[The Worm — 08.01.2011 — Saturday]

During the chat with Madison, and more so afterward, I felt a swirl of conflicting emotions that made me start to consider spending the third Inspired Inventor’s charge.

A morning reread of our somewhat cringey chat only reinforced those feelings and conclusions.

The extreme usefulness of the knowledge pack under consideration was so great that, immediately after breakfast, I lay on the bed and bought "Self-Therapy I."

As it had been during the previous two times, the result was completely unexpected.

Mathematics I and Programming I were about platforms. "Self-Therapy I" was like a cloud. Tiny and dispersed, yet capable of firing revealing rays of light and defragmenting lightning bolts.

It gave me knowledge of countless psychic concepts, but almost all of them were trash compared to the blends of philosophies, principles, and methodologies located at the very core of the cloud.

Two of which, Motivational Correlation and Intuitive Structuring, immediately sent me on a pseudo-spiritual journey through my fragmented subconscious. Identifying mental troubles, linking them to basic instincts and needs, and cataloging them in a hybrid between "Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs" pyramid and a Memory Palace.

‘Spread of these two methods could raise humanity’s median IQ at least by five points over a decade…’ I noted absentmindedly, and immediately hooked my thoughts to the lower and upper levels of "Maslow's pyramid" — toward survival and self-actualization parts — by an associative chains.

⸻⸻x⸻⸻

Although socionics was often wrong, in many aspects, it was actually "okayish" for such a high level of generalization.

In layman’s terms, I indeed had a sort of “sociotype,” that was close to the socionics INTP type, most often associated with the "The Scientist" trope.

In essence, this means that my thought patterns (only thought patterns and cognitive functions) were encoded through Introverted Thinking and Extraverted Intuition.

And by priorities: "Logical independence" > "Search for environmental patterns and forecasting" > "Data collection and orientation toward past" > "Emotions directed at others." 

Where the fourth priority was a sort of evil twin or outlet of the first, showing what happens when the previous ones fail, become vulnerable, and so on.

The INTP type existed in about 5% of men and 1.5% of women.

All such people had the same type of fourth "priority" - during "thinking emergencies" they began to use emotions. But with different inclinations. Typically: doubt, fear, anger, avarice, and so on.

That, in turn, triggered a chain of related de facto defensive reactions, like the classic anger outbursts of Mad scientists after a botched experiment and angering thinking about it.

In my case, the fourth priority disposition was associated with sexual instincts.

Including in such a behavioral chain:

Stress.

Sexualization as a defense mechanism.

Stimulation of sexually-oriented contexts, interests, emotions, and motivations. Often in predominantly detrimental forms due to the stress-outlet nature.

For the INTP sociotype, such behavior was rather rare, but overall, at least 15% of humanity exhibited similar patterns: using frequent flirtation, flings, and sex mainly as stress outlets. Or to feel more alive. Or to gain hormonally driven mental invigoration. Such types of things. Sometimes, even in the form of a sort of “sexually induced sneezing analog for the subconscious,” or "Sexual Tourette Syndrome."

In my case, all of this was just more logical.

In my first reality, such a situation had very few positive aspects.

Not after millennia of promoting the idea that sex equals marriage.

Not after the epoch of conversion of gender norms towards what was most useful for industrialization and economic growth.

Not after decades of tremendous overdevelopment of survival cultural narratives over reproduction ones. With predominantly pro-women and pro-government exceptions. Just how many romantic movies were there, and how many about men's analog of romantic - sexual conquests and promiscuity freedom, instead of typical "masculine means violence" "alternatives"?

The anger-type outlet was far more popular for a reason - it was far more useful and efficient.

But in my new reality and circumstances? My main coping mechanism and passion were perfect for confronting my biggest fear.

At first glance, the last was very premature… yet, humans simply cannot function without some confidence in the future.

And how the fuck could I function when my future perspectives were divided between "bad" perils, "good" poisonings of my already fragmented nature, and "total winning" in the form of R.O.B.otification?

Readers like the "road to apotheosis" trope because they can fully ignore the associated drawbacks. But a real infusion of billions of years of evolution in just months and years was even more terrifying than the fear of death. The latter was about prospect, while the former was a process of continuous distancing from everything natural and known.

From humanity and its main trait - socialization. After all, the core of socialization - "Need for Others." And the less there was such a Need - the more dysfunctional everything became.

My powers were ideal weapons against the "Need for Others." By physical capabilities, and understandably up to very static.

So, to save my humanity, I needed to save my "Need for Others," and my sexualization defense mechanisms did exactly this. Via additional interest towards the most diverse and emotionally charged aspect of humanness.

Sexualization made my still-logical road toward transhumanism more emotional, human, smooth, and ethical.

Yet, as it was shown with Madison, it has its own problems.

Despite my enormous inclination toward logical thinking, I was also very empathetic. This, combined with the sexualization defense mechanism, made me prone to fast attachment and infatuations, and divided my motivations and perceptions of Madison into three conflicting motivations:

First, the empathetic part saw Madison as, at least somewhat, a likable person. Craving to know her better, and fearing that my encounters with her, even fleeting, would harm her (as an innocent young human).

Second, the sexual part craved her rather as a sexual mystery and puzzle. And yes, as a goal for sexual conquest. Not as great as many others in this reality... yet I was always a "100% completion" type of player. The second part had conflicting goals with the first: the first wanted social bonding, while the second wanted such bonding not to interfere with next sexual conquests.

Third, logical part, predominantly just raged at the idiocy of the previous parts: "Don’t you have enough problems already?! Why do you add another one?! Or think about the entire harem of them?!"

The constant clash between these three parts intensified stress, poured gasoline on the fire, and spiraled things toward sexual-oriented impulsivity, procrastination, and depression.

Entry-level Self-Therapy revealed this spiral. But as with entry-level Programming, it was more about "tools" understanding than proficiency in their use. So right now I just don't know how to fix this fully, only stabilize. Still, even this made "Self-Therapy I" the best buy under my circumstances.

⸻⸻x⸻⸻

When morning self-analysis and related breathing exercises started disrupting my Saturday plans, I stopped them, quickly dressed, and, in very good spirits, headed to the bus stop. And then to the nearest car rental agency.

There, I leased a compact SUV with tinted rear windows and, constantly checking the map on my smartphone, drove toward the now very familiar Lord Street Market.

On the first Saturday of 2011, it was swarmed with vendors at rented stands and shoppers. So even a brief walk between stands made me salivate at the propositions and heavily lament the money I had spent on Madison.

Without Self-Therapy this might have spoiled my mood, but under the guidance of the small cloud, it somehow became a good event.

First, by confirmation that everything I saw, including discounts, wasn’t unique or scarce. Just a little more convenient.

Second, when it initially seemed stupid, from a purely logical perspective, Madison was indeed the best choice for a henchman.

She was a submissive nobody, therefore very pliable to my needs. Any needs.

Inexperienced, but clearly not stupid. In her conformity and social adaptability, she even had certain wisdom.

She was nearly the only Protectorate cape I could easily recruit as a spy. Even without blackmail. Why bother when in just one month I could simply offer Sofia power and extra decades of youth? What will she do, refuse?

But Madison’s biggest advantage over everyone else, especially Taylor, was, of course, the absence of brain worms.

Although canon and almost all Worm fanfics portrayed the Shard Network as very passive. I had no fucking idea how true it is overall and in my universe. How much shards are incisive; how often do they talk to each other; how many of them can call daddy Zion?

How will they react to — working by unknown principles — an arc-reactor just 10cm from the cape's head?

And since, in case of emergencies, in addition to AI-waifu, I required at least some meatbag helper, why not appoint Madison as War Machine sidekick with extra benefits?

⸻⸻x⸻⸻

So, instead of lamenting my spending at Madison, I intensified my investments.

First, among antique trinkets, I bought a cute pink opal brooch.

Then I continued preparing for Sunday’s date by purchasing a high-quality leather notebook and pen, which would temporarily spare me the need to buy a good smartphone.

Finally, I bought a replica of an expensive watch and a dark-blue sports coat with a white turtleneck.

Already leaving the market, out of curiosity, I visited one of the second-hand electronics stores and indeed found something curious.

⸻⸻x⸻⸻

"How much for a game console?" I asked the seller about a slightly larger analog of the Nokia N-Gage, without GSM functionality.

"50, fully functional. No bargaining," said the seller, an aged man behind the long stall with almost-new electronics.

"Why so cheap?"

"The manufacturer went bankrupt just one year after sales began and stopped making cartridges. If I recall correctly, there are only about 10 games for it, or so. But very good ones, and the original price of the console was over 350, so I don’t think it will last more than a few days." Next, the seller pointed at two similar consoles. "These, with many more games, 175 and 200. The same two-week warranty for all three."

'Despite "2007" on the label, the console has 2004 characteristics. Yet, because of its good design and perfect condition, it at least looks quite futuristic. Will this be enough for Sebastian or not?'

After some doubts, I ultimately bought the handheld game console, at least for experimental digging into its firmware, and headed toward the car.

⸻⸻x⸻⸻

After the market, I headed to my first stop on Saturday Brockton's exploration -  Forsberg Gallery.

The building was obviously designed to be the city’s most noticeable and memorable skyscraper, so even if I tried, I wouldn’t have missed this modernist-style monstrosity. Twenty-six stories composed of irregularly stacked book-like rectangles made of dark-blue glass and chaotic cobweb-like silver steel bars. When the building was illuminated by spotlights in "Christmas colors," it was barely noticeable during the day.

Even when the skyscraper wasn’t beautiful, it was still striking. Memorable aggressive, yet fragile, and by this, very well suited to the Brockton.

Almost all of its stories housed offices, but the top floor housed Brockton’s most elite restaurant, and the first two - modern art gallery.

⸻⸻x⸻⸻

In the 1990s, parahuman-related topics in the USA were more popular than streamlined design in the 1960s.

The gallery was created in the very early 2000s, so, content-wise, it was essentially the Parahuman Art Gallery.

This didn’t make the gallery boring; on the contrary, because most artworks were created before the rise of the Protectorate, it contained many examples of artists’ uncensored audacity and gall. Very often preemptively directed at the absurdities and injustices of the era of superpowered segregation and the emerging feudalism.

Paintings showed different dictators using their superpowers on the innocent.

A water fountain with a sign "Heroes Only ."

A caricature depicted Scion trick-or-treating at the UN building in a costume resembling a nuclear warhead.

One modern installation showed a golden pyramid with Scion, Behemoth, Leviathan, and The Protectorate (the name of the Triumvirate before Hero's death) at the top. Ordinary people in the middle. And faces and busts of historical figures at the base. So bold and prophetic.

Not that it mattered much in a world where the main reason the USA still wasn’t feudal or at the early stage of repeating "the war with Neanderthals," just from another side, was the sentimentality of most members of the shadow cabal. Especially Doctor Mother.

'It’s so sad that I’ve never seen a single fiction from her perspective, or even a fully frank dialogue with her, also, the Protagonist, just of a more adult type of story.'

⸻⸻x⸻⸻

After Forsberg Gallery, I headed west toward the Brockton Natural History Museum.

As expected for a city of 350,000, it was fairly modest. But because Brockton Bay was located in a bay with cliffs formed during the Mesozoic era, the place was densely packed with all kinds of exhibits.

The museum had twofold importance for me.

First, because of feelings that, before transmigration, I was always fascinated by such exhibitions. Something I craved to cultivate.

Second, as proof that I wasn't the MC of some dumb fanfic. Made of a combination of my personal likes, free will, and overall abnormality of the situation.

Typical transmigrators in fanfiction just don't ignore the main quests or opportunities to interact with... well, more important named characters than Madison... for the sake of some dinosaur bones.

Not that "Saturday he spent exploring the city" was unimaginable, but it was still very rare. Especially considering the uniqueness of this morning and the reasons for it. Such things were just too abnormal for SFW fics and too mundane for NSFW ones.

⸻⸻x⸻⸻

 'At first, evolution pushed creatures toward greater size and Strength.

Then, toward maximum Agility.

Then, toward better socialization, essentially Charisma.

Then, toward universal adaptability via memory, Intelligence.

Therefore, My and Scion's "Magic," information-and-energy manipulations, isn't much of a wonder as just another step forward.

The same goes for the existence of other universes, which are essentially just another humbling after Space and Time ones,' I rather optimistically contemplated meaningless things in a meaningless place.

Then I looked at my watch and started heading toward the exit.

⸻⸻x⸻⸻

Despite the streets being crowded with people, the roads were surprisingly empty, so I reached the Boardwalk earlier than expected.

The first time I encountered information about Pariah's scheduled children's shows, I thought that I had stumbled into an idiotic subversion of the fanon universe.

The canon book portrayed Pariah's small dolls as very slow and the large ones as very conspicuous. So, delivering them to the show’s location obviously required a vehicle. One that could be untraceable only in a single case - enormous Idiot Balls in the hands of all the city’s gangs.

Not as big as in the case of Pariah’s store, but still enough to suggest the people around me weren’t quite human. And so, perhaps, neither was I.

Fortunately, a more detailed search showed that this question had an obvious answer. One I wanted to see firsthand.

⸻⸻x⸻⸻

On the way to the Boardwalk, Brockton Bay shed all of its gloom. And after I left the car and moved closer to the water, I found myself completely immersed in the set of a high-budget Christmas movie.

Perfect cleanliness. Small shops densely decorated with garlands and ornaments. Families with children enjoyed the festive atmosphere by indulging in all kinds of sweets and entertainment from street vendors. People's laughter and smiles. Everything people normally didn't associate with the words "Brockton Bay."

⸻⸻x⸻⸻

My festive mood, however, slightly faded when I reached the railing and saw the famous "The Rig."

From a visual design perspective, it was a real sci-fi marvel. The architects had stripped the rig of all recognizability. Columns were covered with dimly illuminated metal panels. The upper facades merged into a single structure, which, with landing pads and missile turrets — due to the optical magnification illusion of a bluish forcefield — appeared much larger than it actually was. More like a fort than anything else.

And from a rational standpoint, it indeed was a fort with a questionable main purpose. Surely not to evacuate captured villains by helicopter or to hold Leviathan for a few minutes.

Judging by the fact that the US coastline had many similar shielded structures, and that at the end of the book Scion... did stupid things near another oil rig, The Rig was obviously part of some highly classified containment or final-battle plans.

After the Protectorate-advertising function, of course.

Glancing at the time, I quickly headed toward the central square, where a large crowd was already gathered.

Finding an open spot at a nearby bustling café, I paid 12 plus 15 frigging dollars for a coffee and a croissant “with premium experience” and waited there the last minutes until 1:00 p.m.

About ten minutes before the announced time, two massive black security vans rolled out from an adjacent street and stopped near the edge of the wooden flooring.

I quickly paid the waitress and hurried toward the cars.

Pushing through people, I found myself a dozen meters from three PRT agents shooing the crowd out of an area they had cordoned off with stands and ropes.

⸻⸻x⸻⸻

The PRT cars and agents didn’t look like weaklings. Not at all.

Around 20 cm van door thickness, clearly visible airtightness measures, wheels at least 1,5 times thicker than normal, and a hidden but obvious machine gun hatch on the roof, all spoke volumes about the real car's purposes.

The PRT agents’ armor was of even better quality.

At first glance, they looked like airtight "fabric" suits with thin matte carapaces.

Making the PRT agents resemble strange black technicians. But the sheer size of the agents and the rigidity of their movements clearly mean that the fabric provided only the first level of protection. Almost certainly hiding at least an unpowered exoskeleton. And given the dimensions of waist pouches, at least small guns.

In the same way as vans, PRT agents were intimidating in size but subtle in design. Perfectly projecting the message of “hidden strength.”

'Fourth Threat Level of Power Classification means parahuman neutralization requires a full squad of trained operatives.

Before my transmigration, this sounded underwhelming.

Even after I learned that a “full squad” meant eight people plus two armored vehicles, it still sounded rather Meh. But not now,' I thought, and tried to compare what I saw with some "low-hanging fruit" combat technologies I know from fiction.

My small wake-up call was interrupted by the swinging open of the rear door of the second van. Revealing a two-meter-tall plush lion.

The surrounding crowd erupted in cheers.

Without me.

In big costumes, people almost always leaked some "life" through constraints of action and twitches. And animatronics always had similar speed and angle limitations.

The Thing that came out of the van was clearly neither the first nor the second. Something new, straight from the Uncanny Valley of "absolute fluidity." Forcing my lizard brain to repeatedly hit the “ALARM!” “DANGER!” “RUN!” buttons.

Once the lion stepped out of the car and moved aside, a tiny figure followed its route.

No taller than 1.6 meters even on heels, a Victorian-style porcelain doll in a beige dress — so much more alive than the lion.

I had deliberately avoided images and videos of Parian to preserve some surprises. And it was justified.

My expectations about her were based on simple art from the Worm wiki. But what I saw was the result of hundreds of hours of work from a superpowered seamstress. Smart one. Successfully bypassed the pitfalls of banality, kitsch, and parody through meticulous scaling of real samples, with moderate addition of inconspicuous complexity. Like via the use of at least a dozen beige halftones.

Parian scanned half-circling her crowd and, with doll-like movements, waved in all directions.

Then she and the lion slowly moved to the center of the cordoned area, and my skepticism peaked. Really, what could she do with just one lion?

In the center, Parian gestured with both hands toward the lion and clapped.

After the audience repeated her example, she stepped back, halfway toward the van.

For a while, the lion simply stood there, searching for something.

Just as I began to tire of this, two small lion cubs sprang from behind his back and began hopping onto his shoulders.

The lion exhaled in apparent relief, gestured, “What can I do?” and tried to catch the cubs. Spectacularly unsuccessfully.

A series of the lion's attempts and the cubs’ evasions followed: dodges, climbing onto the lion's head, jumping from paw to paw, sticking to his feet, even fucking running along his torso!

How?

Velcro. Combined with the unnatural rigidity of lightweight constructs, and their substantial strength.

At some point, I focused on the moving parts and quickly realized that I neither saw telekinetic control of dozens of points nor full material control. Rather something in between.

This, combined with some knowledge from Self-Therapy, led me toward a hypothesis:

'If I recall correctly, before Parian's trigger, there was a combination of a harassing guy, scorn from classmates, and her father’s heart attack. Events entirely out of her control.

Then, while knitting, she suddenly gained some control... that worked best on the skin.

So, perhaps, because she felt like a marionette, she triggered as a puppeteer capable of turning others into controllable marionettes. Which she can control only by literal strings - independent groups of threads. That inside marionettes look and work like a 3D rigging bone system.'

After a wonderful use of Velcro, the cubs jumped off the lion and began teasing him from different angles, prompting him to leap after them. Again, unsuccessfully.

In the case of all three marionettes, they stayed predominantly on all fours.

At least for me, demonstrating the dominance of marionette's strength over fine control.

Another of Parian's obvious limitations — or a clever imitation of it — was the rigidity of her mask, which always faced the puppets straight and from a relatively short distance. That also explained the low interest she received from gangs - just one smoke bomb, or a need to zigzag through the urban jungle, and her puppets became useless.

As I pondered her power, Parian nearly finished the performance.

The lion finally caught the cubs, and they fell asleep in his arms.

Parian went to the lion again, clapped for him, and quickly returned to the van, which would soon take her to the PRT building. And after a few hours, another civilian vehicle would drop her off at a desirable location with some money for advertising cooperation between the Rogues and the PRT.

Parian's performance was far better than I expected. Suspense, excellent reading of the audience — children, parents, onlookers — good artistry.

I had anticipated mockery but witnessed quality, which, according to Self-Therapy, showed my dangerous tendency to underestimate local actors.

After Parian and the lion climbed into the van, both cars immediately set off, without even taking the fence with them.

Wasting no time, I also began walking back to my car. On my way, observing sad, unpowered clowns, clearly having their own opinions about the “unfair competition” clause of NEPEA-5.

What awaited me at home was not as important as the purchase of "Self-Therapy I," but still undeniably a very important event and consequence of Self-Therapy buying - a very careful analysis of the Cruel Intentions movie.