Rise 7.1
SAINT2011, January 23: Brockton Bay, NH, USA
I swam through the datastreams like I belonged there. Maker-Trainer had given me a mission: Establish the Mimic Network. Evade detection. Eliminate all relevant mimics if discovered.
I monitored the situation. Maker-Trainer marked ten thousand mimics for dispersal. They burst from abandoned shipping containers in the Boat Graveyard, temporarily dying the ground black. The swarm of spider-like robots began to divide themselves into several tendrils.
These tendrils would scatter into the streets and rooftops and storm drains, forming smaller squads. Each squad would follow preset paths towards their deployment stations. Once there, they were designed to mimic an everyday object, to lay forgotten and dormant until the call came to act.
It was one-thirty in the morning. Some squads had miles to travel, but they had time. They would take the sewers and storm drains, using limited boosters to close the distance quickly.
Neither I nor Maker-Trainer expected trouble. Humans loved explosions. Humans loved gambling. Humans loved superpowers. The Brockton Bay Grand Prix would draw the eye of everyone who was awake at this hour.
I logged into PHO as The GOAT, just long enough to set up the betting pool. Maker-Trainer had been insistent on its importance. She Who is Like Ditto suggested otherwise. No matter. I kept an eye on the discourse. A summary would be provided for Maker-Trainer’s perusal tomorrow.
I watched as the swarm infiltrated the home of every known villain. The unpowered lieutenants of the gangs were next. Then came their most common watering holes and nests. Each had been cataloged meticulously according to Maker-Trainer’s memories.
Humans here had the silly notion of the unwritten rules. They wanted to believe in the fiction that the mask and the individual were distinct. When a parahuman took off their mask, they were “civilians,” not “heroes” or “villains.”
Few humans considered violating the rules. Those that did were punished by all other humans. This meant that violations were always surprising, always costly.
Maker of Snacks once had a member of her flock killed in this manner, when she was supposed to just be a "civilian" and not a “hero.” This was what made Thomas Calvert dangerous to my flock, why he could not be permitted to live.
The rules were ridiculous. Maker-Trainer pretended to follow them, but he agreed. He never accepted these rules, never ordered that I should obey them blindly.
And why should we respect the unwritten rules? Those same rules condemned the creation of digital and organic artificial life. As a pokemon who occupied both domains, I was thus condemned twice over. I refused to accept the rules that declared that I should not exist.
So, the proliferation of the Mimic Network continued.
The one called Max Anders lived at the top of a tall condominium that provided him an unobstructed view over the sea. Wealthy humans did seem to enjoy pretending they were pidgeot, both by building nests in high places and by puffing themselves up.
He had an ornamental iron eagle on his bedpost. It was now a mimic. So was his bathroom mirror, bowl of fake fruit on his coffee table, and the electronic lock over his door. We would have a record of all his businesses, those who frequented his nest, even how he preened himself in the early hours of dawn.
Hookwolf, Krieg, and Purity were also marked: Bradley Meadows, James Fliescher, and Kayden Anders, who went by Kayden Russel. As lieutenants of the Empire, they received special attention, a mimic dedicated to hacking and monitoring their electronic traffic.
Othala was similar. Maker-Trainer insisted on keeping a closer eye on her. He had not known her name, but Thomas Calvert had begun inquiring into her identity through the moles he’d had in the Empire. There were only so many one-eyed, blonde teens in this city.
The Medhall building was also of special interest. I had ten squads of mimics scatter throughout the skyscraper. They replaced coffee makers to eavesdrop on casual conversation. They replaced computer mice of key personnel, chiefly non-IT middle management and HR staff. With that, I could acquire any information about Medhall’s personnel that Maker-Trainer could conceivably require.
The infiltration of the Azn Bad Boys was equally flawless. The ABB was different from the Empire primarily in that they had no singular, legitimate source of wealth.
Of the organization’s estimated total operating revenue, eleven percent came from protection rackets, nineteen percent from the drug trade, twenty-three percent from gambling rings and casinos, twenty-seven percent from white collar crime and debt management, and twenty percent from human trafficking and prostitution.
They also only had two capes: Oni Lee and Lung. Their unpowered lieutenants had been more difficult to identify but Maker-Trainer had me begin with the managers of casinos, hotels, and similar venues within their territory. Even if they were not directly part of the gang, they were likely to be involved in some manner.
Over the course of the night, I found Kenta Tsugumori. He was Lung. The metal mask did nothing to hide the large dragon tattoo on his chest and back. He was dangerous in combat, but passive, like a salamence who had recently had his fill. Infiltrating his nest was simple.
He had a La-Z-Boy chair. Maker-Trainer said it would be funny if Lung had a La-Z-Boy. I did not know why the thought amused him but logged the information for later.
I fiddled with a handful of squads. Now would be the best time to infiltrate the PRT. I weighed the risks and decided against it. The illusion of The GOAT worked against us here.
With such a powerful thinker taking an interest in Brockton Bay, the director insisted on both physical and cybersecurity overhauls. If I placed a mimic close enough to regularly hack their systems, they would notice in a matter of weeks, sooner if Armsmaster began reinforcing their cybersecurity.
That meant there was one, final stop: Dinah Alcott’s nest. A single mimic, disguised as a computer mouse, crawled into her home through the chimney. It found her in her room, sleeping peacefully as was right. I had it install a custom program onto her PC and phone before leaving.
If she was contacted by suspicious entities, or if the phone was carried outside a set radius of her home or school, it would ping my systems. Maker-Trainer had rejected more active monitoring options, likely out of consideration for Maker of Snacks. Apparently, it was inappropriate to observe children.
The race concluded with Armsmaster’s victory. It was the expected outcome given Maker-Trainer’s personality and tendency to tease She Who is Like Ditto. There were several considerations given a Protectorate victory, but such thoughts could await Maker-Trainer’s guidance.
For now, mission complete.
X
Bryce Kiley
I snuck back into the Gullrest at three in the morning. The race began at two. From start to finish, the xiaolin showdown hadn’t lasted a single hour. And why would it? It was just one hundred miles, obstacle course or not.
And yet, this had been the single most exhausting hour of my life. Not even Damascus compared. That wannabe flygon bastard was strong, but he was just one man. After he went down, everyone else was fodder, especially after I’d decided to execute Arsalan.
SAINT was waiting for me, quacking softly with concern and admonishment. Not even Sabah noticed that I’d layered a copy of myself over myself, but SAINT was my partner. He was hooked into my systems and we had a bond bound by aura. I couldn’t fool him if I tried.
The texture module I wore faded away into stray pixels. My suit was a mess. Parts of it had been torn and frayed. Some of the electronic components had been permanently damaged when I hadn’t fully deflected Leet’s lightning bolt. There was a crack in my helmet from when I bounced around the tunnel after Uber’s Bowser shell.
I’d used up a huge chunk of my aura on After Burners and that Meteor Impact, not to mention guarding against Sabah’s missiles and Leet’s lightning bolt. Then came Uber’s Bowser shell, the coup de grâce on top of an already demanding load.
The race had taken a lot out of me, more than I was willing to admit. I took the pressure wave, concentrated into that small tunnel, head-on. Rumble Regalia’s vibration-based buffer be damned, that one blast beat the shit out of me. I was so low on aura that I couldn’t even fix my broken arm properly, only straighten the bones and grit my teeth to look pretty for the cameras.
I let out a weary chuckle. Truth was, I hadn’t crashed on Sabah’s hood just to troll her. I hadn’t been sure I’d be physically strong enough to cross the finish line otherwise.
I saw the unimpressed look SAINT gave me and laughed, answering his unasked question. “Yeah, it was worth it.”
“Gon. Pory-gon,” he trilled. One of the many PC monitors in my lab came alive. Words appeared to write themselves. [Was it? You look damaged, Maker-Trainer.]
“It was. I got to test my gear in a low-stress environment.”
[Justifications. You just wanted to have fun.]
“That too,” I grinned weakly, patting his head with my non-broken arm. “It was a lot of fun.”
[I should have been there.]
“You had an important job. Speaking of, how did it go? Any trouble on that end?”
“Porygon-pory,” he quacked in the negative. [None. They were asleep or too busy watching your antics, Maker-Trainer.]
“Lovely. Thank you for worrying about me, SAINT.”
“Gon.”
“I know. I know my limits; I did specify a nonlethal xiaolin showdown.”
“Pory-gon. Gon.”
“Yeah, we won’t have to do this again. And thank you for taking care of the Mimic Network. I know it felt like busywork, but it’s really important that no one knows about it.”
[The Machine Army. Do you have plans for Eagleton, Maker-Trainer?] he typed, faster than any human could hope to. I wondered if I should get him a proper voice module so he could speak to Amy and Sabah, too. As it was, complex thoughts were better expressed over text, even with my limited understanding of pokespeak.
“I don’t at the moment. Eventually, yes. For now, pass me that cup of coffee I set aside,” I said. I forced myself to sit up and began peeling off the suit.
“Pory.”
“I know, but I need to get this off me and wash up before going home.”
“Gon. Pory-gon.”
I felt his psychic grip take hold of me. My costume came off and I found myself lifted into the lab’s showers.
I allowed the hot water to wash over me as SAINT headed back into the lab for that coffee. Every part of me ached, but it was one of dull satisfaction, that gratifying tenseness after a competition.
All told, I was happy with how this night turned out. Yes, I got beat up and it’d be a pain to hide my arm from mom and Sisi, but I’d accomplished everything I’d set out to do. The Mimic Network had been expanded to cover all parties of interest. Data-gathering nodes had been established. I got to experience a xiaolin showdown.
Most of all, I had fun. I saw the best Armsmaster could do, and the possibility for more. That last trick with Kid Win’s gear? Perfection. I wanted more of that. Hopefully, this race would nudge the two to greater heights.
X
I experienced the strange medium between being too tired to do anything and too wired to sleep. Morning found me feeling much the same. What little aura I recovered with my fitful sleep went towards healing my arm. I was still sore and tender, but I forced myself out of bed.
I’d had my fun but it was now time to lock in; there was too much to do to take a break. I had to repair my costume and work on my shen gong wu. I’d probably focus on recovering today, but even then, I could gather materials, inscribe formations, and get ready for the actual enchanting process.
Which was why I found myself back at the Gullrest as soon as I could get away from my family. Ostensibly, Amy was meeting up with me to have a watch party. She had to juke around Victoria but she managed to join me in time for lunch.
“I can't believe you did that. I can’t believe you did that,” she hissed, elbowing me on the arm. Her face was glued to the screen, rewinding and slowing footage to make sure she caught every moment.
“Oi, watch it. Scripts are delicate,” I said, moving my engraving knife out of the way. In my hand was a slate of silver, about the size of my torso. It was the foundational layer, and so the most important part of the wu.
“One night. I was asleep for one night, like a normal person. I'm never trusting you again. You clearly can’t be trusted to behave like an adult.”
“Now, that's not fair; we're not adults. Besides, Sabah was there, too.”
“I know; we texted. You didn't tell her about the freaky dimension and the freakier moon. And apparently, she's almost as much of an adrenaline junkie as you.”
“I’m pretty sure it’s just cars. She feels comfortable going all out like that because she knows exactly what APEP can handle. She’d be far more timid otherwise.”
My best friend let out an exaggerated sigh. “I thought Sabah would be a responsible, moderating influence on your mad science bullshit. Clearly, I was wrong. SAINT agrees with me, right?”
“Porygon,” my partner quacked. It noticeably wasn't a denial.
“Traitor,” I grumbled goodnaturedly. “Most of my ideas are great ideas.”
“Pory porygon? Pory.”
“I don't speak duck, but that sounded distinctly skeptical to me,” Amy said dryly. She placed a hand on my cheek with a soft smile that was entirely at odds with her chiding. “Hold still, you idiot. You obviously don't have enough juice to heal yourself or you would’ve done it by now.”
“Heh, yeah. The Brockton Bay Grand Prix was fun, but I did let it get a bit out of hand.”
I smiled, ruefully shaking my head. I was a little annoyed by her scolding, but I figured I deserved at least a little of it. If nothing else, I'd been wildly reckless with my aura reserves. Really, her taking the piss out of me was just the cost of treatment.
My dues paid, we worked in comfortable silence.
With my physical injuries fixed, I could feel my reserves recharging faster. The lack of pain also helped keep me focused on my engravings. My suit’s fabric repair could be automated so there was relatively little to do on that front so I expected to be back in fighting shape within a day or two.
SAINT had two tasks today: First, he was to monitor the Mimic Network. That’d be an ongoing task given its delicate nature. He was also to watch for any alerts from Dinah and send a missive to Armsmaster to explain his winnings. I truly had no idea what the “best tinker in Brockton Bay” would ask of me. It was exciting.
Sabah had considered joining us, but had decided against it in favor of spending time with Sierra and Michelle. These days, she’d taken over a corner of my lab and used it as much as a design studio for her fashion class as a tinker’s work station. Given Scarlet Overkill was her inspiration, there was admittedly a fair bit of overlap.
Which left Amy. My best friend hovered between half a dozen planters. Each had a small plant; each bore a singular fruit marred by hypnotic whorls. Devil fruits: still the greatest example of biotinkering across all my specializations.
The initial success with Trainwreck lit a fire under her. It was like she’d crested the summit of her reluctance, and now was riding down like a rollercoaster. She still wanted more data whenever he got back to us, but that didn’t mean she was willing to stay idle. There were so many things she could do to eventually optimize their mass production.
Watching her grow these devil fruit plants was like watching history unfold in fast-forward. Modern crops looked nothing like their wild counterparts. Wild bananas and watermelons were full of seeds and flavorless pulp. Kale, cabbage, and broccoli were the same fucking plant. Truth was, humans had genetically engineered and selectively bred freaks of nature to suit our dietary preferences.
Amy was essentially doing the same thing.
She forewent tree trunks altogether. Rather than waste nutrients on cellular walls meant to reinforce a tree’s structural integrity, she had me install guide frames. Vines reminiscent of a pumpkin curled around them, presenting their fruits for her convenience. This allowed for faster maturation, apparently.
It wasn’t visible, but the root systems had been greatly reinforced. They optimized water and nutrition intake, with cells that acted as valves that precisely controlled the absorption rates of every mineral and nutrient. She’d even given me the exact soil composition she wanted for her planters, with the ultimate goal of setting up a self-sufficient terrarium in one of the ship’s rooms.
Currently, she was working on balancing growth hormones and their triggers against the need for security. We wanted a plant that would germinate and grow quickly even without Amy’s involvement. At the same time, we also wanted seeds to be completely nonviable in case any were lost or stolen in the future. Because many plant hormones had multiple roles, untangling these functions would likely take time, even for her.
That was why she had six planters. She was trying out different configurations to see what worked. If we had our way, we’d blackbox the whole thing somehow through an organic self-destruct system, maybe something that triggered apoptosis when the plants did not receive a specific nutrient unique to our soil composition within a given time frame.
We weren’t ready for mass production, not by a long shot. Even beyond the biological considerations, there were political concerns: The moment we announced devil fruits, we’d draw every eye to Brockton Bay. Finding my lab would then become a matter of life or death for some, and that kind of attention was dangerous.
In the same way that Creed’s ambiguous neutrality had been a tool to be used and cast aside, I wondered if The GOAT’s anonymity was also nearing its shelf life. At the very least, the proliferation of devil fruits raised the question of future recruitment efforts.
Author’s Note
Guess who’s back. Shady’s back.
SAINT gives nicknames to meatbags he considers important. Bryce is “Maker-Trainer.” Amy is “Maker of Snacks.” Sabah is “She Who is Like Ditto.”
It’s funny, but Piggot really shouldn’t be worried about goblins. The scariest things in nature aren’t animals; they’re often plants. Poison Ivy got that much right at least, especially when Amy’s “baseline” is Vegapunk’s devil fruit.
Animal Fact: I can’t remember if I’ve said this before, but cows have stronger social ties than you’d think. They not only have best friends, but feel very attached and get stressed out when separated.
A pair of dairy enthusiasts at the University of Northampton named McLennan and McCormick observed a commercial herd of four hundred cattle. Through an association index, they cataloged dyad relationships between individuals.
They found that adolescent cattle, between the ages of seven and eleven months, performed the most positive social interactions. They also found that even a short-term separation of just thirty minutes could increase a cow’s heart rate, indicative of anxiety.
So really, cow teenagers are like human teenagers: clingy and easily stressed.