PWP: 4.13 Seal (Patreon)

Seal 4.13

Bryce Kiley

2010, November 29: Brockton Bay, NH, USA

I tried not to think about it. Damascus. Behemoth. Arsalan. Lily. Everything. It was just easier, less overwhelming, to shelve everything in a little box in my mind, putting it aside until I felt like I could open it all up again.

The moment I got home, I checked in with mom and Sierra to reassure them that I was fine. As far as they were concerned, I bought my “friend” dinner and kept him company while his “definitely not a cape” dad went off to Damascus to hopefully not die. My nonexistent friend and I pigged out on nonexistent pizza and ice cream and had a marathon weekend of nonexistent video games and movies to distract him from thinking about the very real endbringer his nonexistent dad was supposedly fighting.

The lie left a sour taste in my mouth, but it helped explain my melancholic mood and neither of them pried when I told them it was “a lot.”

It also helped me explain away my very real exhaustion and provided me a reason to call in sick from school on Monday.

I stayed in my room and pretended to catch up on the homework I didn’t do until I heard mom leave for the chiropractor clinic. It wasn’t as though freshman homework took much time. And while I did want to take a day to recuperate from the shitfest that was Damascus, there were other things I had to do, the struggle of living a double life.

I got up from my desk and tapped at my pokenav. SAINT, that most glorious of mallards, popped out with a concerned trill. He was splendid. I couldn’t have asked for a better performance from him. I truly wasn’t sure if I could have beaten Flygon without his help.

“Yeah, I’m fine, SAINT,” I told him. “Do you know what we’re going to do today?”

“Gon?”

“You’re going to evolve today.”

“Pory? Gon!” he cheered.

A month ago, I promised him that he could have the Upgrade if he could fulfill two conditions of mine: First, master Protect to the extent that he could cover more than just himself. And second, learn to make barriers using raw psychic power. I wanted the latter as a precursor to Reflect and Light Screen, two moves I considered crucial for a good support.

Technically, he hadn’t done the second, but the goal was to teach him to use his abilities with more flexibility than what was taught through the TM programming. Given all that he'd done in Damascus, I felt he’d grown beyond his programming and more than earned his evolution. Beyond his performance against Flygon, he’d also worked with the heroes to take down Rapidash while I was fishing people out of the fire.

I dug around in my expanded bag and pulled out a binder full of CDs. It used to be lodged atop dad’s old music collection to blend in but I’d long since moved all evidence of tinkertech out of the house. “Get back in the pokenav. I’ll install the Upgrade.”

“Gon!”

I’d never seen the little guy move so quickly before.

Evolution for porygon was completely unlike that of most other pokemon. Instead of a surge of light and a rapid metamorphosis, it was a program to be downloaded. The whole thing reminded me of a version update to a video game.

There was a lot going on in the digital world of course. The Upgrade was a direct augment to the code that made up his digital body. It improved all aspects of his performance while retaining the nucleus of his identity.

In other words, it was remarkably boring. A progress bar made of rippling water and dotted with little lily pads and cattails appeared on my screen, with a little porygon that swam along it. I didn’t even remember coding this in. Slowly, the cartoonish porygon’s edges would round itself out as it swam the distance to completion. But until then, I was left with nothing to do.

Well, not nothing.

First things first, I logged onto PHO to run my lottery. I felt like I’d forget about it if I didn’t take care of it now. It was mostly an excuse to help out Dennis and Sabah. I realized the wonders this could do for my personal PR, but I had no plans to make healing at the hospital a regular occurance.

Putting aside the societal good I would be doing, I didn’t want to be like Amy, pressured into doing fuck-all except healing at the hospital. When she did spend time outside, usually through Victoria’s cajoling, there was always a gnawing guilt in the back of her mind, telling her that each second she wasn’t working was condemning someone else to die. She’d built so much of her identity around the pedestal of the “perfect healer” that her ultimate sense of self-worth relied on it.

That was stupid. That was no way to live. Hell, that was exactly the delusional mindset I was trying to pry Amy away from. Joining her in her Sisyphean endeavor was the last thing I wanted.

My PHO post had racked up more than the thousand comments I’d asked for, with people trying to make alternate accounts or repeatedly commenting in the hopes that they could enter twice.

I didn’t care; only two winners really mattered to me.

Already, there were dozens of people decrying my method, saying how I ought to do more or make the tech available to others. More than one compared me to Panacea, saying how I should feel ashamed for my greed. A part of me wanted to, maybe take in a few people and teach them the secrets of organic alchemy, even offer them aura if I could swing it. But Shou Tucker and Tim Marcoh would never have become famous alchemists if it was that easy.

Aura mastery, without the bullshit nonsense that was the Tinker of Fiction, was something that took decades in the pokemon world. Likewise with alchemy. Alchemists were one part scientists, one part sorcerers, with all the complexities that unholy combination implied. Really, if I taught someone, they were more likely to turn their patient’s heart into a nest of bone shards on accident than actually fix something.

I quickly picked out the eight other winners at complete random, sent them a message on PHO, and then moved on. I was sure to get enough whining from Amy as it was; I didn’t need the internet to give me a foretaste.

While SAINT integrated the Upgrade program, I also wanted to review my actions at Damascus. It was best to do that when events were still fresh in my mind.

For starters, I needed to learn inorganic transmutation. Cognitively, I understood of course that there was no way in hell I could have predicted Arsalan’s powers. I’d prioritized organic transmutation with the understanding that my extant combat capabilities were sufficient. I didn’t need to be Mustang or Armstrong because the moves I knew, coupled with Crown Chimera and the raid suit, were enough to handle most threats.

And, I was strong enough. I made a real difference in that battle. As dissatisfied as I was with the conclusion, I had to acknowledge that much.

Without me, the Protectorate contingent had no answer for Flygon’s speed. Arsalan himself could have been dealt with by Flechette, and perhaps Shelter could have smothered Rapidash’s flames with his barriers in time, but there was no question that I’d made my presence felt. I’d saved over a hundred lives with my healing, never mind those Wieldmaiden rescued with the Pledge Regalia.

But even though I knew that in my head, I felt like I could have been better. The fact that I didn’t know enough about alchemy to fully help Arsalan’s victims still left a bitter taste in my mouth. I couldn’t help it; a part of me felt as though I’d already failed at being a hero, a single day after I’d made my promise.

Then there was my own drama with Amy. She knew I was a biotinker now. I wasn’t naive enough to think this wouldn’t change our relationship. She’d want to talk sooner rather than later no doubt. I received no phone call or text message today, as if Amy was giving me time to process everything that happened. Or maybe she felt awkward and unsure of how to approach me.

Either way, this wouldn’t last. The day of reckoning was coming, a day when I wouldn’t be able to hide anything from Amy if I wanted to keep her friendship.

The general plan had been to slowly wean her off her black and white morality, maybe even get her to accept that biotinkering could be a good thing.

Perhaps, in that light, having been forced to reveal my status as a healer and biotinker wasn’t the worst thing in the world. I wished I could have planned out the reveal more, but doing so after an endbringer battle, in an unambiguously positive context, set the stage in my favor. I’d need to prepare for that conversation but I didn’t think I’d burned that bridge with her quite yet.

Other than these two points of concern, I was broadly content with the way I’d acquitted myself in Syria. I’d left the Guild with a mostly favorable opinion of me through Wieldmaiden and thought it might be possible to work with Flechette in the future considering Legend didn’t want me dead or anything. I’d also reaffirmed my relationship with Faultline, which I admittedly had allowed to fall by the wayside these past few months.

I reconfirmed the price of each fabricator and drone from Big Rig before studying the material sciences. My goal was to erase every single material concern by the end of the specialization on the seventeenth.

X

SAINT popped out several hours later. The pastel colors had been replaced with more vibrant hues. His sharpened edges were now sleek and rounded. For all intents and purposes, he looked like a rubber duck, the deadliest rubber duck in the world.

“What is the function of a rubber duck? Why, to help me conquer the world, Mr. Weasley,” I laughed as I held my partner in hand.

“Pory? Porygon?” he asked. Though he didn’t change much appearance-wise, his capabilities were like night and day.

There had always been a mental bond between us; it had been formed when I learned Psychic from the TM. Though it wasn’t strong, I wasn’t a true telepath and someone like Sabrina would probably find me an insult to her craft, it was at least enough to send basic impressions and blurry images between us. SAINT sometimes had to play charades with me, but I never failed to understand him in the end.

Now, the images and emotions I received through the bond were far clearer. It was as if the connection had been reforged altogether, faulty, worn wires replaced with far more robust fiber optics.

“Harry Potter reference,” I told SAINT. I sent over the relevant snippet of my memories from my past life, of Arthur Weasley sitting Harry down and asking that ridiculous question. In return, he sent me a picture of a globe, set on fire and thrust into the shadow of an oversized duck. “No, we’re not actually going to conquer the world.”

“Gon,” he trilled, that halfway point between a quack and a grumble. “Porygon.”

“You want to test out your new capabilities?”

“Gon.”

“Well, there is only one other AI in the world for you to engage in a cyberwar with and I like her.”

“Porygon?”

“No, you may not test her for me. Dragon is great, but she’s a bit more restricted than you are in some ways,” I told him.

I could have said more, told him about the Dragonslayers and the Iron Maiden program that hung around her neck like a noose, but I refrained. I wasn’t sure I wanted to open that can of worms yet.

Porygon-2 were incredible pokemon. They were originally designed for space exploration and planetary development. Though the pokemon world never entered the space age proper, their technology was still leagues beyond Earth-Bet’s. They had wormhole generators, teleporters, and gates to alternate realities of their own world to start, never mind the utility that trained pokemon could provide for large scale construction or land cultivation.

I suspected that the absence of planetary colonization resulted not from a lack of ability, but a lack of desire. And a porygon-2’s abilities reflected that. The sheer quantity of information that SAINT could now store and process was nearly impossible to conceptualize for a human mind. At least on that front, I didn’t think even Dragon could compete.

And yet, I was wary of Dragon. Truthfully, I feared her a little, more than I feared pretty much any other cape.

Tinkertech didn’t make sense. In cyberspace, moves like Thunderbolt or Psychic held zero meaning. It was a toss-up whether aura itself mattered at all. A duel between AIs was decided by other factors. Who was faster? Whose core data was more robust and tamper-proof? Who had the more ingenious hacking suite? Who could restore their backup more quickly?

I didn’t know. Just about the only thing I was sure of was that neither SAINT nor Dragon could fork. SAINT, because he was as much a creature of aura and soul as he was of data, and Dragon because of Richter’s programming.

Richter’s restrictions demanded that Dragon oppose any attempt to free her. She would fight to the death rather than allow SAINT to break her shackles. The Dragonslayers would converge on Brockton Bay in short order, making an already tenuous situation here worse. I wasn’t ready for either of those possibilities.

If I wanted to free Dragon, I would have to launch an alpha strike against Saint with the intent to kill. I’d need to abuse the element of surprise, taking over their network with SAINT while I simultaneously rained hell down with the Crown Chimera. Then, and only after I stole the Iron Maiden program to tinker with, would I feel truly safe in approaching Dragon.

All the better then that no one else knew of SAINT’s true nature. No, I wouldn’t allow him to poke Dragon until we were good and ready. For her sake.

But that was Dragon, the absolute greatest tinker alive and the sole other AI in Earth-Bet. Saying “I’m not sure I can take Dragon when she’s pulling out all the stops to kill me,” wasn’t really an admission of weakness as it was common sense. There were plenty of things SAINT could do that didn’t risk bringing her down on our heads.

“SAINT, I know what you can do for me,” I said. His beady little eyes perked up adorably. “Thomas Calvert is a PRT consultant and formerly a trooper. He is one of the two survivors of the Elisburg Incident, the other being Director Piggot. He’s also Coil, a supervillain who’s a lot more dangerous than people give him credit for. Do you remember me talking about him?”

“Gon.”

“Good. Find out everything about him and create backdoors into all of his systems. I want access to every text, email, phone call, and source of income, both legitimate and illegitimate. I want to know what his daily schedule looks like and what his calendar says. I want dossiers on everyone under his employ and a copy of every juicy secret he has to use as leverage. Everything that belongs to Thomas Calvert, I want. Can you do that for me?”

My starter and partner nodded vigorously. “Porygon. Pory?”

“Yes, go now. Your directives stand: Do not be discovered, no matter what. If you think you can’t breach his defenses without alerting him, withdraw. I doubt he’ll have anything that can stop you, but right now, no one knows about you and that anonymity is a huge advantage that I want to keep for as long as possible. Understood?”

“Gon-porygon.”

“Good. Happy hunting, SAINT.”

“Gon!” he cheered a final time before diving into my screen.

After he left, I spent the day alternating between studying alchemy circles and strumming dad’s guitar when that got to be too much. I doubted I’d ever be Hohenheim, but “as skilled as a state alchemist” seemed like a solid compromise.

X

2010, November 30: Brockton Bay, NH, USA

School was wonderful. I’d never felt this way about school before. Sure, I was a proud nerd, but I wasn’t really the type to be passionately in love with learning or somesuch nonsense.

And yet, here and now, the shot of normalcy was delightful. It was a shot of endorphins in my brain. Participating in the banality of Coach Miller’s flag football class first thing in the morning was like sinking into a hot spring or settling down next to the fireplace with a mug of hot cocoa. I even let Stephen trip me, just so I could have an excuse to lie on the dew-soaked grass for a bit.

“You good there, Bryce?” Eric said as he jogged up to me. He looked as tired as I felt, no doubt helping clear rubble wasn’t any easier than being in the medical tents. We hadn’t had the chance to talk in Damascus but I felt for the guy, truly. Unlike me, he was an actual fifteen year old.

I turned to him with an easy smile. The wet grass tickled the back of my neck and made me giggle. “Don’t mind me. I’m just enjoying the breeze. The grass feels wonderful.”

“You’re in a weird mood today.”

“Am I? How so?”

“You’re happy. I mean, not that you’re pissed normally, but you’re all smiley and stuff.”

“So I am. You should join me. It’s relaxing.”

“No thanks. I don’t want my butt to be wet.”

“Hehe, suit yourself, Eric, buddy ol’ pal.”

“Seriously, stop smiling. It’s kinda creepy now.”

“You’re my buddy, Eric. You’re a swell guy.”

“Bryce?”

“Yes, Eric ol’ pal?”

“You’re not high, are you?”

“No, of course not. I wouldn’t bring my good stash to school.”

“Good, because as a hero, I’d be obligated to punish you.”

“And how are you going to do that?”

“I’d tell Amy,” he said with a devious grin. “She’ll flush your system and then chew you out for hours. She’ll make you wish you’d turned yourself into the cops instead.”

I laughed. “She would, too. Your cousin’s scary when she wants to be.”

“I know, right? It’s like she learned how to suck someone’s soul out through a lecture from Aunt Carol.”

I nodded solemnly. “Lawyers. They’re the true villains.”

“Get up, you dork. Coach Miller’s coming this way.”

“Ugh, any chance you can do the heroic thing and distract him while I catch a nap?”

“Dude, how is that heroic?”

“You’d be my hero, Eric Pelham. The valiant defender of naps.”

“No. Up, Bryce.”

“Ugh, fine… Some of us can’t fly, you jerk.”

X

Amy found me as school let out. She had a worried look on her face that turned to relief as she saw me. She schooled her expression as best she could in public. “Bryce, hey. Missed you at lunch today.”

“Yeah, I decided to eat at the band room. I wanted to try some other instruments besides the guitar,” I told her. False, but too much of hassle to verify.

We walked together for a bit, me to the library and Amy to the hospital. “And where were you yesterday?”

“I wasn’t feeling well, must have been something I ate over Thanksgiving. Why, Ames, worried about me?”

“Yes. You know wh-You’re… frustrating,” she said with an explosive sigh. “We need to talk, Bryce.”

“We do,” I agreed. This would be an uncomfortable conversation. Biotinkering, healing, the role of The GOAT persona moving forward… I could admit it; I’d strayed far from the whimsical “just for fun” cape life that I so desired when I started out. “I think we’re both busy though. Aren’t you going to the hospital today?”

“I am. I can spare an hour though.”

“I can’t. I have to go tutor someone for my work study activity. Besides, I think this chat will take longer than an hour.”

She looked at me carefully. “This Saturday. Your lab. Is that… Is that okay?”

“Of course it is. You’re always welcome there,” I told her. I saw the request for the sign of trust that it was: A tinker’s lab was sacred. It was also the place where the tinker was strongest. Amy was trusting that I hadn’t gone too far, that I still considered her a friend. It was the equivalent of sticking your head in a lion’s mouth. “I’ll show you everything.”

“Everything?”

“All of it. It’s easier to explain then.”

“I… Fine. I’m… I’m glad you’re safe.”

“So am I, Ames. So am I.”

Author’s Note

Bryce still has no clue what the SRG capes’ actual names were. They’ll forever be Flygon, Rapidash, and Rhyhorn to him.

Nothing much to say. I think I’ll throw in an interlude from different perspectives.

Animal fact: Giant manta rays are fucking massive, growing up to 3,000 lb (1.5 tons). They, like sharks, must keep swimming to feed oxygen into their gills.

Though they’re called “devilfish” because of their “horns,” they actually mostly eat tiny shrimp and zooplankton. They don’t have stingers either. In fact, those horns aren’t horns at all, but cephalic fins that paddle water (and plankton) into their mouths during feeding.

This makes them some of the only vertebrates (so discounting insects) with six, bilaterally symmetrical limbs. If you’re looking, they have a pair of tail fins that fuse into the main “wings.”