by wildbow
The door opened a second after he knocked. A tired looking Hispanic woman greeted him. “You’re the superhero, I take it?”
“Yes. Kid Win,” he extended his hand. She shook it firmly.
“Ashley Medina. My son’s back through here.”
There was a sense of pride in the narrow apartment, Kid Win saw. An undercurrent of aesthetic taste, matching knick-knacks and furniture. There were marks of a vacuum cleaner’s recent run over the carpet and both kitchen counters and dining room table were immaculately clean in a way that suggested she’d gone to some effort to clean up. In a building like this, though, there was only so much you could do. There was a water stain on the ceiling, dark brown marks on the carpet under a small rug, maybe from a previous occupant.
“If you’ll wait here, I’ll get him.”
Kid Win sat on the sofa. He noticed the cathode ray tube television was missing its screen, had been gutted. Quite likely for parts. The toaster was a goner, too. Only the wireless modem in the corner of the kitchen had survived, green lights blinking.
He has priorities, at least, Kid Win thought, with mild amusement. Gotta have an internet connection.
When Chariot arrived, Kid Win stood, offered a hand. There was a delay before the kid shook it. He was lanky, with big ears and close shorn hair that made him look slightly goofy, but he had a wary look in his eye. He wore a t-shirt and jeans that were stained with grease, had lots of little cuts and stains on his fingers, hands and forearms.
Been there. Substandard tools, not enough parts. I can use that.
“Please sit,” Chariot’s mother said.
Kid Win obliged. Chariot was the last to take a seat. Was he reluctant, something else?
“Chariot, is it?” Kid Win ventured. God, hope I don’t fuck this up.
“Mm,” was the noncommital reply.
“Just to give me an idea, on a scale of one to ten, how interested are you, in maybe joining the Wards?”
“Ten’s high?”
“Ten’s a lot of interest.”
“Four.”
“Trevor!” Chariot’s mom admonished, “They offer funding, education—”
“We do,” Kid Win interrupted. If mom pushes, this guy’s only going to get less interested. Shit, a four is low. Maybe if I do the talking… “It’s good money, with room for better money. Especially for a tinker like you or me.”
“How’s that?”
“The guys in charge want tinkers. They really want tinkers, both because they want us in a position where we won’t be making trouble for them, and because and they want the kind of stuff we can create.”
“I’m not giving up my stuff.”
Kid Win paused. This is like looking into a mirror to a year and a half ago. “Look, I can see your TV, your toaster. Chances are you’ve gone to the Trainyard or a scrapyard to find some stuff. Old batteries, car parts, chains, good metal, whatever.”
“He wanted to go to the Trainyard,” Chariot’s mother cut in, “I told him no, caught him trying to sneak out.”
Chariot scowled a little, looked away.
This would be easier without her here. “I get it. Been there. You’re hungry to use your power, but more than any other kind of cape, you’re facing a hurdle in terms of the entry-level resources you need. This is where the team would support you. You get funding, a lot of funding, to put your stuff together.”
Kid Win reached into his belt, retrieved a compact disc. He placed it on the glass coffee table, then withdrew a set of small tools from the other side of his belt. He dismantled the object and began laying out the components one by one.
Chariot reached for the nearest component, and Kid Win moved to block the boy’s hand. “Don’t touch, please. Look only. Trace oils and static charge could damage something.”
The boy gave him an annoyed glance, bent over the table to look closer at the chips.
“What’s this crystal?” Chariot asked.
“3D computer chip. Uses light instead of electrical current. They’re made by this Protectorate tinker down in Texas. She gets funding to produce a set number every month, in addition to her regular pay. So long as you’re in the program, you can put in an order for her stuff, with the specs you want.”
“And this metal threading, gold?”
“Gold, for maximum conductibility.”
“That’s a camera, this would be the power source, that part does something with wavelengths, and this reads energy… but I’m not getting it. What does this do?”
Kid Win quickly slipped the pieces back together, turned the compact device over, then pulled out his smartphone. Touching the screen, he activated the compact device. It floated above the coffee table. He turned his smartphone around to show them the image it was streaming from the device’s camera.
“So much effort, for a video camera?” Chariot’s mother commented. “My tax dollars are going towards this?”
The dumbfounded look Chariot gave his mother put Kid Win in the awkward spot of having to suppress a smile. This is a point for me. If I asked him again, what would he say? Five, six?
“You join the Wards, you get exactly what you need to reach your full potential as a tinker.” A small lie there. Not like I’ve reached my full potential. “And anything you make, the PRT buys the rights from you. If you’re willing to give up that much, you can do well for yourself.”
“You’re talking money?” That had piqued Chariot’s interest. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
“I maybe shouldn’t, but I’m going to tell you what I’m getting out of it, because it’s almost definitely going to be the exact same for you. I get paid, but the money goes straight into a trust. I’ve made enough to pay for my college education, and every dollar I earn beyond that is going to be waiting for me as a cash award, if and when I graduate from a four-year postsecondary program. I’m getting four hundred dollars in allowance each month, just to mess around in my workshop, all my materials are paid for, and I currently have about two thousand dollars sitting in the bank, right now, from that. Once I turn eighteen? I make more. It automatically transitions to a job with good pay, working with the Protectorate, and the hours will be totally flexible around any classes I take.”
“But he’s risking his life,” Chariot’s mother spoke. Chariot frowned.
“He is. There are responsibilities. But honestly? There’s zero way he’s going to be able to go out and try out any of the stuff he’s made without running into trouble. People are going to pick fights, just because he has powers. If he tries to hang out in a workshop he establishes on his own, they’re going to find him, strong-arm him into putting something together for them. Not just villains, either. Heroes too. Being a tinker doesn’t just make you a target. It makes you a resource. It’s why pretty much every tinker out there is a member of a larger, more powerful team.”
“Then Trevor could just not use his powers?” she spoke.
“Sure,” Kid Win folded his arms, leaning back against the back of the couch. “What do you think, Chariot? You think you could keep from using that power of yours? Be normal?”
Chariot frowned, looked down at his scratched-up hands. “No.”
Kid Win nodded in agreement, “It’s a part of you, Chariot, a part of how you think, now. I’m telling you this is the best option. The safest. Having a team means you’re protected, free to do what you need to do.”
Chariot’s expression indicated clear interest. Then he frowned, “I don’t want to give up my stuff to others. It’s mine.”
Something struck Kid Win as off about the reply. What was it? It was out of tune with the flow of the conversation, didn’t quite match up with Kid Win’s own experiences being recruited. Maybe it sounded forced? But why would Chariot fake reluctance?
He pushed forward, anyways, “I get that, really. But it’s only given away in name. You still get to use it, you just can’t give it away or sell it to others. The benefit is that you gain access to all the stuff and plans other P
RT tinkers have made. I can’t show you any more of that than I have, but the fact is, you’d be able to look at my blueprints as easily as I could look up yours, get inspiration…
“…Or you could look at the sort of stuff Dragon makes.”
Chariot’s eyes lit up.
“Tell me you’re not interested, now.”
“I’m… kind of interested.”
Again, that vibe. Pretending he’s not as interested as he is.
“They can’t force you to join, but they do want you on the team. There’s no negotiating. You’d get the same I get, pretty much, so if you’re holding back or trying to fake like you don’t want to join when you do, you’re just wasting your time and mine.”
“I’m not,” Chariot replied, defensive. “It’s only… this is a big deal.”
“It is. So take my card. Call me if you have any questions, or if you want me to pass on word that you’re joining the team.”
Kid Win fished in his belt and then handed his card to the boy. Black with white lettering and his starburst-gun emblem on the back.
“Okay,” Chariot replied.
“Talk it over with your mom. Get back to us.”
“Thank you,” Chariot’s mother spoke, standing. Kid Win stood as well. He shook her hand again.
“Not a problem,” Kid Win replied. He punched the boy lightly on the shoulder as he stood, “Join. It’d be good to talk shop with someone else that gets this stuff.”
Chariot nodded.
The mother led Kid Win to the door, and he headed out the building—the fat man from the stairwell was gone, and only the Hispanic boy by the front door was still in the hallway. Kid Win stepped outside.
Something’s off with this scenario.
He tapped his foot a second, then stepped around the building and into the alleyway. He retrieved his smartphone, and used it to send the hovering camera up to the third floor, checked in the windows where the apartment would be. The boy was leaving the bathroom, going into his room. Kid Win moved the camera to the next window over, the boy was sitting down at his computer, turning it on.
Straight to the computer. Hm. Kid Win pocketed the hovering camera, then turned his attention to the smartphone. According to the phone, there were three wireless modems in the building. One was named with a string of violent swear words, the other was on its default settings. Both were unlocked. He chose the third, locked connection, clicked a button on the screen to have his phone decrypt the password.
Fifteen seconds later, he could see someone online. Kid Win watched the white text scroll by with details on the connection’s activity.
Google docs—pages of technical stuff, the boy was adding notes on gold wiring, shortform notes on antigravity, 3D crystals. The next page the boy visited, five minutes later, was an email account.
Twenty seconds later, an email was sent.
To: [email protected]
Guy from wards came. I’m in.
Kid Win stared at the screen for a long while. Cryptmail. That wouldn’t be an agreement with the PRT.
“So someone got to you before we did,” he muttered to himself. He tapped the armor over his ear twice to open a communications channel, “Console?”
“Weld here, manning the console.”
“Do me a favor, call everyone back to the base for a quick meeting? And maybe call Piggot?”
Sentinel 9.5
“Don’t cross the yellow line,” Flechette spoke.
“Right,” Vista agreed. “I got the message the last time I came this way.”
Flechette leaned forward, found a string, beaded with water from the rain. She plucked it twice.
Parian sloshed out from a nearby alley. A nine-foot tall rabbit with an eyepatch and boxing gloves followed a few feet behind her, moving on two legs, swaggering forward like it had a chip on its shoulder.
“It’s cute!” Vista smiled.
“Hi Vista,” Parian greeted her. “Hi Flechette.”
“Hey,” Flechette smiled. “We come bearing gifts.”
Vista stepped forward and held out a shopping bag, “A dozen gallons of water, some rice, some tins of beans, multivitamins and first aid supplies. My power will wear off pretty soon, so get the bag somewhere safe before then.”
“It’s basic stuff,” Flechette said. “But it’ll hold you for a little while.”
“Thank you,” Parian spoke, reaching over the makeshift yellow line for the bag. She held it behind her back with both hands. Just over her right shoulder, cloth formed into a rough shape, a trio of needles with attached spools of thread weaving in and around it, a razor cutting at pieces of it.
“How are you managing?” Flechette asked.
“Some kids came through around noon, roughed up the mother of one of my friends.”
“I told you to call me if there was trouble!”
“I handled it. Kind of. They ran when they saw my rabbit. According to my friend’s mom, they were trying to get someone to tell them where they could get food, and she was afraid they’d take everything if she told them where we have our stuff. I think they were more hungry than dangerous. Not enough food going around.” The cloth took on a rough shape with arms and legs. “Erm, that makes it sound like I’m blaming you guys—”
“You’re right,” Flechette interrupted. “We’re not doing a good job of getting supplies to everyone. We can’t. Any time we try to distribute it, a group like Hookwolf’s gang or the Merchants try to seize it. Even if the heroes on duty fend them off, the citizens get scared away.”
“I suppose we’re lucky to have this haven, here. So far. I dunno how long before someone I can’t scare off comes through.”
“You have my number.”
Vista turned away as a third voice sounded in her ear. She stepped away from the conversation, shook her head a little to shake off the water that the steady rain was depositing on her.
Vista squeezed the earbud, “Sorry? I didn’t catch that?”
“Weld here. Kid Win has something to report, asked everyone to come in. Can you make it back here quickly?”
“Okay.”
She hurried back to Flechette’s side and waited a few seconds for a break in the conversation. When none was forthcoming, she put a hand on Flechette’s arm.
“What’s up?”
“Weld wants us back asap.”
A look of disappointment crossed Flechette’s face.
“I’ll see you later?” Parian asked.
“I’ll stop by later, unless I’m done with patrols for the night,” Flechette shrugged.
“I’ll look forward to it,” Parian replied. She turned to Vista, “Here.”
Vista accepted her gift. A stuffed rabbit, made in the last-minute or so. It was finely detailed, wearing a fancy dress with lace trim. The fur had a softness that indicated high quality material, despite being wet. She would have been delighted with the gift, were she four years younger.
It was still a really nice gesture.
She suppressed her annoyance at the child’s gift and offered a smile instead, “Thank you, Parian.”
“Let’s go,” Flechette spoke. “Back to headquarters?”
“Back to headquarters. Come on, we’ll take my shortcut.”
They walked two blocks east to reach Lord Street. Beneath the water’s surface, they could see a fissure that ran down the center of the road, zig-zagging from one lane to the other.
Vista stepped out into the middle of the road at the edge of the fissure, then concentrated. She felt her power extend to every solid object in front of her, formed a map in her head. There was nobody out there, which made it easier. Slowly, carefully, she began adjusting. She truncated the length of Lord Street, then did it again, repeating the process to make the four lane road shorter and shorter. The fissure down the center of the road squeezed against itself like a compressed spring.
“This is disorienting,” Flechette spoke, as she gazed at the scene. “My power gives me a grasp of angles… and I
’m worried I might have a seizure if I try to use it to get a sense of what’s happening here.”
“It’s not that complicated. Everything’s like wet clay, and I’m smudging it around.”
Vista deemed her work done, started walking forward. Flechette followed, eyeing the distorted sidewalk at the edges of the effect.
“You’re powerful, kiddo,” Flechette said.
“Kinda.”
“You could be one of the top dogs in the Protectorate, in five or six more years.”
Vista frowned, “They said the same thing about Dauntless.”
“One of the Protectorate members who got killed, if I remember right?”
Vista nodded.
Flechette frowned, “That’s… unexpectedly dark, coming from you. Where did that come from?”
“What we do is dangerous. Sometimes we die. I don’t see why I should worry about what happens five years from now when I might not even be here.”
“Are you having second thoughts about being on the team?”
Vista gave Flechette a look, “No. Not in the slightest.”
“But if you’re concerned about risking your life…”
“I didn’t say I was concerned,” Vista said, a note of exasperation in her voice, “Just that, hey, it might happen. I’m being realistic.”
“I can’t tell if you’re being amazingly mature about the topic of death or if I should be really concerned about you.”
“Amazingly mature?”
They had reached the PRT building. A trip that had taken them thirty minutes on the way out had taken them four on the way back, with the aid of Vista’s power. Flechette held the bulletproof glass door open, raised a hand in greeting to the PRT uniform who stood alert on the other side. “You know what I mean.”
Vista had to bite her tongue. Pointing out that people were being condescending had a way of making her look petulant, which only compounded the problem. Yes. Because any maturity on my part is something special. Doesn’t matter that I have nine months of seniority over Kid Win, being thirteen means everyone expects me to be squealing over Justin Beiber or the Maggie Holt books, or dressing in pink or—
Her train of thought stopped dead when her eye fell on the portraits on the wall above the front desk.