Worm

by wildbow

  In a more serious situation, such as when he was out on patrol, he could force parts of himself to melt and drop off, leaving a piece of himself behind, but it made him distinctly uncomfortable—pain wasn’t the right word—until he replaced the tissue he’d lost. More often, he preferred to just tear the offending piece of metal from whatever surface it rested on, whether it was a segment of chain link fence or a hubcap. Whenever he did it, he’d have to spend as much as an hour dissolving the metal and absorbing it into his body. Either way, they were only emergency measures.

  Which wasn’t to say he was weak. Being made of materials and alloys as strong or stronger than steel from head to toe made him practically untouchable in a fight. In addition, his biology fell into some optimal middle ground between organic and inorganic. For those whose powers affected only living things, he counted as inorganic. The opposite was also true.

  “Do you understand why we have gone to this trouble for your sake, Weld? Why we are testing your ability as a team leader in a crisis such as this?”

  “You’re grooming me,” he replied.

  “Yes, but do you understand what we’re grooming you for?” she pressed.

  He knew, but he assumed she would prefer to explain. Besides, how she explained would inform him a great deal about his new boss’s personality. “Not really.”

  “You likely know Director Armstrong in Boston, how he tends to prioritize research and understanding parahumans. I concern myself with more concrete affairs. Public relations, parahumans as a part of America.”

  Weld nodded.

  “What Armstrong continually fails to grasp is that if we do not integrate parahumans into society, help society bend to accommodate your kind, there is no point in lab experiments or classifications. As bad as things might be with the periodic arrival of Endbringers and parahuman criminals, matters could be ten times worse if panic or prejudice takes hold from the public. You understand?”

  “One thing, ma’am,” Weld spoke.

  “Yes?”

  He took a deep breath. Not that he really needed it, but he did anyways. “Forgive me for saying so, but I get the impression you don’t like or respect Director Armstrong?”

  “Your point?”

  “I just thought you should know he’s something like a father figure to me. He’s the one who recruited me to the Wards, got me up to speed. I’ve already made plans to go to his house for a bit this summer. Maybe I’m putting myself on your sh… in your bad books by saying so, but I just thought I should let you know I’ll step up to defend him if you start putting him down.”

  “I see,” tiny frown lines appeared between her eyebrows.

  “Sorry.”

  A fire on a street below caught his attention. A car had been set on fire, and people were crowding around it.

  Not noticing, Piggot pursed her lips, “Fine. My apologies for putting you in that situation. I won’t say anything further about Director Armstrong for the time being. I was speaking of the need for public relations?”

  “Yes ma’am,” he spoke, feeling somewhat relieved at her composure. He wouldn’t feel a hundred percent okay about it until he verified her as someone who wouldn’t find some other way to get back at him.

  “As the number of parahumans first became clear, a long-term plan was established. In the early phases of the plan, much effort was dedicated to setting up the Protectorate and Wards, ensuring the public had heroes they could look up to, likable faces, likable personalities. Merchandising, interviews, TV shows, music, movies and more were all encouraged and supported with the idea of building up this image. Law, policy and rules for the official groups were all shaped with the idea of gradually building confidence in heroes.”

  Weld nodded.

  “As we enter the next phase, our objective is to push the public a margin beyond their comfort zone. We are encouraging and promoting the existence of rogues, which is an unfortunate term that heralds back to the early days.”

  “Right,” Weld responded. The term ‘rogue’ applied to anyone with powers who wasn’t hero or villain, the negative connotations of the term tying back to an era when expectations had been rather different, much the same way the brute classification had been coined.

  “This is a sensitive subject, slow to advance, as major corporations are particularly litigious when parahumans get involved. In simple terms, the big businesses do not want people with powers affecting the status quo, and it is very easy for them to derail years of work with one bad media campaign targeting parahumans.”

  “I see,” Weld commented. He didn’t like that in simple terms bit of what she’d said. Too many people implied he was stupid because he was strong. But could he really speak up about it, when he couldn’t be sure if her choice of words came from an offensive or judgemental perspective? Or was he being overly sensitive?

  “The second half of this phase is getting the public more comfortable with the outliers. The people with stranger powers, and stranger appearances. You’re likable, Weld. You have a clearly unnatural appearance, if you’ll forgive me saying so—”

  Weld shrugged. He stood out. There were a hundred things that bothered him more than stares and comments on the subject.

  “—but you have fans, and people are interested in you. You get higher ratings for your interviews than even the average handsome hero gets. You’re second most popular for team leaders for number of YouTube videos, possibly helped by a briefly lived internet meme featuring your face, and you have a blemish-free record, both academically and in your two years serving as a part of the Wards.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Provided all goes according to plan, we intend for you to become a member of the core Protectorate team within the span of three to five years. Making your face national, even international, if you are willing.”

  “Wow. Yeah, I’m definitely okay with that, ma’am,” he tried to feign surprise. Armstrong had already covered much of this.

  “Of course, this hinges on your ability to lead your team, in the here and now.”

  “Of course.”

  “It seems we will land shortly. Any questions before we do?”

  “One. I was hoping to arrange interstate training sessions with the New York and Boston Wards groups. As far as I’m aware, the local team doesn’t do this. They barely have regular situation training.”

  “I recall Triumph made a request for something like this, a few years ago. I believe we refused him on the grounds that it was frivolous.”

  Weld squared his shoulders. He had to be assertive, here. “I’m firmly of the opinion that it would improve the local team’s ability to cooperate and respond to a greater variety of situations. I’m totally prepared to eat any and all paperwork on our end.”

  “Eat the paperwork?”

  “I mean I’ll do it all, for the members of my team. Give you updates after any and all training sessions. Notes on improvements, lessons learned, weak areas, strengths, resources that could fill any perceived gaps.”

  “So long as you’re prepared for me to put a stop to things at any time.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And,” the Director paused a moment as the Helicopter touched down on solid ground, “it cannot cut into the regular patrol schedule. You and your team members would do this outside of the hours you’re on clock for the Wards.”

  “I’ll see if I can sell it to them. Thank you, Director,” Weld stood.

  Secretly, he was elated. The training games he’d led his team through back in Boston had been some of the more fun moments of his career. It had also allowed for a harmless but fun interaction with the New York group, giving them a chance to mingle, talk and share war stories. There was something about being able to mess with others on a level that you couldn’t with teammates you had to fight alongside. If his new team liked the games half as much as he did, it would be a win in his book.

  “Do you wish me to come down and introduce you?”

  That earned a mom
ent’s consideration. Was this woman likable? No. Would the others like her? Probably not. Which meant that having her introduce him might be detrimental, associate him with someone they might view negatively.

  “No, I don’t think it’s necessary, ma’am.”

  “Your old keycards will let you in. I’ll have replacement identification sent to you shortly. In the meantime, I wish you luck.”

  “Thank you, Director,” he handed her his headset and stepped through the door as PRT uniforms opened it. As if welcoming him into the city proper, there was the sound of a woman screaming down on the street below, the noise turning into a manic laugh in the same breath. Half the block was without power, and searchlights on the corners of the rooftop scanned nearby streets. PRT guards stood at the edge of the roof, armaments in hand. He relaxed at the sight of the guards—if they weren’t acting on whatever was going on below, he didn’t need to worry about it.

  He took a deep breath, deep enough that he could feel the groan of the metal stretching to its limits inside his chest. Then he stepped off the rooftop and through the elevator doors. When the complex chrome doors shut, they cut off the noise of the helicopter entirely.

  It was utterly quiet, inside the box. There was barely any sense of motion or movement from the elevator. Tinker-designed. It had to be. He avoided touching the chrome walls or railing. It was probably coated with something, but emerging with a piece of railing stuck to him would make for a terrible first impression.

  Stepping out into a hallway, he walked up to a security terminal. He swiped his identification card, spoke his name for the voice authentication, “Weld.” There was a pause, and then the doors glided open.

  His team was there, each with their masks off.

  Clockblocker sat in a chair at the huge computer to the right of the room, swiveled to check out their new arrival, then stood, folding his arms. Red haired, freckled, thin lipped, he wore a costume that was all white, with animated images of clock faces on it. A white helmet sat on the counter of the computer terminal.

  Shadow Stalker was leaning against a wall, thumbing through a smartphone. She had one foot against the wall, one arm folded just under her chest, her free hand resting in the crook of her other elbow. She looked up at him, stuck the phone in a pouch on her belt. She was dark-skinned, pretty, and from what he could see beneath her costume and her voluminous cloak, she had a nice body. Athletic figure. A part of Weld’s adolescent psyche was relieved that there was some eye candy here.

  Kid Win and Vista arrived from what the ‘cubicles’ at the far end of the spacious room. They weren’t really cubicles, but sectioned off areas with beds and room for personal effects. The base in Boston had been similar. Kid Win was in civilian clothes, brown-haired, ruddy cheeked in a way that suggested he had been exercising until just recently. Very normal looking.

  Vista was in pyjamas, her hair tied back into a ponytail. He’d had someone as young as her on his team in Boston, but the boy had been a thinker, a limited precog content to work and communicate with them from their command station. This girl had been out in the field—three fingers on her left hand were bandaged, with crimson seeping in through the white. Her eyes were puffy, as though she’d been crying until very recently.

  Should he comment on that? Offer support? He wasn’t sure what to say, if it would even be welcome.

  “Hello,” he spoke. He received a chorus of muttered and murmured greetings in return.

  “Look,” he said. “I won’t make a big deal of this. The guys upstairs want me in charge. It’s going to take me a short while to get up to speed, but I hope to prove to you guys that I can and will work as hard as anyone.”

  It was hard to say what he’d expected, but surely he should have gotten more of a response than some blank stares and glazed looks. Was it the wrong time for this? Every single one of them looked dog tired. Clockblocker looked like he was barely managing to stand.

  “From everything I’ve heard, you guys are an excellent team, and I hope I can do you justice as a leader. It’s my hope that we can improve on a winning formula. I’ve talked to the director about some special training—”

  “Training?” Clockblocker interrupted, “You just lost me.”

  “If you’ll hear me out, I think you’ll like the idea.”

  “Have you seen the situation out there?” Clockblocker challenged him, “Less than an hour ago, I saved a guy I know from my high school physics class from being dragged into an alley by a half-dozen grown men. One of them stuck him with a needle before I got him away from them. The Hospitals are shut down or over capacity, so I brought him here. He’s upstairs right now, getting drugs to ensure he doesn’t get HIV.”

  Weld struggled to find something to say, failed.

  Clockblocker went on, “Kid Win and I stopped some lunatics in gas masks from mixing ammonia and bleach into a poison gas. You know why? They wanted to off the people in an apartment block so they could loot the place and stay there. There’s people going fucking crazy out there, and you’re talking training.”

  “I didn’t mean now,” Weld protested, backpedaling, “I was thinking in terms of the future. The training would be something to look forward to, after this crisis has passed.”

  “You’re assuming it’s going to pass,” Shadow Stalker replied, her voice tired. “Some are saying this is the way things are going to stay. I almost agree with them. This isn’t the kind of city that bounces back from things.”

  I’m losing them. “I can’t believe that. We’ve got to have hope.”

  “Pull a fifteen hour patrol out there, then come back and talk to me about hope,” Clockblocker spoke. “You know, I could almost play along. Go with the blind optimism, say yippee to training. But you don’t even mention the guy you’re replacing? A few words for the dead? It’s a matter of respect, bro.”

  “I didn’t mean to dismiss them or their sacrifice. I just didn’t know them, and—”

  Clockblocker turned, swiping his arm angrily at his helmet to snatch it off the counter. Tucking it under one arm, he spoke to the others, his back to Weld, “I’m going to check on my family. I’ll head there in costume, in case I run into trouble, be back in the morning. Mind manning the console, Kid?”

  Kid Win shook his head, “I need to take a break anyways.”

  Vista glanced at Weld, then asked, “Where do you guys need me?”

  “Go sleep,” Shadow Stalker spoke, placing a hand on Vista’s head as she walked past the girl, “I’ll start my patrol, go with Clock to make sure he gets home and that he has some backup. You can relieve me when I’m back, maybe get Clockblocker to go with you.”

  “Thank you,” Vista’s voice piped up, with a definite note of relief.

  Helplessly, Weld watched as the team split up to go their separate ways, Kid Win sitting down at the far end of the computer station, Shadow Stalker and Clockblocker heading for the elevator.

  “I fucked up. I already lost them,” Weld spoke, mostly to himself.

  “No. They’re just tired,” Vista spoke from beside him. “And not just lack of sleep. You’ll see what I mean. You could’ve mentioned Aegis and Gallant, but you can’t be blamed if Clockblocker didn’t give you time to get around to it. Nobody’s really in the mood for speeches.”

  “Right,” Weld replied, feeling lost, “Aegis and Gallant. They’re the ones who died?”

  Vista gave him a look that could only be described as pity. “You didn’t even learn their names? Nevermind what I just said. Yeah, you fucked up.”

  Then she turned away and walked back to the cubicles. She was halfway there when he saw her rub at one cheek with the back of her hand.

  “I… I just got here,” Weld said, helplessly.

  I just got told by a pre-teen, he thought.

  “Shit,” he swore under his breath. He found a chair in front of the computer and dropped the stack of file folders on the nearest flat surface. He plucked the file folder off the top of the stack, opened it and began s
tudying.

  Sentinel 9.2

  Flechette spoke, “You’re a hard person to fin—”

  Shadow Stalker, transparent and wispy, whirled on the spot, not even pausing as she fired her crossbows. The first bolt went wide. Flechette caught the second out of the air, staggered back a step as she was caught off balance. Her right foot skidded to the edge of the rooftop.

  “What the hell!?”

  Shadow Stalker rose from a crouch, becoming opaque in the process, “Oh. You shouldn’t sneak up on people when they’re on patrol.”

  What? I nearly get shot and she blames me?

  “You nearly killed me!”

  “It’s a tranquilizer shot, and you have the fire escape behind you.”

  Flechette turned to see Shadow Stalker was right about the fire escape. The bolt in her hand had a glass shaft, filled with fluid, a three-pronged head with a wider cross-shaped flare at the base of it to prevent it from stabbing too deep. Tinker-made? “Geez. You shaved a year off my life, doing that.”

  “Sorry. A little twitchy. Good to see you,” Shadow Stalker crossed the roof, offered a hand. Flechette shook it.

  “I suppose being twitchy is excusable,” Flechette excused Shadow Stalker, looking out beyond the rooftop to the dark streets. Some of the buildings looked ready to fall over, and the main street below the pair had a two-foot crack running down the middle. Water covered everything at the ground level, a half-foot deep. “And the apology is accepted.”

  “So. You joining the team?”

  “No. Temporary stay, until you guys fill out your ranks again. Maybe a few weeks, maybe as much as a month or two. Weld told me you were out on patrol, that you might need backup.”

  “I don’t do backup, and I don’t do the team thing unless someone makes me, but I’m willing to hang with another crossbow aficionado. Is that the right word? Aficionado?”