Gacha God: Learning Curve (ch. 13) (Patreon)

"Everyone in heaven is a fool, but not all fools go to heaven," I quoted my fortune after cracking open a fortune cookie while my Chinese takeout was precariously balanced on a knee. Someone was clearly in a mood typing this one up. Fortune cookies were probably the best bad cookie you could eat. Eating one, you thought they tasted kind of good. Wouldn't blow anyone's socks off, but as far as a snack went, it was passable. A solid five out of ten. But, eating a bunch of them at the same time, you'd realize how shit they actually were. They just weren't a good cookie.

Pretty sure you could find a moral there. Something something, excess is the poison of the soul, something something, true happiness comes from within. Or something. I'm a teenager, not a philosopher. Why was this important?

It wasn't.

"First lesson of stakeouts? Be prepared to be bored," Jessica Jones remarked through a phone, as if sensing how out of my fucking mind bored I was. I didn't need constant mental stimulation, but holy shit, stakeouts were beyond boring. I'm pretty sure this could fall under torture on the geneva convention. This was a war crime. You know, if we were at war.

I was seated on a fire escape, a nice camera posted up at an apartment block in the dead of night. A fire escape that I had been seated on for six hours. Now, normally? Doable. Very doable. Sitting around and doing nothing was pretty awesome. Normally, it was one of my favorite things to do -- to do nothing and think about nothing. Love it. The problem was that I was waiting for something -- some jackass that was, maybe, fucking someone that wasn't his wife. Very naughty. Also very boring because I had to keep alert instead of switching my brain off to let time pass by.

"I'm pretty sure you're just conning me into doing the boring parts of your job," I muttered back, folding the fortune before helping myself to some Chinese food -- which, as it happened, did deliver up a fire escape. Snapping the chopsticks apart, I helped myself to some deliciously unhealthy kung pao chicken and fried rice.

"And if I was?" Jessica questioned, sounding amused at the suggestion. Which really didn't dissuade the assumption.

"Dick move, but nice con," I admitted. If I could get paid half a million dollars to dump the boring parts of my job onto someone? That was the definition of having your cake and eating it too. An analogy that never made sense to me -- what was the point of having the cake if you weren't going to eat it? Of course anyone would want the cake and eat it. That's what cake was for. The reason for its being. Kind of fucked up to just get it and trash it after… I don't even know. Looking at it or giving it a quick sniff to get a hit of processed sugars?

Something needed to happen before I started to hate the English language and its sayings.

"Wonders of capitalism, kid," Jessica responded. "This is ninety percent of the job. Sitting around for verification of something you suspect. You did the easy part already -- guy signed up for a cheating website with his real name. Site got leaked. So, at the very least, we know he's a cheater, even if he is claiming that it was during his last marriage."

"We could hack into his credit card information," I voiced.

"For one, you don't know how to hack," Jessica pointed out. Very true. I didn't. "Secondly, that's also illegal. This isn't a criminal investigation. We aren't bound by protocol or tainting evidence. However, people tend to get upset when you blow up their marriage and if they can prove it, they absolutely will press charges against you." She continued, and I got the impression that she was talking from experience.

"The law can kiss the entirety of my ass," I decided, taking a sip of the most processed herbal tea I've ever had. Tasted good, though. And to prove that the law could kiss my ass, I checked my phone to see the credit card transactions that Ned had obtained. Guy was a creature of habit if there ever was one -- same hotel, same restaurant prior to hookup, then only thing that changed was the girl that he brought. "We have enough to bust the guy already."

"We do," Jessica agreed. "Could snap a picture of them at the restaurant right now. But that wouldn't be incriminating. Divorce lawyers could spin it a thousand different ways. Nothing gets more ironclad than two chucklefucks smashing pissers."

I couldn't argue with her if she kept agreeing with me. "And I had to sit here for six hours because?"

"Paid me to teach you, so shut up and learn," Jessica responded, earning a sigh from me. "Same tricks won't always work. Next guy might only pay in cash. Had one that exclusively used gift cards to hide his trail. People are stupid, but that doesn't make them idiots. They know they're doing something wrong, so they cover their tracks. Some just do it better than others. If the hacking doesn't work, then what? Plant a bug on him? You think the people your band of misfits are investigating won't be checking for bugs?"

An annoying point, but one that was well made.

"The classics are classic for a reason. Get the fundamentals down, then you can cut corners to your heart's delight. Just not before the fundamentals are down. Which are…?"

"Hurry up, shut up, and wait," I echoed, bored out of my mind.

"Good boy," Jessica responded, sounding satisfied that she had bullied me into accepting another thirty minutes of mindless boredom. Thirty minutes was a pretty accurate prediction considering that I got a text from Ned saying that the guy just left the restaurant. Hacking seemed like a pretty cool skill, and I was glad that I had Ned doing it for me. Swallowing a sigh and some takeout, I adjusted myself so I sat a bit more comfortably before waiting some more.

And, almost on the dot, thirty minutes later, I saw that guy and girl getting out of the luxurious rental car that he always rented every time. Always from the same company too. After waiting for them for six hours, I snapped a shit ton of photos, intent on burying Jessica in work by giving her a frame-by-frame of their entrance into the hotel. "Wow, what a sleaze bag. Fifty bucks says it's a toupee," I remarked, sizing the guy up.

The guy looked like he sweated grease and scum. Handsome enough looking in a way that I would have guessed plastic surgery was involved even without having checked his medical records. However, there was just something in the way that he carried himself that screamed slimeball. That, and the whole… you know, fucking a ton of women behind his wife's back thing.

"Get used to it," Jessica responded, deciding to not take me up on that action. Smart move. I knew it was a toupee except it was one that you bolted on to your scalp like the lamest cyborg in existence. "Fifty says they're going to leave the curtains open."

"Bet," I decided, taking aim at the hotel room that they reserved. Took them a minute to get upstairs, a few more to get to the bedroom and… huh. "Shit," I cursed, losing the bet as the curtains went ignored. As Jessica oh so eloquently put it -- they were too busy bumping pissers to give any thoughts to privacy. "You're taking more of my money. I'm a minor. Do you have anything resembling shame?"

"None. Get the shots and pay up," Jessica responded, ending the call and I just signed. I didn't care about money but couldn't say it felt good losing it. Snapping a good dozen compromising shots, I finished off my take out before I tossed myself over the side of the railing. Thoroughly uncaring of the damage it caused, I used a totem to break my fall before lowering myself to the ground and kept walking without missing a beat.

Making my way through New York City, I entertained myself, at last, with trading texts with Peter and MJ. MJ was talking about a play that she wanted to see while Peter was ratting out Michelle, who thought I was a Supervillain. Peter rallied to my cause and proclaimed me to be an anti-hero, and I was in the middle of correcting him.

I'm not a hero in any capacity. I'm an asshole that was all too happy to stick his nose where it didn't belong.

Hopping off the train at twelve at night, I made my way back up into Jessica's office/apartment. And something had clearly changed because the glass window that she had with her office marked was busted out. Jessica was seated at her desk, eyes fixed to a computer. Based on her expression when I knocked at the door, she didn't find it particularly funny even though she said, "You're hilarious. Get in."

Popping the sim card out of the camera, I passed it to her as I took a seat at her desk. "Unsatisfied customer?"

"Jarhead that didn't know how to keep his hands to himself," Jessica responded. Her gaze flickered to me, clearly expecting something. A remark of some kind of if she was alright or how a five foot six hundred pound girl managed to manhandle a marine. But it wasn't coming. Wasn't any of my business, really. And she could clearly take care of herself. "Hm. You're not a natural photographer, but these are decent enough. Now, what did you learn?”

This was more or less how things went -- Jessica would send me out to do the boring parts of her job, then when I got it done, she would ask me what I learned. It was a decent teaching method. Better than what I was used to. Still thought it was one hell of a con, though. “Guy fell into a pattern. He found a modus operandi that worked well enough and he didn’t mix it up for three years. Got too confident because he hadn’t gotten caught, so he started to think that he wouldn’t.”

"Nine times out of ten? That's what you're dealing with. Spouses start to suspect something because a pattern emerges -- late nights, outings with friends, yada yada yada. The reason why we don't get contacted for the smart ones is that the ones getting cheated on have no idea." Jessica said, reaching into her desk and taking out a bottle of whiskey before she took a handful of cheek-bulging gulps from it. A solid third of the bottle was gone in an instant.

"And the one?" I questioned, wanting to finish off the lesson before Jessica got too drunk. She had a drinking problem. And I did mean a problem. Ned, out of curiosity, had checked her financial records and her biggest expense was booze. And, until us, her only limiter on how much she could spend on whiskey was that she needed to have enough for rent and food. Now she didn't have to worry about money.

It was a little concerning, to be honest. It was her choice of what to do, but I did feel a little responsible for enabling a rather self-destructive habit. But, it wasn't any business of mine what she did with the money I paid her.

"The one? A mistake. Guy or girl does everything right to avoid getting caught -- no pattern, perfect excuses, and the one getting cheated on has no reason to believe that an affair is involved. But, with pure dumb luck, they stumble on a single piece of evidence that makes the entire web of lies unravel. Could be anything. Then they come to us to make sure that they aren't imagining things." Jessica continued, leaning into her chair. "Bad luck. Everyone comes across the black cat every once and a while."

Luck, huh? "And when we aren't investigating affairs?" I questioned, hoping to do something else other than being a voyeur.

"Like I said -- that's ninety-nine percent of the job," Jessica remarked. And I feel like the percentage was increasing every time she repeated herself. Still, it was something. "Still gonna do the hero thing?"

"I thought you weren't going to ask any questions. Or want any answers. And no, not being a hero," I tacked on anyway, reaching out for the bottle, only for Jessica to pull it back out of reach. "I can fight crime but not drink?"

"Not my whiskey," Jessica shot back, taking another swig as if to spite me. "I took the money, so I'll follow through on my end, but you should reconsider this whole… path you're on. Aren't going to get any thank yous for saving the day. Best scenario? You wisen up before you end up with more regrets than what you started with." May just be the whiskey talking, but there was a bitter edge in Jessica's voice.

Ned did some digging about her, but I never read the findings. Felt pointless. She wasn't someone whose ass I was going to kick, so I didn't need to know her life story to see how best to kick it. So, if I didn't know any better, I'd say that bitterness stemmed from regret.

"Don't care about thank yous and I'm too simple to have regrets," I returned, offering a shrug and a lopsided smirk. "Plenty of things I'd prefer not to happen, but they did. Wallowing in them can't change them."

Jessica let out a chuckle, her smile a little too sharp, and I got the impression that I struck a nerve. "Wallowing is what I do best. Good on you. Now paddle boat yourself out of my office. I'll give you a call if I find something in your league," Jessica said, and I took that rather clear dismissal for what it was. She didn't want help. She'd rather drown in whiskey and regrets. Can't say it's what I'd want to do, but to each their own, I suppose.

"See ya'," I returned, getting up after grabbing my camera and heading out of Jessica's office. Hopefully, she'd have something for me soon.

…

Armund Tully. Middle-aged man in his early fifties, but thanks to Botox and hair dye, he looked like he was in his thirties. Neatly styled beard and hair that he spent three hundred dollars on every three days at a specialty salon. His cheapest outfit cost no less than a thousand dollars but he frequently broke a hundred thousand dollars with his business attire -- thirty thousand dollar shoes, fifty thousand dollar suit, ten thousand dollar cufflinks, hundred thousand dollar watch, and a five thousand dollar pair of glasses. For his casual business wear.

The man drove expensive cars -- the cheapest of them was a Lamborghini, and he had one for each day of the week. For breakfast, lunch, and dinner, he had a whole team of private chefs. He lived in a penthouse apartment in a building that he owned in uptown Manhattan, which had a property value of three hundred million dollars. The guy was absolutely loaded.

"What a prick," I summarize my findings as I kicked my feet up on the coffee table at, as Ned dubbed it -- our secret base. By secret base, he more or less meant an office space that we were illegally renting out. And by office space, I meant a basement. As far as basements went, it was a nice one -- red brick walls, wood floors, and it was rather spacious. Ned arranged it online and I paid a homeless guy a hundred thousand dollars to sign the paperwork for us and attend the meetings.

"So, in liquidity, the guy is cash rich enough to afford his lifestyle," Ned spoke up from his part of the basement. He set himself up with a corner office with a long L-shaped table that held six separate monitors that were in turn hooked up to two computers. All top of the line that could be purchased commercially. Naturally, it was tricked out with RGB lights, from the computers, to the monitors, mouse, and keyboard. "From real estate alone, he makes twenty million from rent-controlled apartments. The rest of his income is split up between commercial businesses that he possesses a controlling interest in -- food industry, car rentals, cleaning services, and salons."

Ned was really throwing himself into the role of being the guy in the know. His connections with Rising Tide were helping things along, I'm sure, but I suspected that he was learning tips and tricks from them even as he was learning from Jessica. Ned did seem a bit tired -- red-tinted eyes that hinted at a lack of sleep, but he spoke energetically as he rattled off information. "Asset-wise, the guy is beyond loaded. A whole fleet of cars, and he owns three private yachts, and villas in Japan, France, Italy, and Morocco. Several more million dollars in stocks and bonds. The guy makes so much money on his investments that it's like he's printing money."

"Do I hear a but coming on?" I questioned, looking through the rather thorough pamphlet that Ned had printed out. He called it a dossier.

"But, that wasn't always the case. Eight years ago, Armund was rich, but he wasn't the kind of filthy rich that he is now. Officially, the surge of wealth that facilitated his rise to the super-rich is a deal with a construction company refurbishing a handful of buildings that he owned in Hell's Kitchen. As soon as they were done, he sold them at a huge profit just after the city announced that they had a development program, but it petered out without anything to show for it. Since then, nearly every single investment Armund has made has seen unusually high turnovers."

I saw what and was getting at. "So, the guy's a puppet? For who?" I questioned and to that, Ned offered a rather unhelpful shrug.

“Dunno. That's what your clone is investigating, right?” Ned questioned, and I gave an absent-minded nod. Jessica inspired the idea. Dumping all the boring tedious work on my clones was pretty convenient. The Time Turner was without a doubt the most useful of my trinkets, but the Ring of Nine Dragons was rapidly becoming my favorite even if it did come with drawbacks. “He’s airdropped me some photos and I’m compiling a list of his known associates. The bad news is that his work phone, so far, is clean. But, in one of the photos, we see him speaking on a burner phone.”

“Definitely a criminal. I’m pretty sure that criminals are the only ones that actually use burner phones,” I pointed out, looking at the screen that Ned presented of the douchebag in question as he got into an expensive-looking classic muscle car. The five-dollar burner phone seemed laughably out of place in the photo. Actually, where was the other Seb? How did he snap that picture? Was he hiding in a bush- eh, whatever. So long as the job got done.

Ned seemed thoughtful. “I’m going to look into that. But, uh, I think we have enough evidence to prove that Armund is a bad guy but nothing that we could use in the court of law to, like, put him in jail.”

I blinked, “I was just gonna kick his ass.” I admitted, offering a small unrepentant shrug. “Threaten him a bit to take care of his buildings.”

“Do you think that would work?” Ned questioned, his eyebrows drawing together and I cocked one, not sure why that was even a question.

“If someone broke into your house, beat the shit out of you, and promised to come back if you didn’t… I don’t know. Take out the garbage on Thursdays or something. Would you take out the trash?” I asked Ned, making a face that said the answer should be obvious. Ned seemed to think about it for a moment, tilting his head back and forth like he was bouncing the idea off the insides of his head.

Eventually, he settled on, “Yeah, probably. But this is money, instead of chores. Do you think he would take it out on his renters?”

“It’s possible,” I admitted, pursing my lips. “Depends on what level of ass-kicking I deliver.” The people that said violence could never change anything were mouth-breathing morons. Violence changed things all the time. People liked to think that things were all civilized because we had nukes keeping the peace, but the fact of the matter was violence had been the default option to getting people to do what you wanted for tens of thousands of years for a couple of really good reasons.

Chief among them? People didn’t like getting their asses kicked. Who would have guessed?

Ned didn’t seem like he was fully into the idea. “Okay, so… I know this is kind of your thing… but I was thinking that maybe… we could steal his money?” Ned tried, not sounding that confident in the idea. Then he realized how that sounded. “And give it away to the people we’re trying to help. Like Robin Hood? You know, poetic justice.”

I pursed my lips, considering it for a moment. Breaking into the guy's apartment and breaking his legs so he would take care of his tenets was a simple and clean approach. The only reason we were bothering to investigate the guy was for practice. Turning this into a heist was doable, but it did mean a delay and a whole lot more work. Still… “That sounds hilarious. I’m in,” I agreed before thinking of a problem.

“How are we going to make sure that they get to keep the ill gotten gains, though?” I questioned and Ned offered a rather cocky smirk.

“I can handle that,” he responded, his tone brimming with confidence. “The only issue is that we need to find his offshore accounts. Those are a lot harder to actually trace -- especially since he’s using proxies for them. I know that he has them because… bad guy,” Ned continued, looking back at the screen to check on the programs that were working in the background.

“Sounds like you have something in mind,” I remarked and Ned tilted a hand back and forth.

“The easiest way to do it would be to get our hands on his electronics -- his computers, phones, and so on. I sent him a fake system update for his carrier, but he keeps delaying it. I had an idea to break into his apartment, but… how are you with sneaky stuff?”

“More of a spotlight kind of guy,” I admitted and Ned didn’t seem surprised by that. At all. Kind of hurtful to be honest. Stealth wasn’t really a skill that I needed to develop. I used to have an item to take care of that for me. Could try to finagle it with the Time Turner, but I wasn’t entirely sure how. Sneaking in and out to upload some malware to his electronics without a trace would need a perfect run, and those came expensive when it came to suicides and fading out of existence.

“We’ll put a pin in that idea,” Ned decided before he shot me a smile, “but I’ll take care of it! Thanks, Sebastian.”

“Sure?” I responded, not sure why I was getting thanked. Before I could ask, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a video feed pop up on one of Ned’s screens. A video camera was installed which showed Peter smiling at it along with giving a wave. Behind him was the dour face of Michelle Jones, arms crossed and cocking an eyebrow at Peter.

Ned facepalmed. Hard. Double hands. Then he groaned. Shaking his head, he grabbed the microphone, “Dude, you can’t bring a girl to our secret HQ.” Ned protested, looking at me to back him up, but I just started laughing.

“Ned, it’s Michelle. She’s practically one of the boys,” Peter responded, making Michelle's eyebrows shoot up and Peter didn’t turn around out of a very primal sense of fear that warned him that he just stepped into deep shit.

“Fine. Fine! But going forward we need a prior warning. Maybe a password?” Ned muttered to himself as the door unlocked itself to allow the two in. They descended down the stairs and I saw Michelle was looking around, her lips tugging ever so slightly down in a frown, but she seemed impressed. Peter drifted towards his part of the basement -- a workshop. Tools of various types and sizes were hung on the wall around the workshop while below the table were plastic cubbies that were filled with materials like soldering tips, nuts and bolts, and so on.

The current project that he was working on was building a 3D printer that met his own specifications by using a 3D printer that cost like twenty thousand dollars. Tucked in the corner of his workshop was a chemistry set with a wide variety of beakers, vials, burners, and so on. The chemicals for the chemistry set were kept in the Cave of Wonders. Something that I learned about it -- when I had a fixed address that was in the area, the Golden Scarab would go to the same location. Which was how our closet became the Cave of Wonders on a near-permanent basis.

“Nice mancave,” Michelle remarked, her gaze falling on me and what could be described as my own little corner. Basically, a couch, and a TV, and I moved my bookshelves of comics and novels out of the Cave of Wonders and into the man cave.

“Thanks,” Peter responded, either not hearing the sarcasm or choosing to ignore it. I watched Michelle, not entirely sure what she was doing here beyond that Peter thought she should be. He said that she was practically one of the boys, but given that I’ve had exactly one conversation with her -- and it wasn't even really a conversation -- that was a little hard to believe. My bet was either Peter had a crush, or she had strong-armed him into letting her come.

Given how Peter told me, I’m guessing she was searching for signs of super-villainy from me. Can’t say what I’d spend my days on, but to each their own, I guess. So long as she didn’t try some sly shit with the confrontation, then she was welcome to investigate to her heart's content.

“Peter? We are go on operation Robin Hood,” Ned informed, making Peter perk up as a smile broke out on his face.

“Seriously? Awesome! Oh, I have just the thing!” Peter said, going to his workshop and cracked open a drawer. Taking something out, he cradled whatever it was in his palm as I shifted to get a look at it. What was rested in his hand was… a fly? No. Not a fly. A drone. It was a little big to be a normal fly, almost by half, but with a passing glance, no one in their right mind would think that the big fly was actually a mechanical drone.

“Finally finished the drone?” I asked, gingerly taking the drone from Peter.

“It’s the prototype, but it's a functional one. Could be slimmed down a bit more and I’m looking to add additional functions. As a base model drone it's workable, though. The wings are covered in a noise-absorbent polymer that I made to compensate for the increased frequency the wings would have to beat at because of the additional weight. So, it should sound like a normal fly. The programming for it is simple because of memory constraints, so it can’t do anything more than fly to a wall and sit there,” Peter explained.

It was still pretty wild to have built a micro drone. When he said drone, I was picturing the ones I saw in videos online. Something that would still be useful, but hardly subtle. Peter managed to get both. No matter how he was ragging on it and what it could be, it was still a pretty impressive achievement. I thought the difficulties he had with the drone came from overestimating himself, but he just needed better tools.

“That should make getting into his penthouse a whole lot easier. Maybe scope the place out beforehand with the drone so I know what I’m getting into before I break in,” I said, handing the drone back to Peter. “Good work,” I added, thinking that it was, but Peter lit up like a Christmas tree.

“Thanks,” Peter responded, setting the drone back on his workbench. “So, uh… you know that dose that you said I could take? I… was wanting to take you up on it.” Peter said, making Michelle cock an eyebrow as she crossed her arms. He seemed a bit nervous and a bit cagey. I frowned at him, my eyes flickering to Ned.

“It's still yours if you want it, but it's going to hurt, Peter. Fire in your blood, want to die but can’t kind of hurt,” I reminded him, earning a curt nod from him.

“I know, you said. I want it anyway,” Peter decided. He seemed a little… off with the request. It was hard to put a word to it because he wasn’t desperate or anything. However, it struck me that he was acting like he needed the dose of Divine Water rather than it being something that he wanted. Ned wasn’t saying anything beyond looking mildly uncomfortable. Neither was Michelle, though she seemed more confused.

If I had to guess? Flash.

Offering a shrug, I got up, “Alright. Follow me,” I said, heading to the closet. The walls of it were the rough walls of the Cave of Wonders and the weapons, money, drugs, and trophies were organized and divided up rather than piled together. I aimed the words to Peter, but everyone decided to follow me into the Cave and I heard Michelle gasp at what she saw. Ignoring her, I grabbed a dose of the serum along with the Divine Water.

Holding them both up, I looked to Peter, “Sure about this?” I asked him and earned a firm nod in response. Alright. It was his decision. I glanced at the others, “You’re going to want to clear out and give him some privacy,” I told them and made the two awkwardly shuffle out of the Cave. After making sure that the serum didn’t have any air bubbles inside of it, I lined it up with Peter’s vein. He winced as the needle slipped under the skin, clearly not liking needles. Pushing the plunger down, the serum flooded his veins, and that should save his life from what came next.

“Take a seat,” I instructed, fishing out a cup of Divine Water, careful to not spill a drop.

“Are… you going to stay?” Peter questioned, now looking a bit nervous as he eyed the Divine Water.

“Course,” I reassured him, giving his shoulder a squeeze. I needed to. If only to make sure that Peter didn’t actually die from this and if I would need to wind back the clock. “This is going to hurt, Peter. A lot. It’d be best if you let yourself pass out to skip the worst of it,” I told him, passing the cup of Divine Water to him.

“...Right…” He muttered, taking it in hand before he brought it to his lips. In a long gulp, he drank it down…

And it turns out Peter was made out of sterner stuff than I was. Because when I drank the Divine Water, I didn’t have the strength to scream like he did.