PWP: 4.8 Seal (Patreon)

Seal 4.8

Bryce Kiley

2010, November 27: Damascus, Syria

Wilshire wheeled in a patient, the nineteenth since I started this morning. We worked like a well-oiled machine by now. This one was clearly an emergency worker in her own right. He didn’t need to say much given the obviously crushed rib cage, thankfully the right side so whatever did this missed her heart.

He recited his prognosis anyway and I made sure to pay careful attention. We’d lost patients because we’d missed something before. Part of me wished I’d retained the Pledge Regalia for the second day but it was better used out there, especially now that the people who could be found with a cursory glance had already been rescued. Rescue workers were now having to take greater risks to find those who could be saved.

I’d rebuilt her skeleton and begun to knit the muscles and sinew around them when I heard shouting outside. Not ten seconds later, Wilshire barged in with a grim frown. “We need to go,” he said. “There’s a riot outside. Big fight, capes involved. The entire medical tent is being relocated.”

“Well, shit. Go. I’ll fix this one and join you. Where’s the rendezvous point?”

“A mile west. There’s another lot they’re using to hold out. It should be far enough from the riot.”

“And the ones that can’t be moved?”

“We’re loading them into ambulances as we can, but there aren’t enough so a few are getting ferried on truck beds.”

I grunted in understanding. He didn’t say it, but it was implied: Once all the medicine, personnel, and tools were loaded up, they likely wouldn’t have room for all the patients. Some would be left behind, whether on purpose or accidentally in the chaos. Seeing people get abandoned like this, the riot would naturally get worse as outrage fueled the fire.

I could leave. No one would blame me. But… But before I was Creed, wasn’t I a PA? PAs didn’t swear to the hippocratic oath like doctors, but we did at least promise something similar during our graduation ceremonies. It didn’t feel right to leave when I had a suit like mine.

No, I wasn’t in danger. Not from a riot, nor the vast majority of capes. Unless someone outside triggered with an annihilator effect or Ash Beast strolled in from the desert, I wasn’t worried for myself. I wouldn’t gain anything from staying, but I couldn’t leave people in good conscience either.

“Faultline was right; I really am a shitty mercenary,” I muttered with a self-deprecating chuckle. The sigil embroidered into my gloves shined as I reinflated my patient’s lungs. This research that had been nurtured like a sapling on the blood of countless victims, Marcoh had wanted to redeem it. “Go, I’ll fix up the ones I can and carry the others to join you.”

“You’re staying?”

“Yeah, my suit’s pretty impressive, you know?”

“I… Alright, Creed, be careful.”

X

Lily Tondo

2010, November 27: Damascus, Syria

Mob mentality was terrifying. When one of the soldiers died, the others opened fire even as a sandstorm engulfed us all. I saw several people go down, people whose only crime was desperation. I grabbed a civilian and yanked her back behind Shelter’s hardlight constructs before reaching down to grab a handful of pebbles.

I imbued them with my power and lobbed them one by one through the soldiers’ assault rifles, shattering them into a thousand pieces. These soldiers were nominally on our side, but I couldn’t have them shooting into the crowd.

A soldier cussed me out in Arabic but I didn’t pay him any mind. It wasn’t like I understood a word anyway. They ran back behind cover, leaving the crowd to fend for themselves. Two of them drew their sidearms, but Jouster quickly slapped them out of their hands.

The fresh trigger, the one we’d started calling Ribbons, had whipped a circle of empty space around himself, marked by people on the ground bleeding from lacerations. They thankfully didn’t look deep, but there was still a chance they could still bleed out.

I saw that the brute of the cluster, one with ice gauntlets, was about to swing on a defenseless man. I whipped my arbalest out and fired, nailing him with a tranquilizer bolt. Being a brute, it took three for him to finally go down. I winced. I didn’t have nearly enough of these and unless they had the durability, I’d be leaving them to be trampled in the chaos.

The one with a whip instead of a ribbon quickly went down to Jouster charging out. He grabbed the fresh trigger and slung him over his shoulder before racing back behind the barricades. That left the slowdown shaker and Ribbons, and whoever the new guys were.

One of the people who’d caused the sandstorm ran around and tried to get into the driver seat of the truck we’d been using, maybe to hotwire it. A taser from Shelter solved that problem.

I didn’t know why they were here. Alongside the Dust Devil, there was someone who made spikes of glass, another who phased through walls, designated Quartz and Genie respectively.

More soldiers arrived in jeeps and vans and we found ourselves in a firefight to keep them from shooting into the crowd. Dust Devil and a few of his cohorts were firing at both sides indiscriminately; their bullets pinged off Shelter’s wall like a drumline.

On the plus side, most civilians were running away, but there were just as many men who lashed out randomly in a blind panic.

“We have to take them down,” Jouster yelled.

“Belay that!” Ursa roared through comms. “Do not engage! Stay put and keep yourselves safe!”

“Bu-”

“That’s an order, Jouster! Pull back!”

“We’re not going to sit here and watch people die!”

“You don’t even know how many capes there are! ETA one minute! Just stay still!”

He was about to shout back when I saw something shimmer in the air. It had a metallic shine and swerved in an arc, striking one of the newly arrived soldiers. My power kicked in. I knew a thing or two about aim and trajectory. That angle was definitely impossible.

“We’ve got a blaster,” I cut in. “Shaker, maybe. Telekinetic that uses bits of metal like homing bullets. Unknown location.”

“Who? Never mind, got it. Shit. Shelter, can you cover me?” my captain said.

I held out my arbalest at the ready and looked for priority targets. Shelter shouted as another man went down and we decided to call the curving-bullet-man Deadeye. I still had no idea where they were; they could be anywhere at all. Even the non-capes wore those tan shrouds.

This was nothing like the conflicts I was used to. I’d seen Epoch and the Adepts. That crazy bitch, March. Even Animos of the Teeth once when I was way cockier than I should’ve been. Those conflicts were so much more structured than this. Everyone wore easily distinguishable outfits, colorful masks that told me they were enemies I could shoot at. No one intentionally shot at crowds of civilians, even those lunatics from the Teeth.

Other than Dust Devil’s group, and I still had no idea which of them was Dust Devil, not a single person wore any kind of costume. I saw another man go down to what I now recognized was a bullet being manipulated through the air.

I had to do something. My power kicked in. It felt a bit like a subconscious nudge here, an extra moment of clarity there. I had a knack for physics, especially trajectory, and I used it now.

The arbalest was slow, but my targets weren’t going anywhere.

I loosed one bolt after another. Each shot was aimed for the shoulder or arm to avoid the vitals, just in case. Four of Dust Devil’s men went down, but either I didn’t hit the right one or the storm didn’t need conscious upkeep.

A moment later, a whirling sandstorm covered everyone and I couldn’t aim for fear of striking someone I didn’t mean to.

I heard another scream near me and I knew Deadeye had struck again. Where were they? They’d yet to take shots at us, but that could change at any moment. They clearly didn’t need to see to aim.

Then I heard three familiar roars, ursine roars. Ursa Aurora’s projections came into view, stomping through the sandstorm and barreling people aside to reach us. She and Prism were riding two bears and they looked pissed.

The sight struck some sense into a few of the rioters and they naturally parted ways for three furry tanks with claws. If nothing else, there was a certain primal part of us all that looked at three chunky bears in full sprint and decided, “Nope.”

Their arrival filled me with relief. I’d never been good at this part of the job. PR? Great, I was just about the only Ward who didn’t mind talking to people. Telling kids not to bully people or do drugs? Wonderful, I agreed with the message. Fighting? I just… I wasn’t afraid, but I was… hesitant. Afraid I’d go too far. Imbue the wrong physics-breaker into my bolts. My biggest fear wasn’t death; it was the thought of having to live with causing so much of it.

“Wards, take people out of here. Grab a group and escort them back to the command center. Protect civilians that run to you but don’t engage capes,” Ursa said, immediately taking charge. She and Prism jumped off the bears and directed them into the crowd. The bears began to body-check people, separating those who were fighting. “Go!”

“Yes, ma’am,” I yelled back. It was calming, finally having someone tell me what to do, how I could help. Seizing the initiative wasn’t my thing at all, especially when all I could do was shoot at people, but now that I had my marching orders, things became so much clearer.

I watched as Prism divided into three copies and began to herd people with a mixture of electrified batons and containment foam grenades. She worked to establish a loose perimeter as the bear projections bodily separated people.

Then a bear popped like shattered glass as someone emptied a clip into it.

“Come on! We have to go!” Shelter yelled. He pulled Jouster in one hand and one of the aid workers in the other.

I followed but found myself looking back. Prism, Ursa, and the soldiers were fighting to contain the riot, but there was a clear difference in their willingness to escalate. My seniors now struck with breaking force, strikes that would have definitely invited an investigation in New York.

But this wasn’t New York and the soldiers were far more brutal. The dust whirled and cleared and I saw a soldier mount a civilian so he could beat him bloody. A few of them shot at us but I loosed a clip of tranq bolts in their direction, taking them out of the fight. If I had to leave, the least I could do was even the numbers a bit for Ursa and Prism.

A man barreled one of the jeeps towards us, but Jouster saw it. He shrugged off Shelter’s grip, took up his lance, and charged to meet the car. The point of his lance glowed purple as knight met jeep.

My captain won.

The tip of his spear detonated with immense repulsive force, crumpling the jeep like an aluminum can. I knew that the driver would be lucky to get out of that alive.

I winced. My captain, my friend, just killed someone. He wasn’t a bad guy. He talked about “doing what needed to be done” a lot, but I knew this would fuck him up for a while. Live combat or not, I saw him stare at his weapon as if he’d never seen it before.

I grabbed him and kept following Shelter.

Dust Devil’s men shouted something at Ribbons and the slow-guy. They exchanged rapid-fire Arabic that had him turning his attention on the soldiers. He ducked low, vanishing into a conveniently rising cloud of dust, and reappeared like a shark. His hands clawed at the soldiers as he slid by, too fast to aim at, leaving the men with bloody wounds and at least one with hanging entrails.

“What are they saying?” I yelled at one aid worker.

“I don’t know!” he yelled back. “My Arabic isn’t that good! Something about killing the president? Taking down the government?”

Shelter groaned in frustration. “You’re fucking with me. Someone’s using the endbringer attack to start a revolution?”

“Makes sense. Damascus is the capital. The SRG is split up managing a bunch of foreign elements. There’s no better time than now from their perspective,” Jouster added.

“How does that make sense? This is the endbringer truce we’re talking about!”

“And not every faction obeys that. If they think they can get away with it, they will. Or they think that drawing international attention to their revolution is worth it.”

“Fuck!”

I agreed. This was a decision only a fanatic could make. Whoever orchestrated this truly believed that they were in the right, that the foreign governments who saw would side with them in the end despite them so blatantly violating the endbringer truce. It was…

“Insane,” I breathed. “This is fucking insane.”

“Yeah, we’ve got people at the food depot too. Let’s escort the civilians out, then see which side needs reinforcements.”

X

Bryce Kiley

2010, November 27: Damascus, Syria

I fixed up the emergency worker and got to work on those that remained behind. Or, I tried, but immediately ran into a spot of trouble: All the interpreters bailed.

No, that wasn’t right. I wasn’t being fair to them. Of course they’d leave when people were being evacuated. They weren’t capes and sure as hell didn’t have a super-suit. They couldn’t heal themselves with a word or go toe to toe against brutes.

I wheeled my patient out and left her in one corner before yanking someone towards me. He had a leg that had been recently amputated. Though the stump had been bandaged, the work had been hasty and I could see splotches of brown where congealed blood seeped into the cloth.

He struggled and shouted something in Arabic, but I held him down with suit-granted strength.

“I’m trying to help you,” I said calmly. I was told during medical school that tone was just as important as the actual words I was saying. I hoped that was true.

That didn’t work of course. In Worm canon, the PRT was said to favor masks that exposed at least a part of their heroes’ faces because that bit of exposure humanized them and made relating to the general populace easier. I never thought I’d need something like that, but in a foreign country without even the most basic language skills, I decided to rely on whatever I could.

I pinned him by the shoulder with one arm. Pointing two fingers at his eyes, I gestured to my face. Then, when the man calmed somewhat, I disengaged my chin guard with a pneumatic hiss.

“I want to help you,” I repeated.

He looked at me. I looked at him. We had a real connection going, intent conveyed through the divide in language and culture.

Or, I thought we did. Then the bastard punched me in the mouth.

“Gah! Fuck!”

I reeled back, more in surprise than pain. Still, he managed to give me a split lip. I spat a bit of the blood pooled in my mouth.

That broke the spell. The others in the room, some of those patients well enough to move, lashed out in defense of their own. They shouted and threw whatever they had on hand at me but I gamely ignored them.

I jammed a finger onto his chest and called, “Thunder Wave.”

Maybe not my most morally upright moment, but I took no small amount of satisfaction watching his body seize up. His eyes widened in alarm as I stared him down through my visor. Then, just to prove a point, I tapped my bloody lip.

“Recover,” I intoned. “Why the hell would you think that’s a good idea? No, wait… That’s a wonderful idea.”

I wiped the blood from my lip, spitting out the metallic tang to show there was nothing there. I gestured to myself again.

“See? Nothing. Healed. I can heal.” The man stared at me with fear. He clearly didn’t understand a word I said. "Healer. No? Doctor?”

Recognition.

“Doctor. Doc-tor. Good, you know that word. Now hold still, not that you can move much right now…”

I grumbled swears under my breath as I undid his bandages. Amy would probably chew me out if I provided “nonconsensual healing,” but I didn’t care. At this point, my goal was to fix everyone up and get them moved to the secondary base as soon as possible.

I held a hand to the man’s weeping stump and channeled my aura into the glove. Bit by bit, the flesh knit itself closed. I saw the man’s eyes calm as he finally fully realized what I was.

“What the hell are you doing? Get away from him!” I heard someone scream behind me.

I turned around to find a dark-skinned woman in white with the world-famous red cross on her chest. I didn’t even know the Red Cross was a thing anymore. She’d picked up a folding chair and brandished it like a pro wrestler ready to come in for a “surprise” bash. Under different circumstances, it would have been hilarious.

In the moment, I had to admire her gumption. Staying behind mid-riot was one thing. Picking a fight with an obvious cape with unknown powers and motives? Brave. Stupid, but also incredibly brave.

I did my best to explain.

“I’m Creed, a tinker with healing tech. I came here with Medic Wilshire from the British hero team, Suits,” I rattled off.

“Suits, huh?”

“N-Actually, sure. I work with Wilshire,” I said, not bothering to correct the misunderstanding. The Suits were an internationally recognized heroic team. If that meant she’d trust me more, good enough. I gestured to the man’s stump. “I closed the bleeding, that’s all. Do you speak Arabic?”

“Enough to get by. What do you need?”

“Start organizing them based on urgency.”

“You could have left.”

“So could you, and you don’t have a tinkertech suit.”

“Someone’s gotta make sure nothing happens. The symbol of the red cross still means something. Sometimes, people behave themselves more because they see it.”

“And other times?”

Her silence was answer enough. “Pam Johnson, American Red Cross. Atlanta. You?”

“Creed. Tinker.”

We worked in relative silence after that, our peace broken only by quiet mumblings in halting Arabic or her English translations to me. Occasionally, the gunshots outside would get loud but we did our best to tune them out.

“What would you have done if I left? You don’t speak Arabic.”

I scoffed. “Paralyze them all and treat them anyway. It’d take longer, but I’d manage.”

“You can’t just taser your patients.”

“Sure I can. It helps that I’m not a doctor.”

“You’re not a Suit, are you?”

“Not even a hero,” I admitted as we finished fixing the last patient.

“Figures. It’s a villain that sticks around,” she says, rolling her eyes. She punched my chest, right over my heart. “Well you’re a hero to these people,kid.”

“There are plenty of heroes outside trying to protect them.”

“And there’s one here, saving their lives.”

“Then what’s that make you?”

“Correction. Two.”

I laughed. “Point. So, got a plan to move them out west?”

We looked around. They were fixed, or at least not in danger of dying mid-transit, but I didn’t think most of them would be up for a trek right now. It was about two or three in the afternoon and the heat was stifling. I was reminded that my armor needed better temperature control.

The two of us looked around for any cars we could take, but found none.

“You’re a tinker, right?” She tapped a party-sized coffee machine and a bunch of plastic crates lying around. “Make us a car or something.”

“That’s so not how this works.”

“Well, guess we’re holing up here and hoping no one shoots our way.”

I looked around at the crates. Then, at the people. “Actually, I have an idea…”

“Look, Creed, I’ve known you for less than an hour and I already hate the way you said that.”

I explained.

She was right, she hated it.

X

Johnson looked up at me with a mixture of raw disbelief and hatred in her eyes. “You are a terrible person.”

“I am,” I agreed easily. I kicked off, climbing into the air. “I’m also carrying you all a hundred feet off the ground.”

“This is mortifying.”

“Yup.”

“What the hell did you do to us?”

“Thunder Wave. I use it to stun my opponents. Done right, it stiffens the body. Think of it as temporary rigor mortis, but, you know, with less of the dying.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better. You can see why that doesn’t make me feel better, can’t you?”

“I also used my biotinkering gloves to further stiffen your body so you guys don’t loosen up mid-flight. That’d be annoying.”

“You’re a terrible person,” she repeated.

“You said that al-”

“I know I said that! You can’t stack people like LEGOs!”

“I mean…” I looked behind me. I always carried several spools of Germa fiber; durable rope was dead useful to have and I had an expanded bag so there was zero reason not to. I’d paralyzed them all, stiffened them into boards, and laid them on top of each other like so much firewood before strapping them together. “I seem to have succeeded.”

“You have the worst bedside manners.”

“Me? You should meet Panacea. She threatened to grow a cactus up my rectum!”

“The most altruistic cape in the world threatened grievous bodily harm upon you,” she said flatly. “That doesn’t set off warning bells for you?”

“I… Yeah, fair point. In my defense, I really can’t think of a way to move you all without this. It’s not like there were any trucks left behind that I could hotwire.”

“Ugh, just… just get on with it…”

I did so, skating along the sky with them hanging off my shoulders. A trail of pyrobloin left behind allowed me to drag them along like a sack of potatoes on a road made of condensed vapor. Only a few people were left behind, fourteen all told, but that was still too many to just walk, freshly healed as they were. Assuming 150 pounds on average, that was a little north of a full ton. A little heavy on me, but not impossible given the bullshit built into One Piece and Pokemon-derived technology.

I began to hum Christmas carols under my breath. “Santa’s coming to town~”

“God, please kill me…”

Despite her bitching and moaning, Johnson said something to the patients that made them mostly cooperative. We headed to the rendezvous point without any problems.

As I landed in the middle of the busy lot, I mused, “You know, I do believe this means I’ve officially engaged in human trafficking.”

“I hope you get arrested,” Johnson drawled.

I laughed and began untying them. One by one, I repaired their strategically severed nerves and passed them into the care of more conventional medics. “You know, I do too. If the local Protectorate can arrest me, it’ll mean they’re finally getting their shit together.”

“What city?”

“Brockton.”

“Figures. You Brocktonites are a different breed. What now?”

I looked back towards the refugee camp. Even now, we could hear gunshots ringing every several seconds. There were more cars headed towards the riot, each filled with regular police and soldiers. I didn’t know what kinds of riot gear police in Syria were provided, but I had a feeling they wouldn’t be sticking with rubber bullets and confoam; those guns looked big and mean.

“I think I should be there,” I said. I didn’t have to be, but… What Faultline told me rang in my mind. Maybe it was time to stop pretending, stop acting like I didn’t care.

“You sure? You think you can calm the fighting there?”

I still didn’t like the idea of calling myself a hero. The word was overly burdened with meaning and hypocrisy on Earth-Bet. But wasn’t I a huge hypocrite too?

I barked out a laugh.

Here I was, letting someone else define me all over again. I did it with the regalia, with Kazu and Ringo and Agito. I allowed people I’d never met to shape my perception of my own regalia, acting like chains that restrained my Road. In the same way, I’d allowed what I knew of Worm to define my understanding of heroes.

Meaningless. Utterly meaningless.

If I didn’t like what “heroes” represented in this world, the answer was simple: I’d just have to be the hero I wanted to see. So long as I could look at myself in the mirror with pride, what more did I need?

My power had grown exponentially. Maybe, the scope of my protection could increase too. Mom, Sierra, they were the ones I wanted to protect at all costs. But my reach was a lot longer now. I could do so much more.

“Maybe, but I want to try.”

“Then go, kid. SOP for rogue capes is to put themselves under the command of the local power, but Arsalan… I think you should find Ursa Aurora first.”

“What’s wrong with Arsalan?”

“He’s not out here for the people,” she said with a scowl. “And I don’t mean that he puts the country above individual citizens. Look, people were terrified to talk about his power, and not just in the usual overaggressive police sort of way.”

I thought about the impression I’d gotten of him. In the brief minute we’d met, he came off as a highly militaristic man, someone who put a lot of emphasis on appearances and duty. Or maybe on the way he was seen to contribute.

On the other hand, I knew Ursa Aurora. She, alongside Cache, Prism, and the big sparkle himself, would be one of the capes to reinforce Brockton Bay when the Slaughterhouse hit post-Leviathan. I didn’t recall her taking one down, but she’d seemed like an upright sort in the serial, someone who was in it to save lives.

I nodded. “Fair enough, I’ll ally with Ursa, just this once.”

Author’s Note

This was always the plan in a way, and something no one should be surprised by. A running theme of this story has been Bryce slowly making Amy more flexible. By the same token, he can’t help but be influenced by her either. Neither of them were the same people they were in September and this is a natural evolution of that character development.

I’m of the opinion that Amy and Carol’s black and white understanding of morality is wrong, or at least misguided. Similarly, I’m not a fan of those super-edgy “There’s no such thing as morality so just do what you want,” types either. I think morality is a spectrum that is colored by motivation and context and my writing reflects that in both this story and Legendary Tinker.

Anyway, I have a favor to ask you guys. Can you please recommend isekai/reincarnation fics into ASOIAF/GOT? I’ve read Deeds Not Words, Dread Our Wrath, and a few others. I really enjoy reading about minor lords who aren’t obsessed with the Game and just want to start a brewery or introduce the wonders of pizza to Westeros or something.

Please? I really need something to help me procrastinate.

Animal fact? Sure. The Syrian national animal is the Syrian brown bear so let’s have some bear facts.

Bears are born during the winter denning period, around January-February. They are born in litters of 1-3 hairless, blind, and about .5 pounds. Yes, this means that hibernation as portrayed in cartoons is a bit of a myth. Bears can in fact remain active throughout the winter, though mostly for foraging.

The average lifespan of a bear is between 20-30 years, but Lady M, a bear in a Ukrainian reserve, lived to the age of 43, making her the oldest rescue ever.