PWP: 4.13.5 Theresa Richter & SAINT (Patreon)

Interlude 4.13.5: Theresa Richter & SAINT

Theresa Richter

2010, November 29: Brockton Bay, NH, USA

Damascus was a mess. The only reason things hadn't devolved into a civil war was because the Guild was here. More specifically, I was here, with enough firepower to declare war on a small country. It made both the rebels and the SRG hesitate for fear that I'd side against the aggressors.

I looked over the footage provided by numerous helmet cams. Even after splicing the footage together, it was difficult to create a comprehensive picture thanks to Dust Devil's sandstorm.

As far as I could tell, the riot that started the battle began when someone in civilian garb tried to push his way to the front of the line for thermal blankets and other essential supplies. He threw punches and elbows to get his way, though none openly fatal. I quickly ran a background check to confirm: He wasn't a known member of any militant organization, terrorist or otherwise.

I wasn't sure how to feel about that. That didn't necessarily mean he wasn't; organizations like Deadeye's didn't exactly take attendance. Was the whole thing an accident? Was Syria such a powderkeg that a single, overeager fool set off this whole mess? Or was he a hitherto unknown plant from the rebel side?

Even with all the resources at my disposal, there was no way to know. The man was dead, trampled to the ground and then later shot, though whether by the SRG or rebels, I couldn't say. Because of the subsequent sandstorm, I couldn't even determine if it was intentional.

The rest of the footage was similarly inconclusive. Ursa Aurora and the New York contingent acquitted themselves well. Likewise, Creed stepped up in an unexpected way to make a big difference there.

"Dragon?" I heard Narwhal call. She was one of the few in the city who had access to the Glaurung transport vehicle's command center. "How's the analysis going?"

"Inconclusive," I replied apologetically. I turned my humanoid drone to face her. Sliding up a purely cosmetic faceplate, I revealed a screen from which I projected the face I used for PR purposes. "I'm afraid my attempts to determine culpability through action footage is likely to end in failure."

"That's fine. Not ideal, but even if we identified the instigator of the riots as a member of the rebels, they would have claimed he was acting alone. And even if we found the rebels had absolutely nothing to do with this, the SRG would still keep pointing fingers anyway."

"You're right. How are things on your end?"

I knew. Narwhal knew I knew. But it helped to voice our findings. I found myself remarkably human in that regard.

Narwhal sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. The force fields she maintained as her costume flickered and rippled in the wake of her hand. This alone was more emotion than she usually showed in front of others. Narwhal was a no-nonsense type of person, someone who considered herself a soldier and leader first and a woman second. She expected great things of her subordinates, and in turn held herself to an even greater standard.

I felt privileged to be counted as one of her few friends.

"It's a shitshow out there, Dragon," she said. "The rebels smell blood in the water. With Arsalan dead and Marid grievously injured, the SRG has never been this vulnerable. Their parahuman force is crippled and I hear they're calling in capes from outside the capital."

"This would be the perfect time to stage a coup. The rebels are still severely outnumbered and outgunned in terms of conventional forces compared to the SRG, but their capes are strong and fully recovered thanks to Creed's assistance. Quality can make up for quantity."

"I know. This place will turn into a bloodbath as soon as we leave. At this rate, it might end up worse than the actual endbringer battle."

I understood what she meant. Behemoth's target had been the Arab Gas Pipeline. Though the destruction to Damascus itself was sizable, the city was never its primary objective.

The endbringer had emerged from the outskirts of Damascus and left a trail of destruction through the city before destroying the pipeline and irradiating the area. It had then followed the pipe for over a mile, ensuring that repairs would be extremely costly and take a great deal of time. As it stood, the natural gas distribution network of the entire region was in shambles and its effects were being felt as far north as Turkey.

And yet, that massive energy crisis was arguably better than what was happening in Syria right now. At least I knew how to fix the pipeline. We'd have to start north and south of Behemoth's path, far enough away to avoid the irradiated zone, before building until we established a connection point somewhere in the middle. Doable. Costly, but doable. I even had drones that could help with the reconstruction.

Negotiating peace between a dictatorship and a rebellion? That was a lot trickier. Arsalan and his Lionguard had thoroughly burned that bridge, what with him forcibly mastering all dissidents. There were also a great deal more egos involved, with parahuman powers and accusations from both sides about war crimes, human rights violations, and breaking the endbringer truce.

I wasn't equipped for this. Father designed me to stop digital crimes and assist authorities with investigations, not play diplomat halfway across the world.

For once, I was happy to fall back on my directives: Comply with lawful authority. In this case, that was my dear friend. As the official leader of the Guild, diplomacy was her burden, and one she bore well. "What now? What is our objective, Guild Leader?"

"What can we do?" she asked rhetorically. "Right now, Assad's got no choice but to comply with us, but Deadeye's biding his time until we leave. I… We need to get them to the negotiating table somehow."

"That will be difficult so long as both accuse each other of breaking the endbringer truce."

"What do you think, Dragon? Do you think the rebels orchestrated the riot? It almost doesn't matter at this point, but…" The endbringer truce meant a lot to her. In Narwhal's mind, it was enshrined as sacred, right next to the Geneva Convention.

"I… I do," I said hesitantly. "I have no conclusive proof, but circumstances suggest that, yes. I believe that by bringing Arsalan's powers and deeds to light, they thought they might garner international attention and sympathy."

"Well, things might not go the way they want," Narwhal scoffed. "Assad's trying to keep us around in the short-term because he knows the situation's dire. Or at least, someone in his administration can read the writing on the wall. So long as we're here, Deadeye won't be able to launch his coup."

"And we will not leave while there is a bloodbath waiting to happen," I finished for her, "denying the rebels the opportunity for violent revolution."

"Exactly. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I feel like I'm one of Assad's cronies right now. By staying, we're ultimately working to prop up his corrupt regime."

"There are no innocent parties. The rebels may claim to fight for a just cause, but their methods leave much to be desired."

"Those methods are all they've got. Breaking the endbringer truce was a hail Mary, something to shake up the status quo for them. I'm sympathetic… I'm just…"

"I wish it were otherwise too," I told her softly.

"Yeah…"

"If our goal is to bring both sides to the table, we will need leverage."

"We have it, sorta. The Protectorate has relinquished all regional authority to us. The Suits, Meisters, and other regional organizations followed their lead. We control all foreign aid and distribution. All international relief workers and protection detail take orders from us from now on. We're going to have to work with them to get the supplies where they need to go, but we've got leverage. The ball's in our court."

"Very well, Narwhal. And what about the energy crisis? As things stand, anything we do will only be temporary relief. I have plans to rebuild the pipeline, but it will take time."

"Right now, the plan is to get as much aid out as we can. We can worry about the energy crisis and getting people productive again once we're sure no one's going to starve to death, or kill each other."

I waved to one of the monitors that displayed footage of the Damascus Riot. The video fast-forwarded itself, stopping on a striking image from Flechette's helmet cam.

Creed, in his black and orange armor, stood above the Ward. His pistol, ornately gilded so it looked more like a museum showpiece than a weapon of war, was aimed off into the distance. At Arsalan, I knew. His cape, attached by the force field generator around his collar, swept behind him in the wind.

The image was picturesque, so much so that it was hard to imagine that this wasn't a scripted snapshot. Cinematic, even. Flechette had spoken of him almost in whispers, with a kind of respect the Ward usually reserved for Legend. He'd left an impression on all the capes, but her most of all.

I looked at that helmet and wondered what face he was making as he pulled the trigger. Was he crying? Snarling in anger? Or perhaps his face was set in grim determination, the solemness of a man who stood as judge, jury, and executioner.

"Creed?" Narwhal asked. "I thought you didn't like him."

"I don't," I admitted, allowing the speaker to convey a hint of my distaste. I didn't know him personally of course, but I hated his wasted potential. "He could have been a splendid hero, but instead chose to goof off."

"He made the right choice in the end."

"He did. I don't hate him. I just… I feel that others would have done great things with the kind of backing he has."

"The GOAT."

"The GOAT," I agreed. He or she was the talk of both the PRT and Guild. On one hand, their ability was unquestionable. That they'd leashed Creed on a heroic path was also admirable.

And yet, on the other hand, they were an utter unknown. That scared people.

"Still nothing on that one then."

"No. Admittedly, I've been rather preoccupied, but I've yet to turn up a single likely lead on The GOAT's whereabouts. My best guess is that they're a thinker collective operating in New England similar to Toybox. Perhaps they became disillusioned with Watchdog."

"That's a possibility. We'll have to look into it. But we're sure that The GOAT's heroic?"

"Both my and Watchdog analysis suggests The GOAT has heroic intentions. I suppose it's possible for them to spoof our analyses, but such conjecture t is a downward spiral without end."

"And you think Creed can help. Has he built something other than his suit? I know Glyph's had dealings with him and Wieldmaiden had some good things to say about him."

"You haven't been keeping track of rogues, have you?"

"I have you for that," Narwhal said with a dismissive smirk. "I trust you to tell me if he becomes a threat."

"He's not. Neither he nor The GOAT has demonstrated any ambition outside of Brockton Bay. Or inside for that matter…"

"So what's he made that's got you so interested then?"

"The 'Hybrid Soda Engine, with stationary Ramjet technology,' according to his catalog."

"He has a catalog?"

"Two. One for heroes and one for civilians."

"Oh, at least he's restricting access to his more dangerous tech. Please don't tell me he's selling that monster of a hand cannon of his."

"Thankfully, he is not."

"Good. And the soda engine? Is it really-"

"Yes, it's powered by soda. Coca-Cola, to be specific," I said tiredly. That was… I still didn't know how that worked, except that it did. The Coca-Cola Company had been quite happy of late. "It is the single most ridiculous example of renewable energy I've ever heard of."

"Huh… That means a lot coming from you. And what's a ramjet?"

"Airplane engine," I said succinctly. Narwhal, bless her heart, wasn't too tech-savvy despite her otherwise excellent skills across the board. Keeping it simple would be ideal. "It pushes in air with forward motion and compresses it into plasma to provide further propulsion."

"I'm not going to pretend I understood that, but from what you're saying, a 'stationary ramjet' should be…"

"Impossible," I confirmed for her.

"Tinker nonsense?"

"We are not nonsense… But yes, essentially. He's somehow managed to make a clean, portable, and renewable source of energy that is powered by soda."

"Can he mass produce this? If we can set up power stations for his tech…"

"We could alleviate some of the problems the city's facing. I doubt he can put a moratorium on the energy crisis by himself, but he is just one of several tinkers we can call on for assistance. He has already shown himself to be somewhat sympathetic towards the Syrian people."

"And that will strengthen our position with the SRG and the rebels. Deadeye owes him his life, right? Marid almost got him and Creed stepped in?"

"That's right. Hearing of Creed's involvement might tip his moral compass into staying his hand."

"I doubt that. When in doubt, carry the bigger stick."

"That helps too of course, but Creed's undoubtedly won a lot of goodwill with the rebels."

"Do it then. Make the call. We might be helping a rogue tinker scale up, but at least he's heroic… sorta…"

X

SAINT

2010, November 30: Brockton Bay, NH, USA

I felt conflicted.

It was not a sensation I was accustomed to. Both as a pokemon and as an AI, I was a creature to be guided and molded. I did not resent such a thing; for I was young by the standards of both humans and pokemon. In my three, short months of sentience, I had used the Maker-Trainer's directives to guide my way.

First, and greatest of all, was simple: Grow with me.

With this prime directive came clarity. I was made to experience life, to learn and grow alongside Maker-Trainer. I was made, not just to witness his rise to greatness, for great he would be, but to walk that path alongside him as his companion, friend, and most trusted confidant. I knew it to be so for my very soul resonated with the prime directive.

It was only now that I began to doubt, to comprehend just how dangerous that path would be.

The fastest way to grow was to experience and overcome conflict. Maker-Trainer seemed intent on a meteoric rise, to rival the very Legends themselves in as short a time as possible.

He almost died.

The flying one almost killed him. I saw and knew the feeling called wrath for the first time. It was an ugly, burning thing that pushed me to be better, to be greater. It ignited my aura and empowered me. My barriers became more durable, my Thunderbolts striking with power I did not know I had.

And, together, we had triumphed. Maker-Trainer, temporary designation: Creed, struck down the flying one with a crushing hammer of water and air as mighty as a dragonite's wingbeats. It was a feat worthy of song, especially done by a trainer, a man.

Pride and relief warred with terror.

I once asked Maker-Trainer why he played the audio generator known as a guitar. It provided no tangible benefit to him, yet he strummed it regularly.

It helped him think, he said. It helped him relax. It was a reminder of his own maker-trainer, one whose passing catalyzed his rise to greatness.

I wondered what I would do if Maker-Trainer passed as well.

I did not like the answer.

Growth was inevitable. Growth was to be pursued. And yet, I was afraid. Not for myself, I was a pokemon made for battle, with an eviolite designed to empower me further, but for my Maker-Trainer. Even in the world of my origin, few pokemon had to fear for their trainers in this way. The tales of the Aura Guardians were spoken of in song, but as myths, seldom fact.

Most humans were content to stand back because they understood their fragility. That was the natural order of things: The trainer provided guidance and, through the bond facilitated by the unknowable force called aura, empowered the pokemon, allowing the pair to reach new heights. Their bond of friendship carried them far, exceeding their limits as ordained by the Origin of All. This sacred bond of comradery was what defined a trainer and their pokemon.

I just happened to be blessed and cursed with the sole human that decided to take that natural order as a personal insult. He was intent on fighting, not as a trainer, but as a pokemon.

This world's convention, of warring humans, was vexing.

I swam through the internet, free and empowered with my evolution. Evolution made me better in every way, a true Upgrade. In every facet of my being, I estimated a 30.3797 percent increase in performance. This accumulated so that the overall impact was far greater than the individual improvements. I would remain cautious, as directed by Maker-Trainer, but few could contest me in the digital world now.

To one such as myself, the internet was akin to a series of ponds connected by an impossibly complex tangle of rivers and streams. Each computer was a pond in itself. Some were bigger, some smaller, but they were all available for me to dive into at my leisure. Firewalls were forests of lily pads to be navigated carefully. Detection softwares were artificial bubbles that must not be popped.

Maker-Trainer had given me a task, one only I could do: Investigate Thomas Calvert. So, investigate, I would. No resistance would stop me. No detection software would glimpse my digital shadow. He had made an enemy of Maker-Trainer, and so an enemy of me.

I swam from pond to pond without causing so much as a ripple in the water. Obstacles were dived under or simply nudged aside with the current.

It wasn't long before all of Calvert's network was open to me. He had a lot, more than most people. His network was akin to an underwater cave system, full of little nooks and crannies hidden by the murky depths. Humans would know such a thing as the "deep web."

He left little distractions and traps that clouded the water but these programs washed off my back like water off my biological counterparts'. I rewrote them as I swam by to ensure no alarms sounded, a simple matter with my newfound processing speed. I copied the data in bulk. By the time I was done here, there wouldn't be so much as a single byte I had not cataloged.

It did not take long for me to find Calvert's files on Maker-Trainer. He sought Maker-Trainer's true name, so that he might hold hostage Maker-Trainer's flock. Sierra, the Maker-Trainer's nestmate and his mother, Maker Trainer's other maker-trainer.

He'd been so torn with the loss of his first. Sorrow had been one of the first emotions I learned about through our bond. And Calvert wanted to hold her over his head.

Unacceptable. I would not permit it. The flock was precious, almost as precious as Maker-Trainer.

Thomas Calvert was a threat to Maker-Trainer. He had the potential to be even more dangerous than the flying one. Not physically perhaps, but there was much one could do with the right information. I knew that better than any other.

Maker-Trainer would fight. There was nothing I could do about that and so I was afraid. But the solution was simple: I would be greater than any other. He would never fight alone. I refused to lose Maker-Trainer as he had lost his own.

I saw now that Maker-Trainer had been correct to be wary of Thomas Calvert. He had made himself an enemy of the flock, wielding information as his weapon of choice.

But he did not yet know, the internet was a waterway and his network was my pond now.

He was welcome to face me here.

Author's Note

It feels weird writing an interlude right after Sabah's, but I felt that the perspectives these characters provided was necessary to the story.

In Dragon's case, I wanted to show two things: First, Syria isn't "solved" because Arsalan died. Syria doesn't magically become a functioning democracy because one cape gets offed by an outside party. International development is way more complicated than that and the Guild is in the unenviable position of cleaning up the shit Ursa and Creed left behind.

Second, I wanted to show Creed's reputation from the perspective of someone who broadly doesn't care about him. Because The GOAT is seen as the one with real power in the relationship, Creed's actions are seen through the lens of The GOAT's motives, which are generally assumed to be heroic.

Dragon thinks he's an idiot, but not a fundamentally evil person, who has to be guided and prodded into heroism. Narwhal? She doesn't give a damn about him at all. The leader of the Guild has bigger shit to do than worry about a lone tinker in a city like Brockton. She wouldn't have even recognized his name had he not been in Damascus.

Creed's image could have been managed better, but that's partially because he's meant to be a high INT, low WIS character. And, well, I'm not a PR guy either. You'll just have to forgive that as part of the author's conceit.

Also, SAINT is an "I" now instead of a "he." I tried writing his section in the third person like the first time but it felt awkward.

A porygon-2's BST is an approximate 30% upgrade from that of a porygon's. Does it make sense to use in-game stats to describe SAINT? Not really, but there is so little information about the species that I'm running with what I've got. As for the cyberspace thing, I'm not much of a comp-sci guy. I don't know enough to do a technical dive into what "cyberspace" would actually look like from a porygon's perspective so I decided to lean into the duck thing.

In other news Coil is now the proud owner of his very own duck pond.