War: 3. Salt (Patreon)

Preface

Commission chapter. PWP incoming on Friday.

Chapter 3: Salt

Collin Wallis, Armsmaster

I looked at the man calling himself Atreus with a critical eye. He was not a tall man; he stood at an unremarkable five-nine, but he had a body like a Greek statue. I had some doubts about his Cas-22 status, but my lie detector indicated that he spoke truthfully, at least as far as he was aware.

That alone didn’t make what he was saying factual however. There were several capes in the United States who could tamper with memories. Right now, I saw a man who might be a cape with potential tinkertech on his person. The spear, helm, and shield could be exceptionally well-made props, but his cloak contained moving constellations that were clearly the result of a power of some sort. For all I knew, he could be a victim who had been dressed in a cape’s handiwork for some cruel prank.

I almost snorted aloud. I didn’t believe that. There was something about Atreus that spoke of experience. It was in every part of his being, an air of authority and competence that spoke of a veteran of many battles. He stood with his weight ideally balanced to move in any direction. His shield was never brandished but nonetheless angled to deflect any sudden attack. His spear never left his hand and though he only held it straight up, I could see that he was intimately familiar with its weight.

There was a solemness to his posture that put me on edge. No alarms in my suit sounded. He took no aggressive actions, but every hair on my body stood straight. He glanced at me with casual friendliness, but I had a feeling he’d learned more about me with that single glance than my sensors had about him. Was this instinct? I’d never been the type to put stock in such a thing, but I couldn’t deny what my body was telling me that my sensors failed to properly analyze: This man was dangerous.

There was no way this man was a normal civilian. The more I saw of him, the more certain I became. He was a cape, and a powerful one. If he was truly a Case-22 and had not simply spoofed my lie detector, his presence could indicate someone willing to tamper with dimensional tech again, a potential S-class emergency. More testing was required.

“You will have to come with me. We can see about verifying your story at the PRT headquarters,” I said.

He nodded, sending the plume of his helmet waving jauntily. “Very well, master-of-arms. Take me to your leader.”

I walked back outside and got on my motorcycle. “Do you have a way to stow your weapons?”

He looked at me, then at the bike. Though it wasn’t strictly tinkertech, it had been modified for my power armor and could easily support a second passenger. “I will run.”

“You will run… Are you a mover?”

“I do not know what you mean.”

Truth. One more piece of evidence indicating he was foreign. His accent sounded vaguely Greek. Question was, was he foreign to the United States or to Earth-Bet? “Do you possess enhanced speed?”

“Ah. Yes, keeping up with a self-locomotor will not be an issue.”

I considered the situation. Standard doctrine said I should disarm the new cape as soon as possible, but in a potential first contact scenario, all Protectorate heroes were advised to make the cape as comfortable as reasonably able. I decided to shelve the standard doctrine for now. “Very well,” I said, “Run directly behind me so as to not impede other vehicles. Know that you will be required to surrender your weapons at headquarters. They will be returned to you when your story has been verified.”

To my surprise, he nodded amiably. “That is no problem. I can summon them at will.”

I tabled that bit of information and began to drive. As I drove, I spoke under my breath, “Console, do you copy?”

“Potential Case-22 incoming to HQ in ten minutes,” my comms crackled. Agent Xu if I remembered right, an Asian man with a slight build unsuited to fieldwork but a patient, meticulous personality that was ideal for overwatch.

“Affirmative. I’m sending you his profile. Run a background investigation using his speech patterns and physical parameters. Look for international capes who recently went missing.”

“Roger, Armsmaster, kicking this to investigations right now.”

“Send a brief to Director Piggot as well. She’ll want to be informed.”

“Yes, sir. You think he really is from a different world?”

“That remains to be seen,” I replied tersely, “but I think he believes what he is saying.”

“Huh, ‘may you live in interesting times,’ eh, boss?”

“I’m aware of the Chinese idiom. I don’t appreciate your humor.”

X

Investigations found nothing. Considering the wealth of information available, ten minutes should have been enough time to locate a man like him. He was a capable mover who could keep up with my motorcycle. He was five-nine and weighed an estimated two hundred pounds. He was male, with a distinctly Mediterranean complexion and the body of a Greek god. He favored extremely eye-catching equipment with an obvious Hellenic inspiration. His speech pattern was likewise easily recognizable.

And yet, investigations found nothing.

Atreus willingly surrendered his spear and shield. Then, before I could inform him about the unwritten rules, removed his helmet. He was a bearded man with a face that was more rugged than handsome. Not ugly, but not a face magazines would consider for their covers either. This, more than anything he’d said so far, made me suspect he was telling the truth. No cape in the world would willingly unmask like this. Even if he was from a foreign country, virtually everyone alive was familiar with American superhero culture. At the very least, he was no villain.

I took him to an interrogation room. No matter what I thought, protocol must be followed. If nothing else, his personal history and powers had to be verified. After that, I expected the director to offer him a place in the Protectorate in exchange for a legal ID.

I stood outside and awaited the director. Seeing how normal investigators uncovered nothing, I made a note to file the paperwork for Dragon’s consulting fee and contacted her. As usual, she answered promptly.

“How can I help you, Armsmaster?” her voice filled my comms. Even after so long, I could not identify her accent. It was vaguely Canadian, but not quite what I’d expect of someone from Vancouver.

“We have a potential Case-22. He knows nothing about our world and claims to have come to this one from his own. Our internal background investigators were unable to identify him.”

“Would you like me to try?”

“Affirmative. Sending you his profile now.”

“He was willing to unmask? This shouldn’t take long then. I’m running facial recognition right now.” It took her less than thirty seconds to confirm what I already suspected. “I’m sorry, Armsmaster. He does not exist on any record we are aware of. Could he be the victim of a memory manipulator?”

“That is possible but he shows no signs of mastering. It would mean someone performed extensive plastic surgery to fool your systems.”

“I reviewed your footage and I agree. As protocol, his information has been forwarded to Watchdog with an urgent priority-level. They will confirm his Case-22 status within the next few hours.”

“Thank you, Dragon.”

“My pleasure, Armsmaser. I’ll keep a line open if you need anything else.”

X

What followed was a flurry of tests designed to measure a person’s basic competence. It had originally been designed for Case-53s as despite their memory loss, they often exhibited general knowledge that could be considered common sense. For example, almost every Case-53 spoke the local language, at least at a middle school level and oftentimes better. They almost always had a general understanding of mathematics and basic scientific principles. All of them knew what a “hand” or “head” was despite having never been taught basic anatomy.

That kind of general education that existed among all Case-53s was a big part of how they could be so seamlessly adopted into the local Protectorate or equivalent organization.

Atreus knew nothing. He could read and write. He had a grasp of mathematics that was comparable to a sixth grader. But beyond that? I read over his answers with mounting trepidation.

What is your name? Atreus, but I was once called Pantheon.

Where are you from? Mount Tragon.

Please mark your ethnicity: The entire section had been crossed out. I am of the Rakkor, the Tribe of the Last Sun.

Do you remember your profession? I was the Aspect of War.

Then we moved to more universally accepted information, things elementary students should know.

How many continents are there? In my world, I believe there are four. Some claim just three.

Name them: Valoran. Shurima. Camavor. I consider Ionia geographically distinct enough to be a continent.

It went on like that. The test covered details of his own life, as far as he could recall, as well as common knowledge about the world and its history. His understanding of the history of “Runeterra” was… enlightening.

Unlike Case-53s who often just put down some variation of “I don’t know” for most answers, he was consistent and remembered details from his childhood. He claimed to come from a world that was straight out of a high fantasy novel, complete with spirit gods, animal totems, celestial entities, fae, demons, living weapons, and whatever the hell a “yordle” was. It all sounded far too outrageous to have been made up on the spot. Atreus was arguably the single most forthcoming cape I’d ever met, and also paradoxically the most frustrating.

Then I came to the final question.

What would you like to do now?

As could be expected, most didn’t know what they wanted shortly after coming to grips with their amnesia. However, some did have more concrete answers and those answers could give the psychologists something to work with, an inside look at their motivations. They could also inform the PRT’s actions moving forward. One Case-53 had asked to see the sea and had been transferred from Cleveland to Seattle. Another heard a live band and wanted to fill their city with music.

Atreus? His answer made me raise an eyebrow.

I have fought long and wish to lay down my spear. I watched over Runeterra for many years and now that I am in a new world, I consider my watch ended, he wrote. It was highly unusual; all capes wanted to use their powers. It seemed to be one of the few universal truths regarding parahumans, some kind of innate drive towards action. He continued, I would pick up a trade, become an apprentice to a master and learn a craft that creates rather than destroys. Perhaps baking.

Atreus… did not strike me as an introspective man. Then again, assuming he triggered at a young age like Vista, it was possible he had been a cape for more than two decades. Such experience would naturally lead a man towards self-reflection. Perhaps he saw this as an opportunity to build a new life; I could not begrudge him that.

After a few hours of testing, the results came in: As far as anyone could tell, Watchdog and Dragon included, Atreus was indeed telling the truth. He was from a world called Runeterra. He was a powerful warrior called a Ra’Horak and the Aspect of War, though what that title meant exactly was unclear. He was brought here through the machinations of a powerful cape on his world called the Wandering Caretaker for reasons unknown and was now taking the opportunity to begin anew.

Deeming him safe enough, I escorted him to a larger meeting room. There, Director Piggot and Miss Militia were already waiting. I could not see Miss Militia’s face behind her bandana, but knew Hannah Washington well enough to recognize the appreciative glance she sent Atreus’ way for what it was. I filed that under “information I had no desire to explore” and took a seat.

“Atreus? I am Director Emily Piggot, head of the local PRT. We are responsible for parahuman incidents across the East-Northeast sector of the United States,” the director said, tone professional. Her general foul mood was legendary so professional detachment was about as welcoming as could be expected.

“So I’ve been told. What is a parahuman? Mages like that one?” he asked, gesturing to Miss Militia. Though she meant no offense, her power cloaked her sidearm in an emerald aura, causing it to shift between a pistol and a combat knife.

“Parahumans,” the director stressed, “are individuals such as yourself, Armsmaster, and Miss Militia with abnormal abilities beyond the scope of a normal person. Magic does not exist.”

He looked genuinely puzzled at that. Perhaps in his world, powers were called magic. By his account, only one city state had cars, self-locomotors. That one city seemed to be in the nineteenth century in terms of Earth’s technological development while other ethnic groups, such as his Rakkor, remained firmly stuck in the past.

I pitied them. If powers became prevalent on earth before the advent of technology, perhaps we too would be stuck in the past. I hypothesized that because of their overreliance on “magic” and a strong warrior culture inspired by the increased propensity for conflict among their capes, technological advancement was staggeringly slow in the vast majority of his world. Such stagnation was already being felt on Earth-Bet. We were falling behind in some sectors compared with Earth-Aleph despite a historical divergence point of less than forty years.

“It’s true that I sense no mana in either of your guards,” he said, “but that is not so with me. My power originates from Targonian celestial magic.”

I could tell she wanted to argue but the director grunted and nodded. Having another like Myrrdin was inconvenient but hardly a reason to make enemies. At least with Atreus, he had a reason for his nonsensical beliefs. Pushing onward, she began to explain his situation.

X

Atreus, Aspect of War

‘What a curious people,’ I thought. I sat back and listened as the director explained the state of this city and what she called “cape culture.” It made no sense to me that their mages would hide their identities and go by a different name. I would have called it cowardice if not for the fact that they feared not for themselves, but for their families and friends who had no magic of their own.

I scoffed. The Rakkor  had no such problem. Every child, boy and girl, could swing a sword and thrust a spear as soon as they could walk. There were no civilians for all could be called upon to fight in our time of need. We were proud warriors, one and all. If the PRT trained their civilians as we Rakkor did, perhaps they would not have to hide the faces of their greatest defenders.

I told them this, only for them to look appalled at the notion. Was the idea of exercise so fearsome to them? The director could do with some training of her own, though I had seen fat nobles like her ilk back when I made my way through Demacia. I made no comment of it so as to not give offense but I dismissed her as another of those nobles who claimed to command armies yet never knew the sound of battle. It mattered not that she had been appointed and that this nation had no king; weak was weak.

“I fear no reprisal. Atreus is the only name I need,” I said firmly. I had only just proven myself worthy of taking up that name again. I would not give it up so easily.

“It’ll make your personal relationships more complicated,” the one called Miss Militia cautioned. “Even if you have no relationships now, you might one day.”

“That is so, but my decision stands. I will not hide behind masks and false names. I am Atreus, Aspect of War.”

“Just what is the Aspect of War?” the director asked me. “You’ve said that several times now.”

“Aspects are hosts imbued with celestial magic. We embody a concept and do battle against the Darkin and the Voidborn.”

“This again about magic…”

“It matters not that you do not believe me. My star shines and that is all the evidence I need.”

“Your star?” Armsmaster, a name and not a title apparently, questioned. He had been a terse if solid man. “You speak like you mean an actual star.”

I nodded, seeing no reason to lie. “My name is Atreus, named for the star Atreus. Children named after individual stars or constellations are common among the Rakkor. Atreus was one of the stars in the Pantheon Constellation, the celestial Aspect of War. It is now the only star among its cohorts, for all else have died.”

“Stars… died…”

“Aye. You say there is no magic, but the Caretaker brought me here and with me came my star.”

The director scoffed, a rather rude woman that one. “You’re telling me that if we look up at the night sky, there will be a new star, and that star is the source of your power.”

“Source? I do not know in truth. Perhaps it is merely the proof of my station, the universe’s declaration of my place in existence. I am the Aspect of War now, for good and for ill, and so long as I breathe, the star Atreus will burn bright.”

“You expect me to believe that you made a star.”

“Brought with me,” I corrected.

“He’s telling the truth, director,” Armsmaster noted.

“He thinks he’s telling the truth,” she grunted back.

“There is an easy way to confirm his story. Come nightfall, we can simply check the star charts from the local observatory.”

“Fine, you do that. Jury’s out on this ‘magic’ business until then. Before that, I want you to put him through power testing.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I frowned. “Power testing?”

“We would like to know the extent of your abilities,” Miss Militia clarified. She wore some kind of outfit designed to camouflage with the underbrush, though what good it was in a city, I did not know. Perhaps she was their scout captain? But if so, why wear such a brightly colored bandana? “It’s a part of joining the Protectorate.”

“I do not wish to join your city watch. I wish to become a baker.”

“A baker?”

“Yes. I fought demons and gods to defend men from powers beyond their ability to face. I have no interest in petty squabbles between gangs.”

“Huh, a cape who just wants to make food… Well fuck me sideways,” the director muttered under her breath. She pulled out a wallet of some sort and produced a card before sliding it across the table. It had her face on it as well as several numbers and dates that meant nothing to me. “Alright, tell you what. You need identification to be here. In our world, an identification will be necessary to buy a house, own a car, or really anything else.”

“I am not unused to sleeping beneath the stars.”

“You also need an ID to register for classes, learn how to bake and such.”

I let out a hum of dissatisfaction. I could see where she was going with this. “And what must I do for this ‘eye-dee?’”

“You join us as an affiliated hero. You go through power testing and if you’re strong enough, we’ll put you down for A and S-class threats. If such an event comes up, we can call you for assistance.”

“I do not know what an A or S-class threat entails.”

“They are threats which endanger an entire city, or perhaps an entire region.”

“Such things exist in this world?”

“Yes.” Miss Militia produced some kind of scrying tablet. I was still unsure about whether this was techmaturgy or not but if it was, a true master of divination had to have had a part in enchanting it. The one called Heimerdinger would have been fascinated with this world’s devices. “Some are humans, but others are monsters.”

What followed was an explanation on these monsters, creatures called enbringers, that struck on a rotating schedule. I saw the world map before and after two such attacks: Places called Newfoundland and Kyushu. After asking for a sense of scale, I deemed that these endbringers were immensely powerful, powerful enough that no native cape could hope to match them.

“These are your S-class threats?”

“They are,” the director nodded solemnly. “There are others, but these are the biggest and baddest. Participation in an endbringer battle is universally voluntary. Hero or villain, there is a unified peace during and immediately after a battle because it is understood that the survival of humanity takes precedent to all other quarrels. If you are strong enough, we’d like to offer you a place in our endbringer response roster. We’ll give you an ID and set you up with a home as well as introduce you to a bakery looking for junior bakers if you wish.”

I felt a deep sense of respect for these men and women. The “endbringer truce,” an unfortunate name, but a noble one. I wondered what Runeterra might have looked like if Noxus and Demacia laid down their arms to face the Aspects together. If the tribes of Shurima united as one, could they put an end to Xerath for good?

I saw pictures of these endbringers. The shortest of them, a flying woman of unearthly beauty, stood as tall as Xerath, but the tallest of them, a one-eyed monster of stone and lava, stood twice as tall as Aatrox. They looked formidable.

The Caretaker was the keeper of cosmic balance. It seemed now that he had his reasons for sending me here. Whether as Atreus or Pantheon, I was a protector of men. No matter my wants, there could be but one answer.

“Your terms are fair. In the event of such a battle, you will have my spear.” I stood and held out my hand. Skyfall settled into my palm with a comfortable weight. “Come, take me to your proving grounds, and I will show you the might of Rakkor.”

Author’s Note

Collin has great senses.

Note that Camavor is the name of Viego’s kingdom. No name for the continent has been given as of writing, which is why I’m using the name of the kingdom in lieu of the name of the continent.

“Don’t mind me, I just brought a fucking star with me on my multiversal jaunt.”

Xerath is the same height as the Simurgh at 15’. Aatrox is 22’ tall, making Behemoth, 45’, slightly more than twice his height. Funny enough, Gnar is 28’ tall, almost as tall as Leviathan.