January 8
Brockton Bay
Linda Veder
Linda Veder fumbled with her keys outside the front door, one hand balancing a rolling suitcase and the other gripping a paper cup of coffee that had somehow survived three flight transfers, one delay, and a cab driver who thought turn signals were a suggestion.
The early morning air was cold enough to bite, the kind that slipped down the back of your coat and reminded you that you lived in a city that ran on salt, rust, and bad decisions.
She turned the key. The lock clicked.
The smell hit her first.
Not mildew, not instant noodles, not "teenage boy forgot to take out the trash again."
No, this was garlic. And butter. And something savory, dare she think of it, something that smelled like competence.
Her brows drew together. "...Greg?"
The only answer was faint music, low jazz, smooth and unreasonably classy for 8 A.M.
Linda blinked, her professional instincts kicking in. "That's not right," she muttered. "Greg doesn't know what garlic smells like."
She slipped her shoes off and stepped quietly down the hallway, coffee cup still in hand, listening.
Then she heard it.
A man's voice. Calm, low, and unreasonably confident.
"You have to flick your hand more. "
A pause.
Greg's voice, sharp and defensive: "I know what I'm doing, stop—just stop touching it!"
A hiss, a clatter, and then,
"Do it faster! You're going too slow. "
Linda froze mid-stride, her hand tightening around the coffee cup.
She stared down the dim hallway toward the kitchen.
There was a pause and then the unmistakable sound of someone groaning in frustrated exertion.
Linda took one long sip of her coffee. "Oh, absolutely not."
She set her stuff down on the entry table, every movement deliberate, calm, professional.
It was the same calm she used when a warehouse manager told her forty tons of freight had "probably" gone missing.
The smell grew stronger as she approached it was a heavenly aroma of garlic, butter, seared fish blending with the faint hum of jazz spilling softly from somewhere near the counter.
Her heels clicked once against the linoleum before she kicked them off entirely. No need to give them warning.
She reached the corner of the hallway, tilted her head, and peeked in.
Steam curled in the warm light. The kitchen was… clean. Unnaturally clean.
Pans glistened, the sink was empty, and someone had wiped down the counters.
And there, standing by the stove, was a tall young man with damp hair, wearing only plaid boxers. The light from the hood lamp caught on his skin; whether the faint sheen on his stomach came from the shower or from the heat rolling off the pan, Linda couldn't tell. Either way, it was the sort of sight that did not belong in her kitchen at eight in the morning.
He stood easy, one hand braced on the counter as he tilted a pan, flicking butter over a piece of fish with the kind of measured, careful movement that spoke of focus.
"See?" the stranger said mildly. "Now it's even."
Greg muttered something unintelligible and nearly dropped the pan.
Linda's hand tightened on the doorframe.
The stranger turned then, mid-sentence, eyes widening slightly when he saw her. He froze, spatula still in hand, posture going rigid for a split second before smoothing into something polite.
Her mouth opened, closed again.
Then she found her voice, dry as ever.
"...And who," she said slowly, "exactly are you?"
"MOM?!" Greg's voice carried out, full of disbelief and dawning horror.
Alex's head turned toward the sound. His expression tightened it wasn't fear, not guilt exactly, just that faint, brittle tension that came with being caught somewhere he shouldn't be. The fish hissed in the pan, filling the silence.
Linda didn't move. She had faced shouting dock foremen, union reps, and the occasional corrupt customs officer. None of them had prepared her for a half-naked stranger cooking breakfast in her kitchen.
"Greg," she said evenly, still watching the man. "There appears to be someone in my house."
"MOM," he said again, voice cracking on the word. "You—uh—you're home early."
"I noticed," she replied. Her gaze didn't leave the stranger. "Would you like to introduce me to your… guest?"
Greg made a strangled noise somewhere between a cough and a laugh. "It's—uh—it's not—this isn't—" He turned toward the stove, gesturing helplessly. "Alex! Say something!"
The man—Alex—blinked, clearly searching for words that would make this less strange. His voice, when it came, was steady and polite.
"Good morning, Mrs. Veder. I was just making breakfast."
Linda raised one eyebrow. "Evidently."
He nodded once, as though that confirmed something important. "You're welcome to some, if you'd like."
She stared at him, then at Greg, then back again. "Gregory," she said at last, "is there any particular reason there's a half-dressed man offering me salmon in my own kitchen at eight in the morning?"
Greg opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. "It's—uh—kind of a long story."
"I have time," she said.
Alex, the half naked boy in her kitchen seemed to take pity at her son and added "Let me finish plating everything up Mrs. Veder, we can talk as we eat. "
He turned back to the stove with that same measured calm, lifting the skillet to plate the fish. Steam rolled up in thin curls, carrying the scent of lemon and butter. The movement was so natural that, for a strange moment, it felt as though he really did belong there, like this was simply another Saturday and not the opening act of a domestic crisis.
Linda could only stand there, arms folded, while the stranger spoke to her with the confidence of someone hosting her in her own kitchen.
"Plating," he murmured to himself, sliding the salmon onto toast already layered with eggs and herbs. "Greg, grab the napkins."
Greg moved automatically, muttering something about this not being real life.
A moment later, Alex set a plate on the table in front of her, perfectly balanced, golden and aromatic. He met her gaze squarely, polite as a waiter in a five-star restaurant.
"Please," he said, as though nothing about this situation was strange at all. He met her gaze squarely... and for a moment, the humor of the situation faded. There was no trickery in his eyes, no nervousness. Just a simple, guileless concern. "You've traveled," he repeated softly. "You should eat." For the first time since walking through the door, Linda felt her professional calm waver. It wasn't a challenge or a manipulation. It was just… care. It was unexpectedly disarming.
Linda stared at the plate, then at him. "You're very sure of yourself for someone who broke into my house in his underwear."
"I didn't break in," he said simply. "Greg invited me."
Her eyes narrowed. "Did he now."
Greg made a sound like a dying kettle. "Technically! I mean, it's fine, he's—he's helping me with some stuff—uh, projects, you know—"
"Projects," she repeated, setting her coffee down. "And these projects require… a roommate who doesn't own pants?"
Whatever fight Greg had died, as if his brain was overwhelmed and he no longer had any excuse to say.
"What exactly is your relationship with my son? " She asked meeting Alex' bright blue eyes head on. Greg once again released a groan as if he knew what was coming.
Alex met her gaze, unflinching in that strange, too-steady way that made him seem both earnest and faintly unreal.
He opened his mouth, thought for a moment—probably searching for a phrase that would sound normal—and then said with total sincerity:
"We are partners. "
The silence that followed was immediate and complete. Even the soft hiss of butter on the pan seemed to hesitate.
"Greg did always like Legend. " She muttered as the realization descended on her.
Greg made a noise somewhere between a squeak and a dying engine.
"Not like that!" he blurted, hands flailing so hard he almost smacked the plate off the table. "He means—we're—uh—collaborators! On a—on a thing!"
Linda blinked once. Slowly. "A thing," she repeated, deadpan.
"Yeah! You know! Like—projects!" Greg said, voice climbing several octaves.
"Projects," she echoed, folding her arms. "In your underwear."
Alex looked down at himself, as if only now remembering the boxers. He nodded, perfectly serious.
"Ah. Yes. My clothes were wet."
Linda's eyebrow rose another half-inch. "From your projects?"
Greg's soul visibly tried to leave his body. "No! From—water! He—uh—spilled water! Normal, harmless, totally not suspicious water!"
Alex tilted his head, trying to be helpful. "There was also soap." This time there was mirth in his eyes.
"Soap," Linda repeated. "Of course."
She took a slow sip of her coffee, eyes still on them both. "So to summarize: my son has a half-dressed partner who spills water and soap while working on a project. Totally safe non-suspicious water and soap at that?"
Greg's shoulders slumped. "...Yes?"
Linda exhaled through her nose, setting the mug down with quiet finality.
"Well," she said at last, dry as sandpaper, "as long as you're both being safe about it."
Greg's strangled "MOM!" echoed down the hallway as Alex, trying to be diplomatic, offered her a fork.
"Would you like some breakfast?" at least he's polite.
Linda sat down out of sheer habit, more than consent. The chair creaked softly beneath her as she regarded the plate in front of her. Perfectly arranged toast topped with eggs, herbs, and salmon that shimmered under a thin glaze of butter. It looked damn well more in place in a 5 star restaurant than her kitchen table, that's for sure.
Greg collapsed into the seat across from her, muttering to himself about moving out and starting a new life somewhere far away.
Alex, for his part, took the third chair, calm and composed, as if breakfast at the Veder household had always been part of his morning routine.
Linda eyed the fork he'd placed beside her plate. "If this kills me," she said dryly, "I'm haunting both of you."
"Understandable," Alex said, tone sincere. "Though I assure you, it's safe."
She sighed, picked up the fork, and took a small bite.
The first taste hit like a betrayal. Perfectly balanced flavors, the salt of the fish folding into the lemon, the crisp edge of the toast grounding the richness of the butter. Not restaurant quality, better. Honest, careful food, like something out of a life she didn't have the patience for.
Her eyes widened before she caught herself. "...You got to be kidding me," she muttered.
Greg, already chewing his own portion, made an undignified noise that could only be described as a moan. "Oh my God," he mumbled around a mouthful.
"I can't even eat instant noodles anymore."
Linda blinked at him. "That's your takeaway from this?"
Greg pointed a fork at his plate, eyes wide with helpless sincerity. "No, you don't understand, Mom. He made this out of the stuff we had in the fridge. I saw him. There was, like, leftover salmon from two nights ago, and he just—" he made vague, flailing gestures with the fork— "did something to it and it turned into this."
Alex, who had taken a modest bite of his own serving, looked faintly uncomfortable under the praise. "It was a lot of small choices," he said quietly. "Timing, heat, a little patience. Anyone could do it with practice."
Linda stared at him. "No, 'anyone' cannot do it. I've seen what your generation calls cooking."
Greg groaned, dropping his fork. "See? This is what I live with now. He cooks like this every time. You can't go back to microwave meals after this, Mom. You try cup noodles again and your soul rejects it."
She gave him a look somewhere between disbelief and amusement. "A tragic fate, Gregory. Truly."
Greg sighed dramatically and took another bite, still muttering something about "ruined forever."
Linda tasted another forkful herself. The lemon brightened the butter; the herbs lingered just long enough to make the whole thing feel fresh. It wasn't just good, it was deliberate. The kind of cooking done by someone who paid attention, who wanted things to fit together.
She set the fork down and looked across the table. "So," she said, tone casual but curious, "where did you learn to do this?"
Alex shrugged. "Online, mostly. I started watching videos while Greg was out."
"That's… impressive," Linda said after a pause. "People watch those videos all the time. The food never looks like this afterward."
"I followed the steps," he said simply. "Then I adjusted the parts that looked off. Paid attention to the details."
Greg snorted. "He makes it sound so easy."
Linda smiled faintly. "Some people just have an eye for things, I suppose."
They ate in relative quiet for a few moments, the clink of cutlery filling the space. The air smelled of citrus and butter, the faint jazz still curling through the background.
When the plates were nearly clean, Alex stood and began clearing them without being asked. He rinsed the pans, wiped down the counter, and stacked everything neatly.
Linda watched him work, her expression unreadable. Finally she said, "If you're going to keep feeding my son like this, I'm not complaining."
Greg groaned, slumping in his seat. "Mom, please stop encouraging him."
"Encouraging him?" she said. "Gregory, I'm trying to figure out how to keep him."
Alex glanced back, startled but polite. "I'll keep the kitchen clean and I'll do my best to keep Greg fed and safe. " he said simply, as though he was offering a deal.
Linda shook her head, unable to hide the smallest of smiles. "You'd better."
Alex smiled back and offered his hand. "It's a deal."
Linda took it automatically. His grip was firm but gentle but deliberate. She released him, half amused, half bewildered at how easily he managed to make himself sound like someone you could trust with a mortgage.
Then Alex glanced at the clock. "I should go," he said. "Greg's list says I'm supposed to be at the gym by nine."
"List?" Linda asked, one brow lifting.
Greg perked up, suddenly defensive. "Yeah, my list. He—uh—wanted to start getting in shape, so I wrote up a schedule. Boxing lessons, nutrition, all that."
Linda blinked. "You're managing his schedule?"
Greg fidgeted. "Technically we're managing our schedule, but—yeah, kind of."
Alex nodded politely. "Greg's very organized. It helps."
"Organized," Linda echoed, glancing around at the impossibly clean kitchen. "I'll say."
Alex slipped on a faded gray hoodie, an equally faded set of pants and reached for a gym bag that looked like it had survived a few too many years of use. The strap was frayed, the logo nearly rubbed away, and the zipper hung slightly crooked.
Linda's eyes flicked down automatically, the way mothers' eyes do when assessing if someone's warm enough or fed enough. "That thing's seen better days."
He followed her gaze, then smiled faintly. "It still works."
Greg, who had been scrolling through his phone, winced. "Right. I'll add 'buy new clothes' to the list."
Linda crossed her arms. "Good. And make sure it's above 'burn the house down,' just to keep priorities straight."
Greg groaned. "Mom…"
Alex adjusted the strap of the gym bag, patient as ever. "I'll handle it," he said. "Thank you for breakfast, Mrs. Veder. And for the company."
"You cooked it," she pointed out.
He inclined his head, the corners of his mouth turning upward. "Then thank you for eating it."
With that, he slipped on a pair of worn sneakers and headed for the door.
The morning air seeped in as he opened it. He paused for a second, as if making sure everything behind him was in order, then gave a small nod and stepped outside. The door shut quietly.
Silence settled in.
Linda stood there for a moment, then sighed and turned to her son. "So. You have lists now."
Greg sank into his chair, dragging a hand down his face. "Yeah. I thought it'd help keep him on track. You know, give him something normal to do."
"And boxing is normal?" she asked.
He shrugged helplessly. "It's Brockton Bay, Mom. Compared to everything else here, punching things is basically therapy."
She exhaled, shaking her head with a small, reluctant smile. "You're impossible."
Greg pointed weakly at the door. "No, he's impossible. I'm just trying to keep up."
Linda picked up her empty coffee cup, glanced at the spotless kitchen one last time, and said, "Then I suggest you don't let that one get away, Gregory. He's the first project you've ever finished."
Greg groaned into his hands. "Mom…"
But she was already heading down the hall, humming faintly under her breath, the sound of quiet laughter following her all the way to her room.
Note: This was a fun one to write
No they aren't gay
Failed roll--->[300] Mirror Waltz (Fae / Faerie Tree)
Reality has a reflection — and you can step through it. Any mirror, still water, polished metal, or illusionary surface can serve as a doorway.
Successful Roll
[200] Reflection of Duality (Fae / Faerie Tree)
You are not one being, but two truths — the self that acts, and the self that is perceived by everyone else.
Both are equally real, and you can choose to manifest your perceived self for a small duration of time.
Stories mold the fate of fae, mortal perception affects them more than people think. Thus you gain the power to manifest stories about yourself just as the fae changes because of how mortals tell their tales.
CP: 100
January 8, 2011
Alex Miller
Brockton Bay
---
The door clicked shut behind me, and for a long moment, I just stood on the porch.
I was part amused by Greg's plight and the other half contemplative of the new power I just gained.
First of all, that went better than I thought it would, It was more letting the assumption take root than anything else. They couldn't afford to get caught and now they won't and Greg's mother is now also implicitly approving his stay.
All in all it wasn't a bad result.
I started walking, hands tucked into my jacket pockets. The morning was cool, the kind that tasted faintly of sea salt and old metal. Brockton Bay's version of fresh air.
The gym Greg mentioned opened around nine, and it was only a twenty-minute walk. Good. I needed the movement to shake the static out of my head.
[Reflection of Duality]
To my human sensibility it felt extremely weird, Psychos will remain psychos even if a lot of people believe they're saints. Humans wore masks so they could function.
It was not quite like that for the fae. For the fae their masks were their legends and their stories. The fae did not wear masks, the masks wore them.
The belief of the audience shapes the power of the wearer. Greg will love this one. However we could spread rumors after rumors but if no one latches onto them they don't quite count.
As with the name [Reflection of Duality], It had two uses, call a shade of my story to act on its own, or manifest it myself and control whatever power that story carried.
There's a timer for this about 8 minutes for my manifested duplicate and about 8 seconds if I manifested the story myself. It seemed tied to my own fae power base because I had roughly 80 minutes worth of glamour I could use.
If Chuck Norris had this power I was pretty sure he'd solo the endbringers before the timer ran out. Honestly, He probably could without it.
8 minutes of autonomy for something born from the collective idea of me.
The question was, which me?
Beacon? Tempest? The quiet guy who keeps Greg from setting the house on fire? Two of which were on the table.
Every name I carried was a shape waiting to be filled. Every act of kindness, every display of strength, every rumor Greg accidentally seeded online, those were the bricks that would build the story I could call upon.
For example I can call on a version of Void Watcher who could teleport. Not because I could do it, but because people thought I could.
That was the terrifying beauty of it.
If enough people believed I could move faster than sight, the story of me would learn how and for eight minutes, that story would be real.
It's just we don't quite know what that version would do. As far as I remember PHO was still undecided about his motives at all. That just meant Greg still had a lot to do regarding PR for team outsiders.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized [Reflection of Duality] wasn't just a power — it was basically PRT's dream power.
Which meant Greg, bless his overcaffeinated soul, was essentially my super power.
Every post, every theory thread, every half-baked comment he dropped into PHO and Discord servers was raw material for a myth the world might decide to believe in.
"You just gonna stand there or are you going in?" A deep voice, snapped me out of my thoughts.
I blinked and realized I'd stopped in front of the gym's door, hand hovering just short of the handle. The man who spoke stood a few feet away, shoulders broad enough to make the doorframe look small. He had a towel slung over one shoulder and the kind of calm confidence that only came from knowing exactly how hard he could hit someone.
"Right, sorry" I said, stepping aside automatically. "I got lost in my thoughts."
He snorted. "Yeah, I do that too when I'm tryin' to talk myself outta cardio." He brushed past me, pushing the door open. A wave of warm, humid air rolled out. "C'mon. No point thinking about it when you could be doin' it."
I followed him inside.
The place was smaller than I expected, a long rectangle filled with the constant rhythm of impact. Punching bags swayed in slow, heavy arcs; a jump rope hissed in the corner; somewhere, an ancient radio crackled through some hype music.
Overall it looked like I was in the right place. I went ahead and wrote my last name on the logs and looked around trying to decide where to start.
The big man dropped his towel on a bench and gave me a once-over. "You here to learn, or just trying to look busy?"
"Learn," I said. "I want to figure out how to fight."
He gave me a slow, assessing look that made me feel like a rookie even before I'd done anything. "You look like a thinker, not a fighter."
"Both," I admitted.
He grunted, apparently fine with that answer. "Name's Carter. Rules are simple: no bravado, no excuses. You listen, you bleed a little, you get better. That clear?"
"Crystal."
He pointed to a rack of worn wraps and gloves by the wall. "Wrap up and start with the rope. Warm your feet before you try to swing your hands."
I nodded, grabbed a set of wraps that had seen more history than I had, and started working them around my wrists. The fabric was rough, grounding.
---
Jump rope. Simple, rhythmic, human. My body fell into a pattern, every slap of the rope syncing with my breath.
I switched to shadowboxing, and Spark of Genius slipped in like an old friend. Every motion adjusted itself, finding more efficient angles. My stance tightened. My hips started moving in sync with the strikes before I consciously corrected them.
Carter passed by, giving me a side-eye. "Fast learner, huh?"
"Something like that."
By the time I moved to the heavy bag, sweat clung to my shirt and my breath came steady, measured.
The first few punches were uneven — too stiff, too cautious. Then instinct caught up to intellect. Feet anchored. Shoulders loose. Power from the ground up.
Each hit sounded heavier than it had any right to. The bag rocked on its chain. I could feel [Carapace] nullifying the impact as I hit the bag.
Carter's brows rose slightly. "You box before?"
"No," I said between breaths. "But I've been in a fight before."
"Sure," he said dryly. Carter snorted, clearly unconvinced, but a hint of amusement tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Yeah? Well, let's see if you can keep it up, street fighter."
He rapped a fist lightly against the heavy bag, the sound dull and dense. "Most guys gas out in five minutes. You last ten, I'll take you seriously."
"Deal," I said.
The next few minutes were a blur of motion. Unlike coding where most of the learning was in understanding code as a language and learning to command it to do something, boxing was about instinct. It wasn't logic, it was rhythm. Force had to flow the way breath did, distributed evenly, precisely, without hesitation.
Each movement was a negotiation between balance and momentum. Too far forward, and I'd stumble. Too far back, and the hit lost power. It was a strange kind of programming, only the syntax was written in muscle and pain instead of code and keystrokes.
I could feel [Spark of Genius] adjusting in real time, mapping my mistakes, rewriting them. Footwork recalibrated. Shoulders loosened. My stance became less about thought and more about presence.
[Carapace] let me endure more than I had any right to. It was far stronger than I'd expected.
Carter's mitts cracked against my guard again and again, and though the sound filled the room with the violence of it, the impact itself felt… muted.
Good thing [Spark of Genius] was still doing its job. It helped me sell the act, calculating just how much recoil to fake, how to angle my body so it looked convincing. I didn't have to fake my ragged breathing so that helped too.
By the time five minutes had passed, I could read Carter like a book. Every shift of his shoulders, every slight change in stance broadcast what he was about to do. His tells were obvious once I noticed the patterns, how he dipped his chin before throwing a right, how his back foot twitched half a heartbeat before a hook.
The problem was, I was getting too good at it. If I kept reacting naturally, he'd notice something was off. So I started sandbagging, to avoid suspicion.So I began letting a few jabs slip through, absorbing them, pretending to be just a guy trying to keep up.
[Carapace] soaked the blows easily, the impacts rolling off me like waves against stone. I could have stood there all day taking his punches, but Carter didn't need to know that.
"Keep your hands up!" he barked, landing another light jab on my guard. "You drop that lead hand again and you'll eat pavement next time."
"Got it," I said, panting just enough to sound tired and I kept my hands up this time.
He grinned, all sweat and satisfaction. "Good. You've got grit. Most first-timers start whining halfway through. You're doing alright, Miller."
"Thanks." I huffed, catching my breath. I was technically invulnerable but it seemed like my stamina was still a thing.
[Carapace] didn't help with the burn in my lungs, or the ache in my legs, or the way sweat stung my eyes. It was still good to survive anything other than a treadmill though.
Carter let me rest for a moment, pacing around me like a warden who'd found a new inmate worth keeping an eye on. "You've got the frame for it," he said finally. "Couple months of work and you'll stop thinking and start fighting. Until then, keep showing up."
"Sure," I said, rolling my shoulders, feeling the pleasant heaviness of fatigue. "Can I get in earlier?" I decided it's good to continue this, more to learn control and keep in shape.
He smirked. "If you're still walking."
I grinned back, half-exhausted. "I'll crawl if I have to."
Carter barked a laugh and clapped me on the shoulder hard enough to make the floorboards protest. "That's the attitude. Now get outta here before I find more drills for you."
I didn't argue.
When I stepped outside, the air felt cool and clean against my sweat-soaked skin. It was an hour before noon.
The walk back was slow. The city was loud again, I let it wash over me. After an hour of punches and footwork, the noise felt less like chaos and more like rhythm.
By the time I reached Greg's place, my shirt had mostly dried, sweat marks like faint scars across the fabric.
When I got to the Veders' house, the smell of coffee hit me first. Linda was in the kitchen, hair tied back, a travel mug on the counter beside an open suitcase. She looked like someone who'd never fully unpacked
"You look like you fought a bear," she said without fully turning.
"It was more of the cardio that beat me down." I said as I took a free seat.
That earned a small laugh. "At least you're learning the value of cardio. Coffee's fresh."
I poured myself a cup and leaned against the counter. "Heading out again?"
"Yeah," she said, sliding her phone into her bag. "Freight routes got shifted. I've got to be in Boston by tonight, then they're moving me upstate for a few weeks. The train passes through here, so I figured I'd stop by for a few hours. Refill my caffeine reserves, make sure Greg's still breathing."
"That's efficient," I said.
"That's logistics," she replied with a faint smirk. "You get good at living out of a suitcase after the first dozen runs."
I nodded, then glanced at the bag. "You really don't get much time off, do you?"
She shrugged. "Time off costs time, and that's expensive. Besides, this city's not exactly a vacation spot these days."
"Fair," I said.
Her expression softened as she looked at me. "You know, he's been different since you showed up. Eating real food, actually leaving the house. You're good for him."
I blinked. "I try." I let her think what she wanted to think.
"I can tell." She smiled. "I told you, I'm not the kind of mom who freaks out about that sort of thing. You two take care of each other. That's all that matters."
I shrugged, "He's my Partner, I already promised I'd fight Endbringers with him. "
Linda blinked, one brow rising as she gave a short laugh. "Is that what kids promise to each other nowadays?"
"Something like that," I said, meeting her eyes over the rim of my cup. It would depend on which pair of kids. "I don't break promises. "
That earned a look halfway between amusement and concern. "Endbringers, huh? When I was your age, the most dangerous thing a boyfriend could promise was to sneak me into a concert."
I smiled faintly. "Guess expectations changed."
"I'll say." She shook her head, but the teasing never left her voice. "Just don't get yourselves killed trying to prove a point. It'd ruin my schedule."
"I'll do my best," I said, and this time she seemed satisfied with that answer.
Linda zipped her bag closed, still chuckling to herself. "You two are ridiculous," she said warmly. "But you look out for each other. That's what counts."
"I promised," I said simply.
"I can tell," she repeated, softer now. "You've got that same stubborn streak Greg's dad had — once you decide something's worth doing, the world could fall apart and you'd still show up on time."
She slung her bag over her shoulder, giving me one last grin. "Alright, hero. Try not to save the world while I'm gone. At least wait until I'm back to watch."
"No promises," I said with a smirk.
"Didn't think so." And with that she left.
For a moment, I just stood there in the quiet that followed. The kind of silence that only really existed in houses people passed through, not lived in.
Then my stomach growled.
"Alright, alright," I muttered, setting my cup in the sink and raiding the fridge.
As I was looking at the fridge, the vortex started up trying to grab another power, this time from the same tree that [Carapace] came from. The pull intensified, like a heartbeat syncing with mine. For a second, I thought it would take. It didn't.
It was an absolute cheat of a power too, It would have allowed me to spawn minions with certain traits that I held. Just thinking of a bunch of minions with [Carapace] was already overpowered, what if I had more broken traits?
The vortex faded, leaving only the steady buzz of the fridge. I cracked two eggs into a pan, watching them sizzle as if nothing had happened. Taking the leftover rice and started a quick stir fry.
It didn't take long to cook and it was easy to season, after not too long I had 2 plates of food ready.
Greg was exactly where I expected him to be, hunched over his laptop in the living room, surrounded by enough empty cans to qualify as an aluminum-based lifeform.
His headphones hung around his neck, and three separate chats blinked across the screen in rapid-fire bursts.
"You're alive," I said.
"Barely," he replied without looking up. "Forum wars don't sleep. So, how was punching things?"
"Educational." I leaned against the back of his chair. "But I didn't come to talk about that."
He froze mid-keystroke. "You got another one, didn't you?"
"Two, technically," I said.
That made him swivel around so fast his chair squeaked. "Two?"
"One succeeded, one didn't."
Greg grinned. "Start with the good news first."
"[Reflection of Duality]," I said. "It's… fae. Very fae."
He raised a brow. "Meaning?"
"Meaning it's based on stories. Perception. I can manifest a version of myself based on what people believe about me. Either as a duplicate or through me directly, for a few minutes, depending on glamour reserves."
Greg blinked once, then twice. "You're telling me you can literally become your public persona?"
"Temporarily."
His grin turned feral. "Do you realize how broken that is? We can crowdsource your power level. The more people believe in Tempest or Beacon, the stronger your projections get!"
"That's the problem," I said. "Belief is volatile, too many versions of one cape means unstable manifestations and weaker powers. The more they believe one version the better."
He winced. "Right, okay, PR strategy incoming: no conflicting myth threads. We curate the narrative. One version at a time."
"Exactly. Control perception, control power output."
Greg was already typing, muttering to himself. "Okay, so we focus on heroic archetype branding. Beacon's safer — low risk, high trust. No edgy antihero stuff."
I sighed. "You're enjoying this too much."
He grinned up at me. "Dude, you gave me an actual reason to care about analytics. I literally can, possibly shit post someone into Godhood. "
I shook my head and sat on the couch. "Anyway, the second one didn't stick. A [Carapace] upgrade, would've made minions with some of my traits. As long as I had resources, I could've kept spawning them."
Greg froze mid-keystroke, his expression flipping from excitement to unease. "Minions. Like… people?"
I thought about how that power felt, no it won't have made people. It would have made insects because the alien that tree came from was a fully insectoid species.
"Based on what I can tell, they would have been insectoids the size of a dog. It would have depended on what traits I had if ever. "
We ended up sitting there for lunch, trading questions and half-serious theories like it was a science project from hell. Greg wanted to know if the bugs would talk, if they'd be telepathic, if they'd molt into bigger ones.
Then, of course, the conversation drifted into PR territory. It always did.
"What kind of stories do we start attaching to Tempest?" he asked around a mouthful of fried rice. "Because if people's belief shapes your power now, we gotta start managing expectations before someone decides you can bend time or something."
I raised a brow. "You're acting like that's not already happening."
"Oh, it is," he said, scrolling through his laptop. "There's a guy on PHO arguing that Tempest is a fragment of a forgotten storm god from the Norse pantheon. Another one thinks you're an escaped tinker experiment that achieved self-awareness through electricity. The 'divine AI theory' has a shocking amount of traction, by the way."
"Pun intended?"
"Always."
I sighed. "And you haven't done anything to stop them?"
He gave me a look that was equal parts innocent and guilty. "Technically, I've been… curating."
"Curating?"
"Selective engagement," he said quickly. "You know, like steering the myth instead of fighting it. There's no killing rumors — only shaping them. We've been getting a ton of good engagement ever since I implied Tempest might've saved a ship from capsizing last week."
"That didn't happen."
"Yeah, but it could have," he said, leaning forward eagerly. "That's the beauty of it. We're not lying, we're narratively forecasting."
I put my face in my hands. "You're weaponizing the internet."
"I'm optimizing belief," he corrected. "Big difference."
"Greg," I said flatly, "you realize that with [Reflection of Duality], if enough people believe one of those stories, it could become real, right?"
He grinned. "Exactly. That's why we need the right stories. Heroic, clean, awe-inspiring — something that builds reverence without fear."
"So… myth management."
"Brand management," he said proudly. "Except your brand occasionally shoots lightning and saves lives."
Then he froze mid-type, eyes lighting up like he'd just discovered a new commandment. "Wait — that reminds me. We need to talk to New Wave about getting the footage from yesterday."
I frowned. "Footage?"
"Skidmark streamed the whole thing," Greg said, fingers flying over his keys. "Terrible angles, though. New Wave's bodycams probably got the clean shots. If we can get that footage, we control the story before someone else edits it."
"How do you suppose we do that?" I asked, not really knowing the procedure to get around to that request.
"Ask," he said simply. "New Wave's got a PR rep, Janine something. I'll message her, see if they'll share in exchange for a joint release. Win-win — they look good, we look legit."
"That easy?"
"Nothing's easy," he said, grinning. "But people like good press. I'll keep it clean."
"Good. Just don't make it weird."
Greg saluted with his soda can. "When do I ever?"
I gave him a look.
"…Okay, I'll try not to. Oh and after your Beacon gig we'll be able to afford new electronics. For now though..."
He slipped me a folded piece of paper, the edges smudged with ink and crumbs. "Time and address. Client's expecting you. There's 3 different ones don't get them confused." Now that I could fly distance wasn't much of a problem, so long as I kept enough in the tank for a glamour.
I squinted at the paper. The scrawl looked like a dying spider had tried to write cursive with a broken pen.
"This is barely readable," I muttered.
Greg didn't even glance up from his screen. "Readable is relative."
I tilted my head, staring at the lines until something clicked. That familiar, subtle spark flickered behind my eyes.Patterns emerged where there shouldn't have been any; curves aligned, spacing hinted at rhythm, the chaos sorted itself into code.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," I whispered. "My brain just taught itself basic cryptography by trying to decode your chicken scratches."
"You're welcome? " He said uncertainly before going back to his PR.
Seeing Greg got pulled back into his world, I shrugged and went to work. Bargains didn't make themselves.
Note: Given how fast the powers are coming I'm boinking it up to 4k per roll (honestly we might have to go higher but I'll feel this out first.)
Failed Roll
[400] Hive Ascendant (Carapace / Eternal Bastion Tree)
You are no longer alone. With but a thought, a colony in your image may form.
Spawn will inherit compatible traits — never exceeding the limits of your current biology.
CP:200
January 8 2011
Brockton Bay
Alex Miller
I had the folded list in my pocket. Greg's handwriting wasn't legible so much as implied, basically a scatter of half-decoded letters that only made sense after [Spark of Genius] activated, much to my chagrin.
The first address wasn't far. I didn't even need to fly. I walked until I found an alley near the place and changed into my Beacon costume, which was basically putting on a coat, some gloves, and a mask.
Straightforward injury, Greg said. Sprained shoulder, maybe a torn muscle.
That was fine. Routine was a luxury.
The apartment was small but clean. A woman in her fifties opened the door, a sling around her arm, her face tense from pain and sleeplessness.
"You're Beacon?" she asked, like she wasn't sure if she was supposed to say it out loud.
"That's what they call me," I said. "Show me."
She led me to a chair. The arm looked bad, a deep bruise running from shoulder to elbow, swollen but not broken. A month of untreated strain.
I knelt to check the angle. "You said you lifted something heavy?"
"Box fell. I tried to catch it." I looked at it first with [Eyes of Faerie] and then with [Eyes of non-euclid], not that I needed to, but as a professional curiosity, if understanding the problem would help in treating the problem at all.
I offered the deal, and she accepted. I drew upon my well of Faerie magic and willed the injury to heal. The muscles realigned, swelling eased. It was painless, and the feedback told me the body was responding.
When I stood, her expression was already different.
She flexed the arm slowly, eyes wide. "It doesn't— it doesn't hurt."
"Don't lift anything heavy for two days," I said, already reaching for the cash envelope.
She pressed it into my hand before I could ask. "You're… not what I expected."
"Few people are."
I left before the gratitude got awkward. I wasn't built for it. She already paid her part of the deal, and that was it.
-----------
Outside, the air had shifted.
The first job had gone cleanly, no flare, no imbalance, no side effects. I was giving away deals of a lifetime, perhaps, but once again, my being broke counted toward the balance. I needed money to achieve my goals; thus, to whatever weighed the stakes of the deal, I was winning.
My sense of glamour felt steady, maybe a little stronger, just a tiny bit, but it was there. I just needed time.
I checked the next address.
South Docks, a twenty-minute walk if I cut through the alleys. Greg's notes said, "Minor fracture. Pay's good. Probably safe." Probably. Always the kind of word you use before something goes wrong.
The neighborhood changed as I moved east; houses gave way to warehouses and half-shuttered businesses. A few people watched from stoops, the usual bored wariness that passed for curiosity here.
I found the door halfway down the hall, knocked twice, and heard footsteps shuffle. The man who answered looked young, mid-twenties, built like someone who worked too many shifts. His right leg was braced awkwardly, his foot turned out.
"You're him?" he asked, not quite believing it.
"Depends on who you think I am."
He blinked, half-smiled. "Beacon. I—I've got cash. Just… come in."
Inside was bare but clean. No family photos, no clutter. Only a mattress, a table, and the metallic smell of reheated food.
He sat, grimacing as he moved the leg.
"Dock accident?" I asked.
"Crate slip. Can't afford time off. Foreman said he'd replace me if I miss another day." I could tell this meant a lot to him.
He handed over an envelope. I didn't count it. The money would help, but in the end, the deal itself was worth doing.
The fracture wasn't bad, just misaligned. I looked at it with my supernatural vision, and I couldn't really see much, but I saw more than most. I'd like to think it helps.
Glamour flowed, clean, colder this time, more clinical. A pulse of light under skin, then stillness. The leg straightened, pain dulling fast. It drained a bit, but I was only dealing with symptoms, not a cause; it was easier.
He exhaled, slow, eyes wide. "You're… you're real."
"I would like to think I'm real," I smiled, because sometimes I dream of things that would make me question what is real.
"Keep weight off it for twelve hours."
He nodded, already testing it, as if disbelief was a physical itch.
I left without a word as he was trying his newly healed foot out. I shook my head a little, lost in thought.
Outside in a nearby alley, when I was sure no one was looking, I released my Beacon glamour and headed out to the last job.
I got more power in this deal than earlier. This meant more to him than he even let on. I thought about going back and asking, but in the end, I let it go. Perhaps he didn't buy healing as much as he bought time for himself, and that's why I got more out of it.
I had initially thought that I had to win on the deal in order for me to get more power, but that wasn't true. Perhaps some intangible thing was on the table, like sincerity or impact. We needed more data to have a conclusion. I resolved to ask more the next time.
The instinct that came with [Once Bound] was incomplete, like only a third of the whole manuscript. I had to fill in the blanks. All I know is it factored what I needed, and it factored what the client needed as well. Why then did I get more power from this man than the lady with burnt hands when their situation seemed pretty similar?
Why did healing that child bring so much power compared to the others? What exactly was different? They were all thankful.
It was an interesting thing to dive into the complexity of the fae tree. Just like the rest of my powers, maybe outside of the humanity tree, there was something so inhuman in them that was hard for me to really comprehend.
The power that came from the fae had much to do with duality: truth or lie, cause and effect. I could so easily call on the warmth, but I also knew somewhere hidden there was a bite in there that would come out if I was slighted.
Halfway on my way to the last job, I felt the vortex open up. The pedestals once again called for powers, another round, another chance to add something to the growing framework of what I was becoming.
The pedestal with Carapace once again lit up, and the vortex reached out and tangled with a stone. It resisted; it tried to muscle its way out, but the vortex wasn't one to be denied for long, evidently.
[Kinetic Reservoir Node]
Just like the [Carapace], a rush of genetic information came over me, of life from outside this galaxy.
A world of endless storms, where hurricanes were gentle breezes and life itself was shaped by motion, of a race on a planet that suffered from extreme wind conditions. A species that lived and evolved a way to feed off the rhythm of their planet's vicious whims. That species, like many others, fell prey to whatever monsters [Carapace] belonged to.
I could feel my muscles burn as they were changed by my power. I don't know the science of it, but I knew how it worked. I could now store momentum, kinetic energy. I could also release it and gain strength comparable to the kinetic energy stored. Even now, with every pulse of blood through my veins, the reservoir drank in motion, growing full on the rhythm of my body.
More important than the power gained was the change in the vortex. Usually, it would accumulate power to try and gain more stones, but after this pull, I instinctively felt that not to be the case. It felt... full? Like a bear done gorging itself, going for hibernation.
I mused for a little about how I felt about that. It was strange.
Getting new powers was… intoxicating. The rush, the possibility, the promise that I could fix everything if I just kept going.
Thinking about it, I probably already have enough power to do what I needed to do with just a little patience.
[Once bound] and [Reflection of Duality] probably could get things done in five or ten years even if I were lazy.
I think it was for the best; I was getting complacent, and complacency meant death. I knew that from the previous world. Regardless of how it went, I needed to keep on going and doing things right. At least I had powers this time.
Perhaps more powers were a safety net, but I need to use what I have to do what I can. That's just how life is.
I say that, but I am also aware that I felt fear now more than ever, because I couldn't suddenly just gain a solution like I always did.
I was near the location now. As I walked, power welled inside me, a result of the new organ I just got. It was a different feeling from the usual powers I had; it didn't feel quite so mystical, just raw power.
Then again, in a world like this, raw power had a lot of uses. My new power was as eager as a tin toy that was coiled up, ready to go into action as soon as you release it.
The third address was a warehouse, half-lit by a flickering sign that just said "ALC—" before dying again. I looked up at the door, and I sighed to myself, this was the last one for today.
A man in his late thirties sat slumped on a crate. His beady eyes were alert, even if he looked unkempt. "Yous the healer they been talking about?"
"Depends on who's been talking," I said, getting into the swing of things.
He looked up, saw the mask, and went still. "Look, if ya a doggone healer just you say so!" His voice was angry, and his face was red.
"I am a healer," I confirmed evenly. Angry as he was, [Eyes of Faerie] told me he was here sincerely.
"Good. I done talk to yours man. I know how this works," he said as he stood up from the crate. "Girlie, come and show yourself."
He called out, and from behind him a little girl of about 7 came out hugging his thighs.
A small girl peeked from the shadows, clutching his leg. Seven years old, maybe. Eyes wide but defeated; it was like looking at a famous painting, but the colors were muted.
I shifted my gaze to the man.
"Girlie's got something wrong with her brain," he said gruffly. "Them doctors can't make heads or tails of it and have been stringin' us along. I'd pay an arm and a leg if you could get her fixed."
I frowned slightly. I thought this was supposed to be a straightforward case.
But something was off. The details didn't line up.
The contact Greg sent me wasn't this man.
I thought it was supposed to be an easy one. The question was, which man did he talk to? The eyes of Faerie told me that he wasn't lying, but the causality of things didn't add up.
I opened up my [Eyes of Non-Euclid] and saw it.
Eight.
Eight separate timelines.
Eight aborted attempts to reach this moment.
Eight times I have been slighted! The fae in me was furious.
During my walk from the door to this spot, there had been eight different branches all cut off at the moment men in black tactical gear appeared. Each ended abruptly, violently. Each failure collapsed in on itself, whatever punishment [Outsider] brought upon the fool who tried.
In the Abyss, time meant nothing — shapes, order, cause, all dissolved into chaos. Through these eyes that belonged to the Abyss, I saw every aborted reality like branches on a dying tree.
Two threads remained: this one and another. Neither intersecting with my person.
I didn't show it, but I felt cold, calculating vengeance fill my veins. Fury, deep and cold like the very first winter. The Fae might heal, might laugh, might make deals, but they never forgot debts. And vengeance was a kind of debt as well.
I let [Outsider] unfurl just slightly, the awareness brushing the edges of the world like an eyelid opening. No gaze pressed back. Only the man and the girl.
I looked into the other timeline, and I looked at myself and that version of me looked back and nodded.
He started bringing his rage to bear. He did one thing; he used [Reflection of Duality]. Tempest appeared in a burst of wind. A flash of storm and movement, the hiss of ozone and wrath carried across dimensions.
Someone had tried to trap me, as the famous hero said before.
I wasn't trapped with them.
They were trapped with me.
----------
Tempest. This tempest was storm given form. This version wore a cloak, like Superman, but it was light blue like the shade of my eyes when they glow. His cloak whipped in the updraft that built from nowhere, lightning crawling lazily across the veins of his arms.
Tempest, but not the Tempest I'd known.
This one was storm and code. Light and math folded into form.
Equations written in thunder.
This was the Divine AI Tempest.
Light and code folded into form, equations written in thunder. His body flickered between man and mechanism, his outline bending physics like a mirage. Each gesture left afterimages of circuitry and lightning. He didn't just move; he calculated trajectories, probabilities, and outcomes simultaneously.
Tempest quickly flew out of the warehouse; those men should be near.
They didn't see him at first. They couldn't.
Then he moved.
The storm followed.
Wind howled through the cracks in space. Bullets spun in midair, slowed, and fell harmlessly to the floor, their kinetic energy siphoned into the static dancing over his shoulders. A wall of electricity arced across the streets, illuminating metal and fear in equal measure.
Tempest didn't kill them. He wasn't here for that. Each man was lifted, disarmed, and thrown aside with surgical precision. They weren't dead, but they were definitely hurting.
I mused for a second and wondered why this timeline didn't collapse from [Outsider]'s automatic defense, then came to realize that this Tempest didn't have [Outsider] at all.
The air reeked of ozone.
Tempest's eyes glowed brightly, looking at something only he could see.
I didn't need to ask what he was doing. My double whispered to me about it. He was running simulations — millions of them — trying to find the outcome where no civilian died, where the storm ended with order, and where the perpetrator could be found.
He went and picked one of the men, took his earpiece, and whispered, "Coil." And just like that, the timeline collapsed into nothingness. I got a name with a debt on it.
---------
"Is there going to be a problem?" The man in front of me asked, jolting me out of that vision. In his hands was a thick envelope; his face was stern, but his hand was trembling.
I thought about doing the same thing my double did. Maybe that AI Tempest could find this Coil, but what if it wasn't that Tempest that I got? What if it was a brute Norse God instead? Seeing it in action, I knew I couldn't choose.
Here, right in front of me, though, was a chance to bring Hope. Hope in a dying world was a rare currency; trust me, I know. Perhaps I knew that best, given I came from a dead world.
It was as if the world was asking me if I would choose vengeance over hope. My answer?
"No problem," I said softly. "Let me help her now."
I took the envelope. The deal sealed itself with the faintest shimmer of glamour, that silent approval only I could feel.
Then I knelt beside the girl.
Her eyes darted between me and her father. I smiled gently at her, a grandfatherly smile, as befitted my older, glamoured form. I held out a hand, and the fae magic obeyed eagerly.
The drain hit instantly. It was fast, it was massive. Her body wasn't the problem; it was grief, fossilized into the shape of her thoughts. Her soul was fractured, splintered the day her mother died.
She kept going, kept fighting, but the cracks never closed.
She lived with pieces missing, still bright, still trying, but never whole.
This was an injury that I cannot handle. It was too big, too complex. As I was about to stop, I felt it. The fae in me asked for a deal, like an idle thought brought to life: leave vengeance to the fae to deal with, and it will help heal this girl.
I felt it, just like I saw my other version of the timeline. I also saw it—me, but as fae.
Thou art I, and I am thou. It was that sort of feeling.
If I can't trust myself, who can I trust? So I agreed, and power washed over me in droves.
What I had before was a drop in the ocean.
I willed it to mend.
The broken, find its pieces to become whole.
The chaos to find rhythm again.
And now, as my glamour touched those broken edges, I felt it all.
The ache of memory.
The silent scream of a child who had learned to be strong too soon.
The light faded slowly, not like a candle dying, but like dawn deciding it had done enough.
The girl's breathing steadied first.
Then her eyes, those glassy, lost eyes, blinked once, twice, and focused.
She turned her head toward him, slow but deliberate. "Papa," she said softly. He made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh, wasn't quite a sob. I looked away. Some moments weren't meant for witnesses.
A thread of power woven into the child, faint but undeniably mine. This was the vengeance that the fae in me asked for. It wasn't going to harm the kid, it was going to protect her. From whom? Coil, of course.
"Is she—?" the father began.
"She's healed," I said quietly.
He nodded, not daring to question a miracle. I left without fanfare.
Outside, the air was still. The city noise felt distant. The fae in me purred, content, satisfied that its vengeance would find a way.
Note: I'm not rolling for a few chapters, and after that it's 4k per chapter, but will now roll powers up to 700. (I didn't quite do so before; I limited it to powers in the 500 range, not that it mattered, but hey.) Think of it as the system upgrading.
Roll successful
[300] Kinetic Reservoir Node (Carapace / Eternal Bastion Tree)
Deep within your body, a living organ forms — the Kinetic Reservoir Node, a crystalline engine of motion and storage.
You can now efficiently store and release kinetic energy. Stored kinetic energy degrades very slowly.
Energy is the law of supremacy; those who master its conversion rule the cycle of life. On a distant world, there once lived beings who perfected this truth, evolving to store motion itself. You devoured their legacy, as your kind always has, and their gift now dwells within you
January 8, 2011
Brockton Bay
Alex Miller
The street was almost empty by the time I left the Docks. It was common sense to get back before dark, after all, unless you lived in the poster places.
I replayed the moments in my head, one after another, of how my first fight with a precog had gone.
Given that this man had attempted eight times, it meant that even though [Outsider] defended me perfectly, that precog was either able to tank the reprisal or was completely immune to it.
The fae part of me sat content, as if it had already seen vengeance taken. I'm assuming it can also see farther than I can.
The rest of me wasn't quite so single-minded. It was busy sorting everything else, like figuring out how this happened, about my experience with the [Reflection of Duality], about the fact that the fae part of me was conscious enough to make a deal with me, and about the vortex changing for better or worse.
As usual, there was a lot going on and I had to deal with it, else I'll eventually get overwhelmed.
The city lights were flickering in patches again, half the lamps already dead from neglect. The streets were quieter than they should be, even for this hour.
One thing I did notice from having this power for some time is that each power had a distinct personality.
[I Am Human] wanted me to keep growing as a person.
The Fae wanted me to grow in influence.
[Carapace]'s insectoid race wanted me to evolve and stay safe.
[Outsider] is just curious about everything.
And the divinity in me, from [Sparky], wanted to be believed, to be able to create a following.
One thing was for certain, though, they all wanted me to decide. Why? I didn't know. Maybe it's something in [I Am Human] and [Outsider]'s mutual insistence on autonomy, given their defense on mind control and mental corruption.
Whatever it is, I'm grateful.
-------
It was close to six when I reached the house. The sun had already gone down.
I let myself in. I didn't go to Greg just yet. I took off my ratty clothes and took a clean shirt.
The smell of fried rice still lingered faintly in the air, the one I'd made earlier before heading out. Greg hadn't even bothered to wash the pan. Typical.
The fridge was full this time. Looks like Linda had arranged for groceries to be delivered, and Greg had stuffed everything he could in there with minimal planning.
I started pulling things out, organizing as I went: vegetables, packets of meat, a few sauce bottles crammed in the back.
Rice first. Always rice first.
Then I started working on the stir fry, cutting vegetables into uniform pieces, heating the oil until it shimmered.
The motions helped. Simple, repeatable. No decisions to make except when to stir.
The sizzle of garlic and soy filled the kitchen, grounding me in a way that calculations and power theory never could.
----------
Greg came out of his room halfway through the cooking, laptop still open in one hand.
He stopped at the kitchen doorway, blinking like the smell had physically hit him.
"You're cooking?" he asked, sounding halfway between surprised and suspicious.
I stirred the pan. "Apparently someone overbought vegetables."
He set the laptop down on the counter. "That would be Mom. She said she'd send a week's worth, but I guess she meant a week for four people."
"She's not wrong," I said. "This could feed an army."
We worked in silence for a bit. He grabbed plates, I finished the sauce. When I finally shut the burner off, the kitchen looked almost domestic. That word still felt strange when applied to us.
Greg broke it first. "So… how'd it go?"
I dished rice onto the plates. "There were eight separate attempts to abduct me at the last job. All of them failed before they got close."
He froze halfway to sitting down. "Wait—attempts? As in, eight tries?"
I went ahead to explain how, with [Eyes of Non-Euclid], I discovered branches in the timeline: eight distinct events, each one representing an aborted attempt.
Like frames in a film that never made it to projection.
Greg frowned, eyes hard. I could see it building behind them; it wasn't confusion, but guilt.
"You good?" I asked. I'd never seen him like this.
He shook his head. "No. I let this happen. If you weren't—" he gestured vaguely, "—whatever you are now, you'd have been taken. That's on me."
There was real anger there. Not fear, not helplessness — anger.
Anger at Coil, anger at the people who'd tried, and most of all, anger at himself for being sloppy.
The sound of the spoon against the plate filled the space between us. He didn't look up; just stared at his food like it owed him an explanation.
After a bit, he exhaled, the kind that sounded like a decision more than a breath.
"Never again," he said quietly. "We're going to make sure this doesn't happen again."
He sat in silence for a moment and chewed at the inside of his cheek. Then the planning started, because that's what he did.
"Yes, and it's not just on you. You can't blame yourself for what these Villains do; we'll make sure they can't pull one over on us again," I said, setting my spoon down, my statement sending pleasant shivers to my fae. "And I know it sucks, but there's more."
He looked up, confused for a second. I couldn't help the small smile that followed. I was proud of this kid.
I started telling him about the things that I learned, about the bargains, about how my fae offered a deal, about the insights I had into my powers, the change in the vortex, and finally my brand new power [Kinetic Reservoir Node].
By the time I was done with the impromptu debrief, I could tell he was back to his normal self, taking note of all the information and already planning ahead.
He had another frown, more of a thinking-hard frown this time.
"There's a lot going on here. I'm worried about the vortex and how your powers have their own personalities. The rest we can unpack in a bit."
I shook my head. "No, nothing's changed. They've always been like this. I just didn't notice it until now."
Greg's frown deepened, but it softened around the edges. "Still feels strange, like you're running a committee in there."
"More like a group chat," I said. "They don't interfere; they just… have opinions. Well, they didn't before."
He gave a short laugh, the kind that came more from fatigue than humor. "You're taking this better than I would."
"As for the vortex, I don't think it's bad. I feel like it'll be back; maybe I'm just at max capacity for powers," I shrugged.
"Ah." Greg nodded slowly. "That's a good theory. If you've hit max capacity, then maybe it's waiting until you can handle more. The question is whether that depends on mastery or on what the powers themselves want. It might be a completely different metric, even." He wrote some words on his notes.
I leaned back a little, thinking about it.
"I don't really know enough about this. I only get specific feelings about the powers, and sometimes I just know things about it."
Greg hummed, still typing. "So, no clear threshold. Just whenever it decides you're ready."
"Exactly," I said. "No point in worrying about something I can't really control. We can test some things out if they help."
He stopped scribbling long enough to glance at me.
"Do extensive testing?" he asked after he finished eating everything.
"Not really," I said. "Just… pay attention. The vortex—we don't really control it, so just find out if anything we do can affect it."
Greg leaned back in his chair, staring at his notes. "So, basically we wait and watch."
"Pretty much. I'd rather we keep focusing on building on what we've been doing so far. Go from there," I said honestly. It didn't matter if the vortex didn't come back; crying over spilt milk wouldn't really help us.
"Right, so for the new power, tell me more about it." Greg leaned back again, tapping the pen against his notebook.
I put the empty plate aside. "It's a kinetic reservoir," I said. "Movement and impacts store force in a kind of internal tank. I can route that stored force back into my muscles—a single muscle, a limb, or distributed across my body."
Greg's pen paused mid-tap. "Through your muscles," he repeated. "So, not an external blast or shockwave, more like… biological reinforcement?"
"Pretty sure it's only internal," I mused, taking a spark of electricity and letting it run into my muscles, taking a little bit of a shock. "Electricity doesn't charge it; the muscle spasms give a small charge, but it's not efficient."
Greg watched the faint spark crawl up my forearm, eyes narrowed in thought. "So, no energy substitution. It has to be actual movement or impact."
"Yeah," I said, flexing my hand to shake off the sting. "It's physical, not electrical. It has to come from kinetic transfer—contact, acceleration, recoil. Basically, the body has to feel the motion."
Greg frowned, scribbling a note. "How much can it store, exactly?"
I thought for a moment. "Hard to tell yet. I'd need controlled testing. I haven't gotten it full yet since I got it earlier, so I'm guessing it's going to take a lot of movement or impact to fill the tank."
He leaned back, expression thoughtful again. "If that's true, Tempest isn't just a powerhouse; he's a momentum weapon. You can build speed and impact like a feedback loop."
I can basically be a punching bag one second and start dishing out pain the next, very in line with the comic book stereotypes.
"PR wise, this is really good. Alexandria Packages is very popular, just look at Glory Girl; she's wrecked half the city, but she's still Brockton Bay's darling," Greg added. "That plays right into the other thing we need to talk about: the 'attention' you mentioned your lightning power needs."
"It's more like belief. The [Sparky] tree reacts to faith. Lightning is divine because people believe it's divine. When it strikes, they look up, and for that moment, they think it's more than just electricity."
Greg leaned back, slowly processing that. "So the power literally wants people to believe in it."
"Yeah," I said. "It's not showboating — it's survival," I said. "[Sparky] runs on conviction. Attention fades; faith endures. The moment divinity is forgotten, it starts to fade."
Greg snorted. "You're saying your divinity runs on PR."
"On faith," I corrected. "Attention's surface-level; faith lasts. [Sparky] doesn't want to be watched, it wants to be trusted. The more people believe in Tempest, the more complete that part of me becomes."
He tilted his head. "Belief as fuel."
"Exactly," I said. "The divine doesn't feed on attention. It feeds on conviction. Ironclad Faith is like drugs to it."
Greg scribbled that down, eyes flicking with new focus. "So we are building a cult. A cult of hardcore fans. "
I gave him a look and sighed. Yes we needed to build a cult. Damn it.
Greg sat back in silence, then huffed a laugh that didn't quite reach his eyes. "So the great plan is to start a PR-friendly cult."
We stayed up discussing more about things, The new wave footage came up apparently they wanted to
Greg leaned against the counter, laptop half-open and a faint frown on his face.
"New Wave reached out," he said finally.
I looked up from my drink. "About what?"
He turned the screen toward me. A paused frame, lightning tearing through smoke, water glowing white.
"They're planning to release their bodycam footage from the docks. You show up near the end — mid-strike, right before the PRT rolled in. They want to include your entrance in the official edit."
I blinked. "So they're turning a late arrival into a highlight reel."
Greg gave a helpless shrug. "You lit up half the harbor. Hard to edit around that."
I sighed, leaning back. "And the PRT?"
"Pretending they coordinated with you," Greg said. "Standard spin. You handled the situation, they handled the paperwork."
"So they're acknowledging that I'm an independent hero?"
Greg nodded. "Pretty much. They're calling you an unaffiliated responder." He made air quotes with one hand. "Which is PR talk for: we can't control him, but he's good press, so we're not gonna pick that fight."
"Huh," I nodded taking the stack of money I just earned today and laying them all out to count. "Good to know."
Greg whistled as he looked at our bounty. One good thing about Coil's plan was that we now have much more funds earlier than we thought we'd have.
"We got the budget to run some things ahead of schedule. We're getting you a phone so you can go and get Tempest his own PHO account. Let's get you new clothes and get materials to update the costumes too. Electronics... Better earphones... Radio... clothes..." Greg started listing out amendments to our plans on the fly.
Honestly that last payment was enough to cover what I'd have made in two to three weeks of doing low-level miracles.
Not just the money, my reserves pretty much tripled from that incident, one part because it was a big deal the other because of whatever fae me did to help me heal that girl.
Greg was still mumbling ideas under his breath when I reached over and gave his shoulder a light shake.
"Tomorrow," I said. "We'll shop tomorrow. Get some sleep."
He blinked, looking like he'd just remembered he was human. "Right. Tomorrow."
I nodded, stacking the last of the bills into neat bundles before turning off the lights.
Lying down, one thought did keep me distracted: when I get that phone, should I call home?
Would my parents answer?
Did it even matter if they are not the same people, not the same world?
I stared at the ceiling like it had all the answers. It didn't, of course.
In the end, I just snorted and closed my eyes.
We'll just have to find out, then.
January 9, 2011
Brockton Bay
Alex Miller
I woke up early. My body ached, but that was expected. The soreness felt earned, proof that yesterday happened.
I got up, stretched until my shoulders popped, and went straight to the shower. The water helped, not much, but enough.
I took the same route as before, past the same cracked storefronts and faded signs. The gym's lights were already on by the time I got there, pale yellow bleeding through the front windows.
Carter was inside, wrapping his hands. He looked up when I came in. "Back already?"
"Yeah," I said, signing the log sheet. "Figured I'd keep the momentum."
He nodded once, approving. "Good. Most people take a week to remember what a warm-up is."
I set my bag down, stretching my arms, testing how sore I really was. The muscles protested, but less than I expected. I realized that [Kinetic Reservoir Node] was minutely active, increasing the baseline for my muscles.
"Same drills?" I asked.
Carter grunted. "We'll add footwork today. You're too stiff when you pivot. Feels like you're trying to brute-force the bag."
"Noted."
He watched as I started jumping rope, expression unreadable but focused. The rhythm came faster this time. I didn't have to find my timing, it just found me The same way [Spark of Genius] found solutions before I consciously asked for them.
I tried a controlled test: a one-percent, bodywide release while working the bag. Everything clicked, aided by [Spark Of Genius]: stance, timing, rhythm, and the weight behind each strike multiplied. The impact sounded louder than it should have, the bag swinging harder, the chain groaning.
The impact boomed louder than it should have. The chain groaned, the bag swung too hard, and Carter's head snapped up from across the room.
"Careful," he said, tone flat but eyes sharp. "You trying to break my equipment?"
I let my hands drop, breathing chopped up, the faint buzz of residual energy fading under my skin. "Just testing limits." Whatever the limits actually are, I'm terrified for the ones that will be on the opposite side of it.
One percent already felt like peak human limits, the absolute threshold of what the human body was ever meant to be capable of.
But what stood out most was that the reservoir didn't burn away instantly. It lingered. The power bled out only when I moved, decaying that meant it didn't need to be used in bursts and I can finely control how much strength I had by choosing how much of the reserve I used.
I only gained about two percent since I got the power, and I already used one percent of it. Evidently, I needed to fill that up. I focused on my training.
An hour and a half of grueling training and cardio got me just over a percent of kinetic energy. It wasn't that efficient. The spar actually got me half a percent. For a moment, I seriously considered just letting Carter go to town on me until I topped off the reserve, but that would have weirded him out.
I toweled off instead, still catching my breath, the faint hum of gathered energy sitting under my skin like a low-voltage current. Two and a half percent charged. Not much, but now I understand the power better.
----------------
I grabbed the next cleanest pair of clothes from the pile and headed to the kitchen.
Greg was already there, half-awake, slouched over his laptop like he'd fallen asleep mid-keystroke and decided to keep going out of spite.
He looked up when I came in, blinking blearily. "You look like you got hit by a truck."
"Cardio," I grunted, as I went ahead to prepare breakfast.
Greg snorted and went back to typing. "At least we're consistent. You overwork, I under-sleep. Balance."
"Guess who's trending," Greg said, voice dry but eyes sharp. "New Wave dropped their edited footage this morning. You're officially part of their highlight reel."
I looked at one of the trending headlines.
Tempest Brings the Storm — Lightning Display Halts Skidmark Crew in Their Tracks
Not bad.
We ate quickly. Greg talked the whole time, pacing between PR strategy, power optics, and how to spin "Brings the Storm" into something iconic. He was actively geeking out.
I just focused on finishing my coffee.
Eventually, we were both ready to go.
"Alright," Greg said, grabbing his keys. "Shopping run. Gear, phone, food, and whatever else keeps you from dying. We're officially leveling up."
--------------
Shopping with Greg was… an exercise in controlled chaos.
He had a list, a route, and three backup plans, but his ability to get distracted by every other gadget on the shelf was almost supernatural. We split the electronics across multiple different stores, partly because we needed variety, mostly because Greg swore there was a "cape watch" alert system for anyone buying too much tech in one go.
"PRT loves catching baby tinkers before they blow up a block," he muttered while stuffing batteries and chargers into a bag. That sounds plausible, more into catching the tinkers part; apparently, they are a huge resource for any group or organization.
"Relax," I said, glancing around. "We're fine."
By the time we were done, it was close to two. Our arms were full, Greg's wallet was lighter, and my patience for crowds was nearly gone.
We stopped by a small café along the boardwalk—one of those places that made a killing selling overpriced, highly caffeinated sugar to the masses.
The air smelled like espresso and sea salt, and the chatter was just loud enough to blend into white noise. Perfect spot to disappear for a bit.
We ordered, and something caught my eye, no, specifically something caught [Outsider]'s eye.
A faint ripple of awareness brushed against my thoughts, like a quiet nudge saying, 'Over there'.
Two people sat near the far side of the café: a girl and a guy, both in their late teens. Civvies, nothing flashy. But they watched. Me, specifically.
The girl leaned back in her chair, one arm slung casually over the seat, blonde hair catching the light in lazy waves. Her expression said 'bored,' but her eyes didn't match. Her eyes were sharp, as if they were a scalpel trying to dissect me.
[Outsider] reacted as I saw her, like recognizing another observer peering through similar cracks in reality. The girl's presence bent cause and consequence around her, subtle but deliberate. It was the kind of awareness that didn't belong to ordinary people.
The boy beside her, though? He looked like he was appreciating me. The lazy smirk, the half-lidded eyes that trailed me as I moved, the kind of gaze that came from someone who collected reactions like other people collected souvenirs.
They seemed surprised that I caught them watching, just for a moment, a quick flicker across both of their faces — but neither of them looked away.
Unrepentant.
[Outsider] was curious, and I guess I was too, but not enough to do anything. If not for the Fae also feeling delighted, I would have stayed. But two powers reacting like this needed investigation. When our order was called out, I herded Greg towards the pair's table.
"Uh," Greg started, realizing our trajectory, "this isn't our table."
The blonde looked up as we approached, the faintest spark of mischief lighting her eyes. She tilted her head, that teasing smile spreading like she'd been waiting for this.
"Don't you see I have a boyfriend, Mister…" she glanced at the name scribbled on the side of Greg's cup, "Adam?"
Greg blinked, froze, then stammered, "I—what? No, I—"
The boy beside her didn't miss a beat. He smirked and draped an arm lazily over the back of the blonde's chair. "Sorry, man," he said, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. "She's taken."
She rolled her eyes. "By someone with better timing, apparently." I was going to say something normal maybe, but the Fae whispered something to me. Not a sound, not even a thought exactly, just that familiar, silken weight brushing through my head.
Vengeance.
The only thing that made the Fae like this lately was Coil. I almost shook my head; the Fae was really vindictive. I almost pity that fool.
Alright. Now I was invested. I wanted to see how this all connected.
I called upon all the experience [Once Bound] can give and gave her a warm smile. "Guess I'll risk it with the boyfriend, then."
Note: This was really hard to write. I think I revised this about a dozen times now and I'm at my limit so I'll just go post it as is.