided anything like that previously-has she ever made a television appearance? Marie doesn’t remember anything on the peripherals, and she’d been following news on the kid fairly closely before Paige had gone and become one of Cid’s. Regardless, Peter’s not wrong. Jenna had a mind and an independence all her own, which was something Marie both found annoying and grudgingly respected at the same time. At least Cid would find the interview annoying too-he’d probably been pushing for one for a long time, and that she hadn’t capitulated on his terms would piss him off.

Marie tapped a function key on her keyboard and four center most monitors flashed to one large image, a dry Samson news channel she hadn’t honestly bothered with in ages. She looks up the channel number and flips over to it, tapping out a quick message to Elias at the same time.

“Paige admitted to remaining a Ward-” At least officially, Marie had also heard her state she hadn’t signed much of anything in the first place. “-only at Daybreak’s insistence. Otherwise, the speedster is a firm supporter of Adamant’s.” There was a sense of finality to the statement-a clear indicator that that was what mattered to Marie-loyalty to those that deserved it, and competence. She didn’t care much about the news or public opinion or all the other extra bullshit big name heroes had to deal with that she didn’t understand and couldn’t be bothered with.

The new Velocity was hard to pin down, a variable she doesn’t control-but she was one of the good ones, Marie knew that much. El Cid hadn’t been able to control her either after all, and so far-the kid had only stirred good things to the top.

...and the kid needed help to prevent what had happened to her predecessor, what had so recently happened to the fire user. Marie picked up her tablet and wheeled away a few paces so he could watch the interview, already distracted by one of her hundreds of tasks even as she finally hits send on the comm message.

(PROTAGONIST: Official Velocity appearance on Vivienne’s network, FYI.)

Completion of a Speed Force inhibitor, like the damned Interloper, continued to elude her. And as much as she hated the scum, as much as they needed to be punished, needed to pay-it’s some other emotion that eclipses even the hate, goes beyond the flat logic of maintaining a useful resource like Velocity.

The infuriating defeatist attitude of Ronnie Paige comes back to her, and Marie’s expression flatlines as her legs tense, searing agony rather than the dull ache in the ruined appendages. His words echo through and intermingle with it, and the recollection only makes her angrier.

“I know how your lot's stories tend to end.”

Fuck him, she’s not going to let the girl die. She’s not going to let any of them die. There’s a way through, and she’s going to fucking find it.

Marie's back was to the broadcast and her console, to Peter-but the dark temperamental brooding rolled off of her in waves as she tapped this way and that on various things on her tablet.

She did that sometimes, but luckily-neither one required noise to be comfortable.


~*~

“I dunno, might be a better idea to add wrinkles-” Jenna noted, blurring out from under the woman’s powder puff and behind the couch. She swipes the makeup back off of her cheek-and idly notes it’s kinda...light for her skin tone. The petite speedster was in costume rather than having dressed up as she had to meet Laurent, both because it made her feel a little more legitimate and because it’s probably what people were expecting to see here. Velocity on T.V., goggles on her head and all.

Maybe a quiet reminder that despite what some members of the government apparently thought, metahumans were not a menace to society. Then or now.

“There’s uh, more people than I thought there’d be.” She notes, a little nervous. Guess it made sense, it being a live taping. Jenna flashes a grin at some lady sneaking a selfie pic-before security came along and firmly but politely confiscated the phone. When she’d asked Vivienne for advice on who to call and how exactly to arrange some kind of official...hero...appearance?-she hadn’t quite expected things to move quite so fast, or to have her choice of what show and what interviewer to sit down with.

She’d blurted out Daniel Avenhart’s name because that’s who her father had always ascribed journalistic integrity to, and because he was a serious interviewer, someone who wasn’t going to ask her what brand of anything she preferred, empty headed questions female celebrities had to deal with. And a live broadcast couldn’t be edited in weird ways before it went public, so she had more control over the message. Which was both good and bad, because if she messed up, there’d be no making it better.

She didn’t plan on messing up. Velocity was a heroine in her own right, wholesomely popular, incidentally famous. But Jenna Paige had been studying law. It was time the two halves mixed together and settled as just...her. Her venturing into the public eye, because now it counted.

She’s fighting the Good Fight, and she wouldn’t back down from it now.

Jenna banished the butterflies and reappeared on the couch now that the intern had given up, flipped back through the notecards in a blur. That bow of a mouth was pursed slightly before she glanced up at him again, offering up a quirked, friendly smile.

“It’s your show and I appreciate your having me here, Mr. Avenhart.” She starts, sincere, “But I’m trusting you not to try and crucify me-I’d feel rude running out on you.”

 

[Obuzeti]

Daniel shakes his head with a faint tilt of his mouth. "You're an icon of the youth, and more importantly a hero, which means mortality is something that the public has become ill-adjusted to associating with you. I won't pretend to be a proper public relations chap, but you're one of the new generation and it doesn't do to remind the viewership that we're all moldering slowly."

He brushes aside the assistant still fluttering around him and leans forward. The older man has a short business cut that has filled in naturally with grey; silver lines his temples. "As far as you need to be concerned, there's only the people in this room, and they're here because it's their job. They have makeup to apply, cameras to adjust, microphones to position. They're not listening to you, not really, they're here because they're paid to be. So treat everybody here like we're at an office, and just talk to me because I'm the only one getting paid to listen, yes?"

Daniel smiles amiably, and leans back. "As for spin - well. I'm British, dear. Hero business is local politics. Your vocation's a little rarer across the pond, so I don't much carry an opinion on how you do things over here."

Another carefully-brushed assistant pops by with a clipboard and a set of papers, which she hands to Daniel. "Two minutes, Mr. Avenhart."

"Thank you, dear," he says, and slides the clipboard over to the center of the little table separating him and Jenna. The text on it is lorem ipsum, in point of fact, just auto-generated gibberish filling up the empty space. He gestures at it and shrugs. "I've always been of the opinion that consulting notes during the interview is for amateurs, but they insist on the prop, at least."

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

"As far as you need to be concerned, there's only the people in this room, and they're here because it's their job. They have makeup to apply, cameras to adjust, microphones to position. They're not listening to you, not really, they're here because they're paid to be. So treat everybody here like we're at an office, and just talk to me because I'm the only one getting paid to listen, yes?"

Jenna returned the smile and relaxed further. It helps, him putting it into terms like that-she’s not chatting up a room full of people or the hundreds (thousands? Don’t think about it Jenna) at home-she’s just talking to Mr. Avenhart, a man she’d grown up hearing in the background, filtering in through her dad’s den for what felt like her entire life.

"As for spin - well. I'm British, dear. Hero business is local politics. Your vocation's a little rarer across the pond, so I don't much carry an opinion on how you do things over here."

“See, I knew you were cool.” Not a sensationalist by any means, and no agenda to push.

Doesn’t mean there weren’t any hard questions in store, but still.

She spins the smart watch on her wrist and remains perched on the edge of her seat so her feet are on the floor, peering at the jibberish printed on his clipboard, a huff of a laugh. “Meanwhile I’ve practically got a dissertation tucked into my boot, just in case.” She’s only half kidding-she had written a manifesto sure, organized her thoughts as best she knew how-but she didn’t need it with her. She’s been working this over for three days, turning it over and over in her mind as she raced through a world held in a standstill. She knows what she’s going to say, she knows how she feels-this new legislation was wrong. This law and this attitude, the death and dismissal of Ashley Reynolds and what was essentially her murder-it’s racist and it’s victim blaming, it’s everything she’s supposed to stand against. To be silent was to be complicit, and Velocity could not ever be associated with it, stand for it. She would not stand for it.

What kind of thanks would that be for the dead and remaining heroes that had saved the world? What kind of heroine would she be if she wrote a vulnerable minority like the Wards off? What kind of person?

No one she wants to be.

El Cid was right. Not everyone had what she has, and that’s why she’s here-she’s here for the little guy.

Ten seconds to two minutes, according to her watch. Just her and Daniel Avenhart. She can do this.

Because you know what else? I’m here for the Big Guy, too.

Jenna gave a final jaunty spin to the smart watch, youthful confidence and easy warmth, camaraderie. Live T.V. or not, she only knows how to be herself.

"Looks like it’s go time, Mr. Avenhart.”

 

[Obuzeti]

"Aplomb is often interpreted as such, yes," Daniel says, perfectly assured, and takes a moment to straighten his collar and touch his shot glass of Bloom gin, an affectation he'd taken to in his twilight years. The strong liquor keeps his voice fresh and his constitution stout, so he says, though it might just be an affectation after the Bulldog.

He nods to the cameraman, and then with a click the show is on.

"I'm on strange shores today," he begins, and gestures with a hand, controlled and simple, to the room about him, "At the invitation of a stout sort that I've had little occasion to mingle with until now. The heroes - American parlance for the extraordinary men and women that defend their nation and citizenry against equally intimidating foes - have extended me an invitation to speak with one of their youngest and brightest, Jenna Paige, inheritor of the Velocity mantle. Naturally, I'm curious."

Daniel makes a slight gesture, and the camera pans back and out to include Jenna in the frame.

"Miss Paige," he says with a faint smile, "thank you for extending your invitation. I have a great many questions, but I fear my understanding is patchwork at best of the nature of your business in general, accomplished as you may be at it. Forgive me as I stumble."

He indicates, first, the recognizable goggles set atop Jenna's head. "I suppose I should first ask: what does a hero do, precisely? How do they protect and serve, if that is indeed their purpose? Is it a vocation, a living, or a passion project?"

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

“Yes.” Jenna responds with a bit of a laugh. She adjusts the cuff to one silver glove, the movement of her arm causing the faint sheen of her costume to shimmer on the pale blue costume.

“I can only really speak for myself, but it’s definitely passion for most of us-otherwise, donning a costume and slugging it out with the bad guys would be kinda crazy. For me, it started out as a volunteer thing I did on the side. Turns out I was fast, and I figured I ought to use that to do some good in my adopted city, you know? I grew up on heroes, and was psyched to follow their example.”

“And then I got myself outed. Thanks, Mistress Rush.” She gave a roll of her eyes, a carefree shrug before another smile bloomed on her lips, casual and easy. “Everyone suddenly knew who I was, and it’s difficult to live a normal life when you’re accidentally famous. That, and I didn’t want to endanger classmates or coworkers. Rush had supposedly been reformed and she had come after me, someone else might, too.”

“Got inducted into the Heroes Association, which I did hoping to extend my reach, do some good in the wider world. Velocity was my full time gig and it doesn’t take me very long to patrol my city, so why not? And who could turn down personal training with Daybreak? Not me-I was starstruck. Everything you’ve heard about how awesome she is-super true.”

“To be honest though, being a Ward is mostly an honorary thing for me. I still haven’t signed a lot of the required paperwork, and having showed up already having a career-well, that’s fairly unique. Unfortunately, that reach didn’t materialize. It was a safer world these days, after all. The need for heroes just didn’t seem to be as high as it was for the generation before me, the old rogue gallery being mostly, supposedly reformed. And then...I sought out Adamant.”

Jenna grows more serious, the smile absent, bow of her mouth slightly pursed, a troubled expression. “And I learned the world wasn’t quite as safe as I thought, Mr. Avenhart.”

She settles back into the couch, a gesture with her left hand.

“This action going on outside of the Tower-it’s a League resurgence. I’d call it a vocation, sure, but mostly it’s necessity. What do heroes do, what does the League do? We fight the Good Fight, and we do it because we’re capable of doing it. It makes us a lightning rod for some seriously misguided people and some...scary sort of stuff, but better us than someone who couldn’t do anything about it.”

Or...won’t do anything about it.

The thought makes Jenna frown internally. She’s not here to put El Cid on blast.

 

[Obuzeti]

Daniel nods, satisfied. "That's what I understood. Now, you mentioned both the Hero's Association and this Adamant, properly Elias Halwell I believe? You mention the League and the Association separately, as if there's a division, when if I remember correctly one sprung from the other. Are their goals different? What's the division between them, if they operate separately?"

He inclines his head. "If this infringes on personal matters, of course feel free to maintain their privacy. It just strikes me as odd that I have the paperwork for one, here - "

Daniel slides out a number of forms from beneath the clipboard, revealing the top sheet of lorem ipsum to be a misdirection entirely. He's also pulling them out by memory without looking, which means he's memorized where each individual sheet he wants is.

" - This is for the Heroes Association proper, and it has a great deal of legalese about liability, personal responsibility and dedication, and quite some number of other intangibles. On the other hand, the League on paper simply doesn't exist, except in old merchandise no one's willing to part with at this point."

Daniel's eyes are sharp, and his smile is soft and amiable in direct conflict. He speaks like a lawyer before the stand, asking questions with deadly answers and picking apart the manner in which they're carefully chosen. It's why he's as assiduously avoided an interviewer as he is chased; truth is something he's perfected the pursuit of.

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

(Posted it but super happy to edit it! Already have some.)

Jenna can’t decide if the papers are sneaky or not-but information was never bad, right? Only tyrants burned books, and she’s not here to lie or hide much of anything. He could trot out all the information he wanted.

To that end, Jenna oddly only seems more at ease-the Filipina laces her fingers behind her head and settles back into the couch, one silver booted ankle resting on her knee and the other one loose and dangling a few inches from the floor, a bit of swing to it.

“As far as this rookie understands it, Mr. Avenhart-El Cid and Daybreak took up the Tower and started the Heroes Association at the behest of the government. Other heroes were doing other things, and so by dint of both things it remained the only organization. Whether it was ever meant to be a successor of the League I couldn’t tell you-you’d probably have to ask them, you know? But it’s really not the vibe I was getting. Not from any other hero I’ve been lucky enough to meet up with.”

She swings the free boot and considers a moment, thoughtful.

“I don’t think a lot of these vets ever stopped being ‘League’. It makes sense the ones I’m working with, this team outside of the Tower would take that mantle up again, having never put it down. Because you’re right-” She gave a nod towards the papers he had withdrawn, the Tower validation. “The League and a lot of teams under their umbrella never technically existed in any official capacity. That didn’t stop Uncle Sam from calling on them from time to time, or them answering.” Jenna’s lips curve into a full grin again, no demure smiles or shy hesitation here. Youthful energy, geniality, and ease. She’s clever, but looked utterly guileless-and maybe a little amused.

“As for personal matters or a ‘divide’-hey, you got me. Daybreak herself encouraged me to stick with Elias if I was going to be running on things outside of South Bend. Wards have visited the Coulee with and without her-we play board games same as any family. And, most recently...we jumped in when a Tower team called for aid. We’re supposed to all sit down later this week to talk about that collaboration.”

She knows there’s a restraining order, but Elias had said it was under seal...and if it came up, she’d just focus, again, on Daybreak rather than Cid. She’d take the out he offered, if she really had to. She’s not sure what other punches he’s got over there, but she had an agenda to push, so...

She sits up again, hands flat to the cushion on either side of her hips so she can push down at it and swing back onto the edge of the couch, feet on the floor again, her back straight.

“I grew up worshipping the League. I’m not complaining if I get to serve in something rising out of what remains of it, a team reformed. Because that is what that venture with Elias is-it’s a team. I didn't find that with the Wards. There is -A- team that goes out sometimes, a handful who work together-but the culture as a whole? Not a team. There's like a hundred kids in there, so how could it be ya know? They have to compete with each other, 24/7. It's more sort of like a school...but there’s very little government oversight for what goes on inside of it. That's something you don't really see anywhere else. Not private or public schools, not group homes, not nursing homes."

“Do you know what El Cid described the Tower-rightfully, turns out-as? He called it a reservation.” Jenna could feel her face getting a little warm. “Where he gets to send the few Wards that do go on outings, that DO get dispatched, that DO get to set foot out in the wider world after being inducted? Oh, lots of regulations on that, apparently. But hey-thats what you sign up for, I guess."

Jenna wonders if the NDA was in his stack of papers too. She remembers seeing one in the stack that'd been pushed at her, once. "Or at least...what people DID sign up for. The Tower was a voluntary thing. 'Was' being the keyword there."

 

[Obuzeti]

"Reservations," Daniel says. He doesn't inflect the word. "A peculiarly American concept, and so commonly self-inflicted. While I haven't the time to properly delve into the topic here, I urge you, Jenna, and any viewers to inquire into the topic. It is educational."

He nods and moves on. "When you say no government oversight, I can't help but be curious because neither group is, to my knowledge, subject to oversight. The Heroes' Association has terms and conditions, of course, but there are no eyes inside the Tower. No tours, no family visits to see what it's like on the inside. So I can't help but wonder why it's a concern that the Tower needs supervision, but the League doesn't."

Daniel spreads his hands for a moment. "Granted, it may be a difference in how they operate - no one really knows anything about how your League works these days. Adamant is popularly known, of course, and his stomping grounds up in Indiana are publicized, but who he works with and how has always been a matter of discretion. I won't inquire into that, but how does, in general terms, the League function? Is it a contract situation, or something closer to a - club of volunteer firemen, as you have here in the States?"

He pauses, and offers a little grimace. "Also, I don't recognize that term. What's the Coulee?"

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

Jenna has more to say on the subject but lets him talk to her and his viewers, her fingers tapping lightly against the arm of the couch in a silver blur. The paper she'd written scrolled through the back of her mind, but this back and forth was a lot different than the uninterrupted series of carefully constructed, ordered points. She lets him lead, because they're good questions-people know who Velocity is, they know Adamant-but what of the 'new' League? The legality of heroes had always been somewhat shaky ground, and she hopes to avoid the subject if she can-her focus was on the new law and the well being of the Wards themselves-she loves Sarah, but she's not sure...it's right to wait on her anymore. That it wasn't enabling...abuse? to turn a blind eye on what she's seen in that place.

It feels like it took forever for him to finish, but it had nothing to do with Mr. Avenhart's pacing-and everything to do with the whirring pace of her own mind. She glances to her tapping fingers and slows them down to a normal pace-it helps.

One thing at a time. He's building a foundation, here. No one's touched on the League publicly, after all. She hopes no one's going to be pissed that she was. It shouldn't be a secret-and couldn't really be, the more they did out there.

"There's some mentorship going on that I'm very grateful for, but this 'new' League that's formed, is forming-volunteer firemen is a good comparison. We're equal individuals with our own goals and projects-South Bend for me-and with our own individual specialties. I'm fast, I'm Velocity. I could place a call to Japan, race there in time to answer it. I can evacuate an entire city block in minutes. But if Godzilla shows up, there's not really a lot I can do about him. Spirit people out of the line of fire sure, but my patented 'tie the bad guy up in his own sweater' technique isn't really a viable option there, is it?" Jenna shrugs with another one of her grins.

"And while I'm ready and willing with lots of 'gung ho' energy-I'm a bit lacking in the hands-on experience department. I'm lucky to have people to learn from, to help and be helped by. We've come together because historically, that's how heroes have made the most impact. Pooling talents and resources in order to take on some serious bad guys-and there are still bad guys operating out in the dark corners of the world. Some of the best people I've ever known serve on the team. Whatever our reasons for doing it are, we are here to fight that fight. And it...it really is something of a family." Jenna smiles again, briefly distracted. "For example, the Coulee? That's Elias' house. He freely opens it up to the rest of us, gives us a standing invitation to hang out and join him at his dinner table." She neatly leaves out the part where she's been crashing on his couch for months now, because that didn't sound exactly glamorous.

"As for government oversight-I'm not talking supervision, exactly. That'd be slightly hypocritical, wouldn't it? But while the League is made up of adult volunteers, the Tower is chock full of disenfranchised minors. There should be more interest in ensuring their rights are being respected, because that level of autonomy in any institution is unprecedented in this day and age. Historically, 'out of sight out, of mind' has been a bad stance to take. That's why we have federal laws protecting the rights of senior citizens, and auditors that visit our schools, nursing homes, prisons-any place you have a vulnerable population in a structured setting like the Tower."

Jenna keeps casual about this-not on blast, she's not putting the Tower, or El Cid, not anyone in the Association on blast. But it couldn't continue the way it had been.

"El Cid and Daybreak do their best, but that's a lot of kids to look after. And given the recent legislation they passed in the middle of the night-their workload isn't likely to lessen." Jenna's right hand fussed with the cuff of her left glove, spinning the smart watch around her slender wrist. "Being a metahuman...that's an unchangable status. You could argue heroism is a life style choice sure, that's one thing-but you can't argue metahumans choose to be metahumans. There are very real physiological differences-and changes-in our brains, our bodies. I didn't choose to be fast any more than I chose my skin color, Mr. Avenhart. I'm female, biracially Filipino/Caucasian, and a parahuman. Two of those statuses are protected under federal law from discrimination. But the third, well, according to our lawmakers, the third means I deserve to be stripped of my inalienable rights as an American citizen, my human rights on the simple basis that I am a member of that minority group." That Elias deserved it. That Ellie did.

"What's more-our country has been through this before. And we as a people learned from our past, that there's a way to treat those different from us, and that this is not that way. Only a bigot would stand here and defend what happened to the Native American tribes as settlers pushed westward, Mr. Avenhart. Only a racist would stand here and defend slavery, would look anyone in the eye and defend Japanese Internment camps."

Now, now she's putting people on blast.

"Despite this being the United States of America, despite it being 2016, despiteparahumanheroessavingtheworldfromRahab-" The speedster's watch spinning had gotten faster and faster, and while her voice never raised, no real sign of temper, just a clear and obvious feeling of disbelief in the injustice-the words had gotten a little faster, and a little faster, and then blended together a little in the last statement, not quite unintelligble but definitely a departure from normal speech. From anyone's human speech-not a syllable was lost, not an ounce of articulation -it was just sped up in a strange and difficult to process way. As soon as it happened she caught it, bow of a mouth pursed a moment before she slowed on the spinning of her watch, a slightly apologetic nod.

"...and despite the sacrifices made eight years ago, Senator Gillesby looked at those Internment camps and went "I think they had the right idea." Then he and Senator Derby trotted a bigoted, racist bill out to a half asleep congress in the middle of the night, and they passed it."

"I'd like to think those that voted yes maybe didn't get a chance to read it in full, because at best? The Tower becomes a prison. At worst? It and the Wards are now a conscripted army, the majority of which, again, are minors-so child soldiers on top of forced servitude and isolation. The morality of that is fairly obvious. The bigotry and human rights violations? Even more so."

 

[Obuzeti]

Daniel nods, unsurprised at Jenna's answers. His face is amiable, even through the rest of his body language is tense and pointed forward, consumed by the search. "The legislation I mean to touch on, but as it's the capstone of current events, it'd be best to deal with it last," he assures the speedster. "The argument El Cid has raised in his discussions on the matter, if I may quote him here . . ."

The interviewer flicks through his clipboard again and produces another printout sheet, which he sets out. He clears his throat, and reads: "If being metahuman is a genetic difference it is more profound than the senses and more divisive than any handicap. A hero possesses power that the common man does not and no control of it; their capacity for harm, to others and themselves, is unique among the species. Just as a car or a gun requires a permit, the use of powers is a privilege to be granted, not a right to be wielded against the powerless. It is the responsibility of the metahuman community to teach its own the ethics of our gift, and I will be the first to take in any that struggle with their unique talents."

Daniel makes a little movement of his shoulders, too minute to be called a shrug, and sets aside the sheet. "Summarized, his argument is that unlike racial differences, metahumans pose an inherent threat to others and themselves that must be minimized."

He blinks, slow. It's such a deliberate gesture, and a familiar one. It is the dreaded English pause, where one allows a stupid statement to trail away into nothing and fall flat on its face.

"The merits or lack thereof borne by Mr. Cid's position is not my focus," he says, neatly slicing off that branch. "Rather, now that I know his position, and yours - what is the League's? If I'm not mistaken, you ran independent for quite some time before you decided to join missus Daybreak. If there are aspiring heroes, or just others like you, uncertain and uneducated in their talents, what would your advice be to them?"

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

Jenna accepts the reassurance with a nod, her eyes flicking to the next print out, a bit of curiosity filtering through the grave seriousness that had been on her face moments before-and still was. The girl eyes the back of the print out and says nothing-but internally she felt alarm bells ringing, because what the hell?

Was that recent? That had to be recent. A right to be wielded against the powerless…? As if the Wards under his care needed to be rehabilitated, were nefarious by dint of existing. He’d been dismissive of congress, that they saw Paul and whoever else and painted the rest of metahumans with the same brush-but the statement sounded like the same damned thing.

The man lowers the paper and Jenna watches him closely as he summarizes-and for some reason all she can think about is that ‘evasion training’ she’d interrupted the one time, what had basically been institutionalized bullying. She had figured things had just gotten away from their original purpose, but the conversation in his office came back to her, what he had said about Elias after the docks-and how he had locked her up afterwards.

"Summarized, his argument is that unlike racial differences, metahumans pose an inherent threat to others and themselves that must be minimized."

Heroes, dangerous. Even people like Ellie-dangerous? He agrees with the bill?

...DOES he agree with the bill? It doesn’t matter-the argument feels like a betrayal.

Mr. Avenhart’s expression says all it needs to. Jenna relaxes slightly and looks away, pulling a hand through her sleek, sporty ponytail before resting heavily on the arm of the couch. She doesn't regret her earlier tact, if only for Sarah’s sake-but it’s the last time she’d let herself be disappointed by Cid. What respect she had still had for him was gone. Just...gone.

”If there are aspiring heroes, or just others like you, uncertain and uneducated in their talents, what would your advice be to them?”

Jenna lifts her head from her hand and almost immediately blurts “Don’t solo.”

She blinks, visibly embarrassed.

“I-I mean-” Whoops, but God, not with Paul out there. She was fast but others…

She straightened back up, shook off the bit of fluster.

“What I mean to say is-they don’t have to go it alone. Some friends of mine have set up a website, thegoodguys dot edu. There are some resources posted up there, an email, a hotline. They want to learn some skills and fight the Good Fight, the League can help them do that. If they’re worried about being forced into the Tower, the League can provide them asylum.” She’s not saying where until she had permission to say where.

“Mostly…” Jenna spins her watch, off script again but obviously concerned, obviously very, very sincere. “Mostly, they are not alone. They are not by default some kind of weapon, or a threat in need of a leash. They deserve everything promised to them in the Bill of Rights, same as anyone else.”

Ellie and the shelter dogs keep popping in her head, what Vivienne had said about some parahumans just wanting to be...people. Allowed to exist, and exist however they felt like existing.

“I don’t want anyone thinking that self determination isn’t for them because of how they were made, Mr. Avenhart. Whatever circumstances we find ourselves in, we ought to have the right to choose our own destinies."

Jenna settled back again, satisfied with the response. It was exactly what she believed in, and everything she intended to fight for.

 

[Obuzeti]

Mr. Avenhart makes the slightest dismissive motion in response to Jenna's fumbling cover-up for her instinctive response. "No. That is what they, if any listeners are out there listening, need to hear. Not condemnation, not cajoling, not political rhetoric; that their lives and livelihoods are worth something, independent of how useful they can be. Do you disagree?"

Rather than wait on an answer, he proceeds onward. "Now, this legislation that's being passed - it's called, I believe, the Act Against Needless Destruction, or something like that. Senator Gillesby pushed for it using the photos of some, I admit, devastated areas. A large cabin registered to Maestro, a former League member . . . a city block in Samson, completely wrecked by Mr. Halwell . . . and of course, the oil rig that was destroyed off Africa, which is still leaking into the surrounding waters and is closed off to the public."

Avenhart stacks the papers he'd been reading off neatly, and then glances at Jenna. "The important question is, why? During the aptly-termed Golden Age, justifiable damage was written off as an act of nature, but I haven't seen anything suggesting why all this damage has occurred - the League's been, for the most part, radio silent, aside from Halwell coming out in your support. What's been happening out there?"

 

[CurtailedAmbrosia]

“The oil rig? I won’t lie, we wrecked the place up. But it was standing just fine when I left it, and I left it after Adamant departed. We had intel the place was really a weapons research and development lab for the bad guys, and that intel proved to be correct. We found men like Sir Roland and Fugue there. Roland took one look at me and immediately went on the offensive.” Jenna tapped at the right side of her rib cage. “Cracked a few of my ribs doing it, but I got him eventually.”

At least that was a good story, a classic cape tale where the bad guys lost and the good guys made off with something to help continue the fight rather than have it hindered.

“I don’t know anything about the incident in Samson, but I’m guessing...well, I’m guessing it had something to do with Wandering Jew. That’s mostly what we’ve been dealing with so far-he was at the docks in Michigan, even. That didn’t seem to make the rounds, but he was.” El Cid had left it out, despite her report. She’s still not sure why...but after the one on Maestro’s death and the monsters beneath his house-well at least then he’d at least done a little something, Miss Sarah in that press conference, warning the populace to the danger.

“He was the cause for the destruction of Maestro’s home, and presumably-his murder. We found the place wrecked, and the monster entrenched beneath the cabin. A trap for anyone who came calling, I guess.” That’d been so awful. They had had to leave. Anyone else...anyone else would have been toast, but even they had still had to leave.

“The fight the League was called in to assist with? Also with Wandering Jew. He had cornered and murdered Modal, destroyed his house and bunker. Before we got there one Ward was already dead-Mark Postlen, AKA Barricade. And then not long after we arrived Ashley Reynolds, Backdraft…” Jenna’s eyes lose focus, her speech slowing to a faraway murmur. “...she was murdered too.” She would have never pushed herself so hard, might have been okay despite what Tectonic had said about her already being...already dead before they got there-not without Paul trying to kill them all, not without that thing rising out of the earth, spotlighting her like that.

She’s still having nightmares about the other woman’s immolation. She might always have nightmares.

But at least...at least Ahasver hadn’t…

Jenna swallowed, a nervous clasp of her hands before she drew them close to her chest, staring off into space for several heartbeats before she shook her head a little, turned her attention back to Mr. Avenhart.

“He’s bad news. El Cid is pulling his people in, hunkering down-this law doesn’t allow for much else. But Wandering Jew can’t be allowed to run around unchecked, not like he has been. We have to continue looking for him, looking for ways to strike back and keep him from claiming anyone else. Wherever he pops up next-well, we’ll be there too.”