War: 5. Flour (Patreon)

Chapter 5: Flour

Atreus, Aspect of War

I sat in the living room of the one-bedroom apartment the local powers had provided for me. It was small according to the woman called Militia, but no true Ra’Horak cared for mortal luxuries. What had been provided for me was already wealth beyond what I’d ever held, save the relics I wielded into battle.

The size of the dwelling was adequate for a man and the quality of its furnishings would put the luxuries of Piltover to shame. Windows of purest glass, localized weather control at the touch of a button, technological wonders that made cooking simple, a wall-mounted scrying device called a television, and an oven to bake bread in without worrying about fire. What more could I desire?

No, even two weeks into my apprenticeship, I was impressed with the hospitality of the local authorities.

I had done as I’d promised; I’d hung up my spear and shroud and helm gladly. Though my star shone brighter than any other in the night sky, the burdens of countless lives were mine no longer. This world had its defenders. Its trials and tribulations were their obstacles to overcome, their legends to write.

In exchange, Director Piggot, a name that yet felt foreign on my tongue, had arranged for me an apprenticeship with a master baker by the name of Rose Frank. She was a short woman with a pale complexion, that she assured me did not mean she was of ill health, and hair like fire. A “carrot-top” she’d called herself. She also had a tattoo of a thorny rose encircling her right wrist.

Master Frank had provided me with a set of study aides she called index cards. Each contained questions on one side and a variety of important information about baking on the other. I studied them now as I sat on the couch.

What temperature should general white bread be baked at? the card before me read.

“425 degrees Fahrenheit, 220 degrees Celsius,” I recited, dismissing the slight pang of annoyance at there being two scales of measurement for some reason that was beyond me.

What is the difference between pastry, all-purpose, and bread flour?

“Protein content. Wheat protein forms gluten when kneaded with water, giving the final product more chew. Pastry flour has less protein and is suited for tender foods like desserts. Bread flour has more protein and the result is therefore heartier.”

That had been a particularly enlightening surprise. Not all flour was the same, even if they were all made from wheat. The sheer variety of baked goods a master baker was expected to know boggled the mind. Master Frank had agreed to give me a thorough education in her craft and I was determined to show my gratitude by studying with the same dedication I’d once offered to my spear instructor.

Awake two hours before dawn. Run to the bakery and prepare the workstations for the morning. Place all risen loaves from the night prior into the oven. Follow written instructions for optimal temperature. Observe Master Frank as she works. Remove loaves from the oven and load them onto the displays.

Greet customers. Service them to the best of my ability. Do not murder those who disrespect my master. Eat lunch with my master. Rest for an hour.

Return. Serve customers. Try not to throw rude customers into the sea. Close shop. Make dough and let it rise overnight. Clean up. Carefully listen as Master Frank explains how she maintains her tools.

The bakery closed in the early afternoon, but Master Frank and I, sometimes her younger brother as well, worked long into the evening hours to prepare for the next day. I then came home each night to study the index cards she had given me from her days in something called culinary school and contemplate all that I had learned from watching her.

Fourteen hours at minimum. My life revolved around baking, before sunup and past sundown. This schedule, perhaps grueling to these milkmen, could not tire me physically, but I went to bed each night intellectually strained like never before.

For a warrior who had few challenges left, few who could claim my equal, this new flavor of exhaustion was an oddly satisfying one.

X

The next morning, before the sun began its rise, I stepped into the bakery called Buns ‘n’ Roses. It was a pun of some sort, a group of minstrels that Master Frank favored enough to name her store after. Their music often played through the store.

They were… adequate…

I was not apprenticed under Master Frank for her taste in music. She could play what she liked.

The music told me she was already here. It happened fairly often; the woman was dedicated to her craft.

The bell atop the door rang cheerily as I stepped into the store. Once inside, I thumped my chest in salute and shouted, “Master Frank, I have arrived for your instruction!”

“Oh, for the love of god, Atreus,” she shouted back. “For the last time, it’s Rose! You got anything ‘cept muscle in that skull of yours? And quit shouting all the time!”

“As your disciple, it is imperative that I demonstrate proper respect and attentiveness.”

She stomped out of the back of the store and tossed me my apron. “Well you can ‘show respect’ by finishing loading my oven.”

I chuckled as she mumbled many unkind words under her breath. In Rakkor, a disciple was valued for strength, eagerness, attentiveness, and deference. In Brockton Bay, such qualities were shown through silent but consistent service. This had started as what Militia had called a “culture clash” but was now simply a morning routine.

I still insisted on calling her master. Nothing less would do after all.

There had been many similar culture clashes in the past two weeks; the educational videos provided by the PRT could only teach me so much after all. My behavior at Duncan’s Donuts had become a source of ribbing among the Protectorate members I’d come to know.

Half an hour later, I pulled the first batch of bread out of the large oven. Perfectly shaped loaves, each glistening with an even, bronzed crust, greeted me. The smell of fresh-baked bread filled the bakery. Outside, I could see the clouds begin to take on color as the sun peeked over the horizon.

Buns ‘n’ Roses was situated on the Boardwalk, a mere four blocks away from the PRT headquarters. Proximity was one of the major reasons Master Frank had been chosen. Apparently, me removing my helm had been another such culture clash, one with more serious consequences than the way I addressed my master.

The PRT feared that Master Frank and any civilians who associated with me might be endangered. They played a constant game of espionage against the gangs and not everyone within the law enforcement body could be fully trusted not to report to another.

It was… frustrating. This world’s warriors were without honor.

I grunted in annoyance as I packaged the cooled loaves. Some belonged on the displays, open to the air to better let their aroma waft, but others needed to be prepackaged so customers could “grab and go.” What was done was done. I could not change the past. Even if I could, I did not know if I would. I was Atreus, Aspect of War and proud scion of the Rakkor. I did not hide for fear of blades in the dark.

No, Master Frank and her brother were under my protection. It was in their best interest they not give me cause to take up the spear again.

Another fifteen minutes later, the first customer of the day entered with the ringing of the doorbell. He was a greybeard with a small sprinkling of black yet in his beard. He wore what I learned was a suit for businessmen.

“Hello, welcome to Buns ‘n’ Roses,” my master greeted with a cheerful smile, “What can I get’cha?”

“Something for breakfast on the go if you don’t mind, miss,” he said.

“Sure, I recommend the custard rolls here,” Master Frank gestured to a basket she’d been filling. The custard was a mix of cream, egg, and a tangy berry preserve. “Would you like one?”

“That sounds lovely, dear.”

“Of course. That’ll be $3.25 please.”

“Right. One moment… Here you are.” The greybeard fiddled in his pocket for money, a strange, paper thing instead of coins of metal that had innate value. “Fiat currency,” as Armsmaster put it, something that only had worth because everyone in this nation agreed thusly.

It was one more thing that struck me as strange. The people of this world trusted everyone else to put value in a piece of paper, but not to fight without involving civilians. Were they trusting? Paranoid? Open? Cowardly? Theirs was a culture of conflicting values.

The next customer was a heavily tattooed young woman in skimpy, tight-fitting attire that hugged her curves. She pushed a small stroller in front of her with a babe inside. A young mother, or perhaps an older sister.

Master gestured to indicate that I should try my hand at servicing her.

I cleared my throat and said, “Be welcome, lass. What do you want?”

I heard my master’s palm meet her face with an audible slap, a gesture I’d taken to understand meant I’d done something particularly stupid. The tattooed woman glanced at me with a dismissive quirk of her eyebrow.

“Lass? I’m a little old for that,” she snorted.

“Perhaps,” I muttered. She could not be older than twenty. To a man nearing a century, she was indeed but a lass. Still, master told me not to correct customers if I could help it. I forged on. I was Rakkor. I would not falter. “Can I interest you in fresh loaves?”

“Yeah, sure. Got any whole wheat?”

“Aye. We have them crusted with flax or plain.”

“Give me the flax. Say, this store named after Guns ‘n’ Roses?”

“It is. I’m Rose and we got the buns,” Master Frank said. She waved me off to fetch the loaf. Just as well, I was still unfamiliar with much of what she called “pop culture.” “I figured it’s a cute pun on my name and my favorite band.”

“It is. Weird music choice for a bakery, but I’m kinda digging it.”

“Heh, yeah.” I handed over the loaf. Master Frank punched my arm lightly. “Ever since Atreus got here, the joke's been that we got the guns too. Still trying to win him over on classic rock though.”

“He doesn’t like rock? Blasphemy.”

“I know. Can’t help it. He works hard though so I can’t complain.”

The two women occupied themselves with a conversation about music that flew over my head. It was a normal occurrence; more than one customer liked to stick around and chat awhile. Master Frank had an amicable relationship with her many customers thanks to her sunny disposition and jokes that she assured me were funny if I could be bothered to learn the references.

I personally thought they just wanted to soak in the aroma of fresh loaves before they had to go about their days.

X

Peace could not last. I knew it to be a law of the world, but I’d hoped my time learning under Master Frank’s tutelage would last longer than a mere two weeks.

It began, as with most things at this bakery, with a customer who walked in the door. He was a tall, balding man who looked otherwise youthful. His facial features were vaguely Ionian, or Asian as it were here. He wore jeans and a jacket, no different than dozens of others on the street.

Yet something about him set my instincts on edge. He was obviously not armed, nor did he have the build of a man accustomed to violence. I studied him closely out of the corner of my eye and began to draw near to Master Frank.

“Welcome to Buns ‘n’ Roses, how can I help you?” Master Frank greeted politely. She remained oblivious as she talked about the different types of breads, especially the herbed focaccia that had just come out of the oven for the lunch rush. Her peaceful demeanor was almost enough to convince me that I was being paranoid.

But no, I had not survived as long as I had by ignoring my instincts. The man was no more a warrior than Master Frank, that much was clear in his posture. He walked like a civilian.

No, that was incorrect. He walked like a prey animal. Something had him spooked.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice quivering. “I don’t want this. I’m so sorry.”

Before I’d fully processed what was happening, I moved.

In less than the blink of an eye, the Aegis of Zeonia was in my hand. Starfire blazed around me, burning my assistant baker’s uniform to so much cosmic dust; I’d have to beg her pardon later. In its place, a shroud of myriad constellations draped itself around my shoulders, a comfortable weight as familiar to me as my own beard.

As the helmet that bore my namesake formed around me, I lashed out with my right hand still empty. Golden flames filled the space between my fingers, hardening into a familiar shaft and a lethal point.

My thrust was flawless, perfection borne of decades of personal experience at making war and millennia more of skills not my own. I was Atreus. I was Pantheon. In this moment, man and Aspect struck as one, tearing out the man’s heart with merciless precision.

And it didn’t matter.

Most things died when their hearts gave out, all the more so when it was a divine relic that did the deed. Most things did not have a bomb in their heads.

The world slowed to a crawl. I saw the Asian man’s eyes bulge comically for the briefest moment. Then a distortion of energy traveled out from inside his skull. I could see it pulse like the waves of the sea as it approached me.

The man’s head turned to glass, a sculpture that perfectly encapsulated his agony and terror. I saw the wave expand in a sphere. As it covered more of his body, he turned progressively into glass from the head down. The gaping hole in his chest, the flecks of blood and his mangled heart suspended in the air, it all turned to glass. All along the store, I saw this strange transmutation spell taking hold.

Then the wave was upon me.

My Aegis rose to meet it. No matter what foul sorcery, I held to the first lesson of any Rakkor: Stand strong; trust your shield.

The odd not-spell met my shield and I was not found wanting. Mortal will refined cosmic fire, hammering it into a wall that had withstood the corruption of the Void. A golden flame spread from my Aegis, encircling my master and I in an impenetrable light.

Just as quickly as it began, it was over.

I pulled the spear from the dead man’s chest, sending a shower of glass shards to the bakery floor. The husk remained standing, face morphed in a monument to his fear.

Behind me, I could hear Master Frank’s breath quicken as her mind finally caught up with reality. I knew what was coming; I’d seen it before. The mind was a fragile thing and needed to be conditioned to violence. Exposed suddenly like this, it was liable to crack much like the glass around us.

I took a measured breath and spoke softly. I’d never been good at reassuring others, but I had to try. “It is over now, master, the danger has passed.”

“I… You… You killed him…”

“Aye, and I would do it again.” I grabbed her by the hand and gently led her to the chair behind the counter. “Sit, master, combat is never easy to witness the first time.”

She took a deep breath and shut her eyes tightly. After several seconds, she exhaled, releasing the tension. She repeated the process, breathing deep to forcibly calm herself. “I knew you were a cape, but…”

“But you have lived a peaceful life, master, a good life.” She was not a soldier under my command. She had not trained for this. “Breathe. Process. The danger has passed and you are alive. Focus on life.”

“I almost died.”

“You did.”

“You saved me.”

“I did.”

“How? Why here? We’re so close to the PRT…”

I’d seen this before too. People, no matter what walk of life, dealt with sudden violence in similar ways. Some broke. Others reveled in it, seeing it as a liberation from moral restraints. Still others sought solace in their local gods, or perhaps the Kindred. And there were those like Master Frank who felt the need to rationalize, to explain away the circumstance.

If she could reason it out, she had some measure of control, however superficial.

“I do not know,” I said truthfully. “There is a chance he came for me, but he did not behave as though he recognized me.”

“R-Right,” she said, still shaken but calmer now. She looked around at the front side of the bakery that was now mostly glass. “I… I guess we’re closed for the day.”

Just then, we heard the low rumble of a motorcycle idle outside. It was not the quiet hum of advanced machinery I’d come to associate with Armsmaster. I tensed, ready for whatever reinforcements this initial suicide attack was meant to pave the way for, but it was Militia who walked through the door.

I had been correct in my assessment of her; she was a woman who’d grown accustomed to death at a young age, likely on a true battlefield, not this glorified cockfight between the gangs and the local authorities. Her power projected itself as a long rifle, one I’d learned could fire over a hundred bullets per second. Her eyes scanned the bakery with the calculated readiness of a woman expecting to use it.

Then her eyes fell on us and her posture relaxed a great deal. The rifle flickered in a green light, forming something that was still lethal, but smaller.

“Atreus,” she greeted tersely. A hand waved at the glass statue of a heartless man. “Your work?”

“I missed,” I said sheepishly. “I did not think he had a bomb in his head.”

And that was ultimately my fault. Had I not dismissed the local power struggle, I would have known to aim for the head. Perhaps then I could have destroyed the bomb and my master would still have her store. Iula often said I was careless, too prone to ignoring details that seemed irrelevant at the time, and that had changed little in all these decades.

“Bakuda has been kidnapping people to implant these bombs. They are innocent.” MIlitia did not outright say it, but her eyes were disapproving.

“They are,” I agreed solemnly, “but I shall slay as many as necessary to protect my master. I can do no less in showing my gratitude for her instruction.”

“He would have died anyway, I suppose. Please keep in mind that we do things differently here.”

“You do, and I will abide by the laws of this city should the choice be available to me.”

“Very well,” she said. She looked to Master Frank. “Miss Frank? Is this store insured?”

“I-Yes, it is, I just don’t know how long repairs will take. There are a lot of buildings that were hit by the bombings,” she stammered. “I’ll be fine. Maybe now’s a good time to go visit some family in Providence.”

“That’s not a bad idea. What about you, Atreus? What will you do while the bakery is being repaired?”

I frowned. My apprenticeship was on hold because the local peacekeepers insisted on treating public order like a game of tag. I had heard rumors about the revolving door that was their prisons. What good was the law if it hamstrug its own defenders?

“I will take up the spear once more,” I decided. It would do no good for me to wait for my master’s return, only to have something similar occur again. Few in Runeterra were brave enough to face me. Perhaps it was time I forged a similar reputation. “The one called Bakuda will die. That should end this farce.”

“This wasn’t an attack against you. Bakuda set off multiple bombs near the PRT building to create a diversion so Oni Lee could break Lung out of prison.”

Those names were only vaguely familiar to me. “Lung is the boss of this gang, correct?”

“Yes-”

“And you were unable to stop Bakuda when she did not have his leadership.”

“There were complications-”

“Aye, there always are on a campaign,” I agreed easily, “but the details matter little. Their leader is back and this conflict must be brought to an end immediately if I am to continue my apprenticeship.”

“You can’t just kill people!”

“I can. I simply choose to spare innocents. This woman called Bakuda is far from innocent. Go, Militia, tell your Director Piggot that I have found reason to fight once more.”

She departed with a terse nod. I suspected that she had driven by to gauge my response as much as to take stock of the damage. My decision to intervene would not be popular with the PRT; they seemed eager to keep me away from their battles, but I believed I knew enough about this world to judge its criminals fairly, if not mercifully.

Once she left, I had Master Frank call her younger brother and escorted them both to their home.

X

WIthout my apprenticeship to devote myself to, I turned my attention towards hunting down the so-called “Azn Bad Boyz.”

I’d done some digging using the scrying device the PRT had gifted me, a connection to some kind of information bazaar called PHO. I felt it perfectly captured the duality of man; it was somehow a peerless treasure trove of knowledge and a rotting cesspit simultaneously. I used it sparingly to acquire what information I could.

The leader of the ABB, Lung, was apparently a dragon. I’d seen dragons and he was nothing like them. Whether Kadregrin the Infernal or Shyvanna the halfling, I knew what they were capable of. Unless given a disgusting amount of time to prepare himself, this Lung was no true dragon.

No, I did not fear the “Dragon of Kyushu.”

I braced against my shield as yet another explosion erupted before me. Conventional this time, of fire and steel and sound like a normal bomb. I’d seen Leona hock loogies more dangerous than these. I shrugged off the explosion and helped the healers reach their patients.

Over the past few days, I quickly built a reputation for myself as an “outed” cape, a novelty save for two families. I became known as a PRT-affiliated hero, which I took to mean meant some sort of mercenary who was not directly under the authority of the local government. I ran around the city, saving those who could not save themselves.

Despite the words I’d spoken to Militia, I stopped immediately killing those who had bombs forcibly implanted into them. I quickly found that she was not alone in her aversion to death. The law enforcement as a whole seemed incapable of taking decisive action and were far less cooperative when I put a man out of his misery the first time. Pulling out the mangled bit of circuitry to prove my point did not help.

It was an annoyance, but not an intolerable one. I needed the local powers to help me find the ABB leadership. I could handle the bombs. It did not matter what the explosives contained. Some held transmutation spells. Others generated ice or crystal in deadly fractals that sought to tear into all nearby.

By far the trickiest were bombs that seemed to stop time for all caught in the blast radius. They seemed like powerful time magic, the likes of which I had not seen since Zilean. To be trapped in a single moment as history passes by, it was a fate I did not wish even on my enemies. Such a fate was evil, at least partially responsible for the madness of Renekton, Xerath, and the Darkin.

I had already resolved to kill the one called Bakuda; this sealed her fate.

I evaded those time bombs where I could, using my speed to drag people away even as a wave of invisible force caused everything it passed to halt. I was confident in my ability to escape, she was hardly the first chronomancer I’d encountered, but I had seen the aftereffects of Mihira’s feud with Xolaani.

When the Aspect of Justice fell and Ryze used the World Runes to defeat the empowered Darkin, all of Runeterra felt the weight of the magic he brought to bear. The very forces that shaped all creation stirred and even we so-called gods stood in awe. Though I could not claim to be the Rune Mage’s equal in arcane might, I feared what I’d do to this city should I break out of such a trap with force alone.

I grunted in annoyance as I shook the dust off my shield. Engagements such as these stirred in me the urge to fight, only for it to all be over in a moment, a single explosion that was at most a nuisance. It all left me feeling dissatisfied with the mettle of the local “parahumans.”

“Atreus? Sir?” I heard a healer call. He was one of the ones I recognized from multiple incidents, a tired but righteous sort.

“I am no sir, healer. You are not under my command,” I chided softly. “What is the matter?”

“I’m getting radio that there’s a cape fight four blocks away.”

“Who is involved?”

“Some villains. The Empire and Undersiders seem to have found an ABB warehouse.”

I frowned in thought. There was a delicate armistice between the local heroes and villains at the moment while they battled the ABB. No hero would arrest a villain without cause and no villain was to commit crimes until the ABB was dealt with. I knew little else, but it seemed the villains had likewise formed a coalition of their own.

I nodded firmly. If they were willing to take the fight to the ABB, I would happily lend them my spear. “I will join them,” I said, “Perhaps they have found Lung or Bakuda.”

“Are you sure? They’re not exactly trustworthy.”

“I do not need trust; I need information. They likely have access to resources that you peacekeepers lack.”

“If you say so. Be careful, big guy,” the healer said with a cautious smile.

With a curt nod, I took off into the air, hopping onto the rooftops for easier movement. The Protectorate heroes did not associate with villains, even given this uneasy ceasefire, but I had no reason to hold myself to their political restrictions.

The warehouse wasn’t hard to find seeing how it was the only one smoking. The fight had already begun so I peered down from a roof-facing window. The sight made me grin with anticipation.

Down below was a man who could only be Lung. He had reptilian scales that glinted like steel mail. He stood over eight feet tall. A roiling inferno coated his body like the stars coated mine. His face had begun to lengthen and separate into a snout that opened both horizontally and vertically. On his back, two knobs of metal began to sprout, what I was told would become wings if left alone.

He didn’t look much like a dragon to me. Beyond the scales, his irregular snout made him look like a strange voidborn creature. Or perhaps one of Zaun’s many biological experiments. Perhaps he’d look more draconic when his wings grew in.

Whatever could be said of his appearance, he looked to be fighting everyone else at the same time. And he was winning.

There were two distinct factions in the coalition against Lung, as well as a young, blonde lass in red and black who didn’t seem familiar with either of her allies.

One was the Empire. They were easy to make out. Three people, two of them twins. They were pretty enough, had some decent skill with their chosen weapons, but lacking compared to the warrior maidens I knew. Iula in her heyday would have eaten them alive.

Their third member was currently attempting to pin Lung with a forest of blades that sprouted from the ground like lethal grass, which made him Kaiser. I did not know if he believed the horseshit he spouted, but he was either an opportunist or a fool leading an army of bigger fools.

Their tentative allies seemed far less organized. One commanded three strange chimera, creatures that looked like Noxian basilisks crossed with hounds. She took orders from a tall woman in black and gray who commanded scores of insects.

I watched idly as Kaiser pierced Lung in the heart, only for the drake to rise again, snapping the blade with visible anger. For a moment, he reminded me of Tryndamere, that mighty king of barbarians who harnessed his wrath into a near immortal fury.

Lung grabbed Kaiser and threw him against the wall. He was bigger now, stronger. His fury shook the warehouse and made the air around him visibly shimmer with rising heat. He barreled through the twins and was only stopped by the awkward lass who created a large fireball to engulf him.

The fireball burned white-hot like a miniature sun. It stymied the drake for a moment but with a deafening roar, he broke free. His wings had grown in now and they would have to keep him indoors to limit his movement.

He had the bug-girl in hand now. There was something between them, some prior animosity that made him target her to the exclusion of more immediate threats.

I hummed in appreciation. That girl… She was unafraid. She’d drawn his attention to herself to spare her allies. It took great courage to goad a superior opponent, especially one who had so thoroughly defeated all comers. That courage deserved respect.

She deserved my help.

Decision made, the Solstice of Astrea wrapped me in celestial light. With Aegis aimed low, I leapt down.

Author’s Note

I’m not sure why my image of a stereotypical baker is a tiny, sassy, Irish, ginger lady, but it is. Rose Frank was given the surname after Rene Frank, one of the best pastry chefs in the world. He has two Michelin stars, which as I understand, is significantly harder if you’re exclusively a pastry chef as opposed to someone more well-rounded like Ramsay. No other reason, just a fun nod.

No, Atreus’ weapons don’t make sense. League has never made sense. This is the same man who got stabbed through the chest by a Darkin, woke up, reignited a goddamn star, and decided, “Fuck it, I’m War now,” all because he was too stubborn to die. In-game, his passive is called Mortal Will because it’s this “will of man” that empowers the weapon of a god. So long as he wants to fight something, reality will bend itself into a pretzel to make it happen.

I think it’s important to note Atreus’ mentality following the bakery bombing. He’s not upset that he killed a man. He feels guilty that he ruined his master’s store. As far as he’s concerned, the man with a bomb in his head became a combatant, however unwilling, the moment he was captured by Bakuda. Atreus is used to very different rules of engagement.

I’m sure the timeline is a bit off, but I also don’t care too much.

Atreus doesn’t know what skylights are called.

And with this, my commissions for this month are fully met! Woot!