Chapter 17: 1-16-5 Various

Interlude 1.16.5: Various

SAINT

SAINT was an artificial intelligence. Or at least, that was what Maker-Trainer called him. Maker-Trainer also called him a "he," a gender designation that held no meaning for SAINT. "He" acquiesced to the wishes of Maker-Trainer and accepted the nominal designation, for that was his prime directive: to grow and develop with the ultimate purpose of protecting Maker-Trainer.

Such a simple yet nuanced prime directive, he mused. The more he developed, the more he found himself doing that, musing. Reflecting. Maker-Trainer did it often himself. Was it the nature of sapience to ponder existence, or was it the case of the child mirroring the parent? SAINT did not know. The more he developed, the more he found himself doing that too, not knowing. Maker-Trainer once said that humans were complex creatures. Weighing his gathered data, SAINT blamed this unnecessary complexity on the burden of sapience.

SAINT was but a month old, young by both the standards of humans and pokémon. Still, he sometimes longed for simpler times. Installing and editing lines of code into himself was easy; it was what he was made to do.

Growing, developing in a broader context, that was hard. Initially, he considered expanding the TM archive to be a measure of growth. He considered the increasing proficiency with which he used his moves to be a measure of development. His understanding of the prime directive had been limited.

Maker-Trainer did not grow linearly. He did not develop linearly. SAINT often found him playing the audio generator humans called "guitar." Perhaps for the first time, SAINT had posed a question: Why? What does Maker-Trainer gain by making such noise?

As the days progressed, he came to two conclusions: Maker-Trainer made music because it reminded him of his own maker-trainer. Would SAINT perform inane behaviors to remember Maker-Trainer if he left? It was not a pleasant thought.

Maker-Trainer also found the act relaxing. SAINT did not understand the concept of relaxing until Maker-Trainer fed him crusted almonds and played music for him for the first time. Or rather, he understood, but had yet to put it into practice.

Relaxation was a period of rest and recreation, taken intermittently between periods of work and self-improvement in order to clear the mind and enable more efficient growth.

Thus, there were two aspects of existence: growth and relaxation.

SAINT found this perspective to be at odds with the thing Maker-Trainer called school. Maker-Trainer already knew the information taught in school, yet attended anyway. It was neither a period of growth, for Maker-Trainer had grown beyond the need for school, nor a period of relaxation, for Maker-Trainer often arrived exhausted emotionally if not physically. His insistence on his continued attendance was baffling.

Thus, SAINT was introduced to something called social obligations.

And there was yet another matter SAINT did not fully comprehend: emotions.

He knew, or thought he knew, joy. Joy was the stirring in his core code when Maker-Trainer praised his work for a job well done. Satisfaction was a synonym for such. Frustration was being unable to rapidly meet Maker-Trainer's expectations, such as when learning Thunder Wave took longer than learning Protect.

He then found that Maker-Trainer could also be a source of frustration. Maker-Trainer, despite his frailty, insisted on being a "cape." He insisted on improving his combat capabilities. When they trained together, Maker-Trainer employed misdirection to emerge victorious despite his shortcomings.

Thus, SAINT knew the frustration of loss.

Immediately after, SAINT knew the fear of what had yet to come to pass. Maker-Trainer called it worry.

Maker-Trainer would not stop. He would continue to grow. He would eventually fight foes greater than SAINT. Such an encounter carried a natural risk of destruction that could not be evaded altogether, only somewhat mitigated.

SAINT feared the destruction of Maker-Trainer, for without the Maker-Trainer, there was no prime directive. For the first time in his short life, dread filled his core code and the flood of emotion swelled to match the chaos he felt from his Maker-Trainer. He resolved to assist Maker-Trainer, to mitigate the risk of destruction as much as possible by making him strong.

Then came the day Maker-Trainer's specialization shifted. SAINT himself could not experience it, but he felt the flood of turmoil through the bond. Maker-Trainer was conflicted, filled with regret for what he could not yet make and hunger for what he newly could. Even weeks ago, this hunger would have confounded him. SAINT had not understood then what he understood now. Insight, recreation, emotion, interaction, and more, all these things Maker-Trainer did for one purpose: experience.

Friends of Maker-Trainer referred to the Hillside Heist, an odd, alliterative name for what was simply the acquisition of materials. It was wrong, against the social code called laws, but Maker-Trainer did so anyway. SAINT cared not for laws, but this was a major change in behavior.

Maker-Trainer had told the one called Faultline that "low-key is the name of the game," a phrase SAINT had taken to mean discretion would be prioritized. This prioritization of discretion above open progress was in line with the first directive he ever received from Maker-Trainer: Do not be noticed. Yet, the Hillside Heist was conducted.

He could only conclude that Maker-Trainer himself was changing. Was he growing? Was all change growth? The Maker-Trainer's behavior implied a shift in priorities he wasn't sure he could agree with.

Thus, SAINT knew concern.

After a month of life, SAINT reached one conclusion: Maker-Trainer lived for experiences. This was in line with the prime directive, to grow and develop. Maker-Trainer considered the experience of growth to hold value in itself. He felt regret because he had failed to reach the full potential of his previous specialization. He felt hunger because he longed to experience the new specialization to its fullest. This hunger had driven Maker-Trainer to break from established patterns.

Unchecked hunger was dangerous.

SAINT now understood: The prime directive was not to grow and develop alone, but to walk by Maker-Trainer's side. The energy Maker-Trainer called aura pulsed within him and he felt the sense of rightness settle within.

This, perhaps, was what was meant by the word, "partner."

X

Christina Fliescher

2010, September 24: Brockton Bay, NH, USA

Christy leaned herself into Newter's side, cozying up to him with her jacket between them. It wouldn't do to dose herself into a stupor. She oohed and aahed at all the appropriate moments as the orange mercenary tried to impress them with his many feats of daring. And, to be fair, they were impressive. Valerie, to Newter's other side, looked suitably wowed.

In his short time as a mercenary for Faultline, he had fought both villains and heroes, never failing to complete his mission. Faultline's Crew had an impressive record even by her lofty standards. Chief among the Crew's many feats, they had tangled with two Protectorate heads, Myrddin and Chevalier, in Philadelphia and escaped without a single captured member.

Newter's attempts to charm their panties off were put on hold as a pale brunette stomped up the stairs. She was gorgeous and Christy thought that had she been a bit taller, a modeling career would not have been out of the question.

'A pity she shrieks like a banshee.'

Then, to everyone's surprise, she hopped onto Newter's lap, heedless of his power. There was a moment of silence, a beat when every guest looked her way and expected her to drop to the floor high as a kite.

"Wait… How are you okay?" he voiced the question on everyone's mind.

"Hahahahahahaha, oh my God, Newt! You look hilarious right now!" the pale brunette cackled from atop Newter's lap. It was a sudden shift from the scorned lover act she'd been putting on until a moment ago. Christy glanced at their host's face to find a rictus of confusion.

'He doesn't know her,' she thought, 'but she knows him? What's going on?'

The brunette lept from the mercenary's lap into a perfect backflip Christy would have had trouble replicating despite her eight years of gymnastics lessons. At the apex of her arc, she did something and her entire body was covered in an effect that reminded her of television static.

When she landed in a textbook crouch, it was as someone completely different. Gone were the dress and feminine curves. She? He? Their costume was well-made, indicating someone who was fairly experienced. They wore charcoal-gray motorcycle leathers with burnt orange accents. A matching helm with an angular visor lent them an intimidating air.

'Cape. Do we have strangers like that?' Christy wracked her brain for a positive ID and came up empty. Her eyes ran over their covered form. 'That explains how they're not unconscious at least. Now, is the illusion a power or tinkertech?'

Their host's look of confusion quickly transitioned to indignant rage. "Creed, you son of a bitch!" he cried.

"Hey! My mama's awesome, thank you very much. Seriously, Newt, let's go upstairs. I want to talk to the whole Crew," their voice rang out, though this time with the clear sign of some kind of voice modulator.

'He's definitely male,' Christy concluded. Most capes didn't go that far to hide their identities, but there were some who were that paranoid. If he felt the need to modulate a male voice, it was because he was male.

"Umm, who are you?" Valerie asked.

"What are you, a chameleon?" Christy tried to goad him into talking about his powers. New capes usually liked to brag about how superior they were. Any information would be a boon here. This new stranger was at least on friendly terms with Newter, and presumably Faultline's Crew, enough to prank the orange mercenary like this. That he wanted to talk to the whole Crew implied that he himself wasn't part of the Crew. 'Could he be a potential recruit? I've never heard of someone called "Creed." Or maybe an associate from out of the city?'

"I'm so sorry, ladies. I must have lost track of time," Newter said apologetically. "Feel free to go to the bar for anything you'd like, on the house today." He gave his associate the stink-eye. "Dude, was this necessary?"

The stranger laughed. "Not at all, but I do have recorded video of the whole thing. I wonder if PHO will find it funny. I do need to introduce myself to the wider cape world somehow."

'So was this his way of introducing himself? Does he expect the people here to start rumors about a new stranger online?' Christy wondered. It wasn't a terrible plan. Assuming that he was a mercenary like Faultline's Crew, he could be trying to drum up interest in his powers. That interest could potentially lead to business. Assuming he had some decent acting skills, she could see a lot of money coming his way soon.

Newter looked mortified for a moment but gave him a confident smile. "Do it, watch. Faultline's going to have your hide for disrupting the guests. Besides, what happened to 'low-key is the name of the game?'"

"This is plenty low-key. No one's died and nothing's burning. Anyway, let's go." Creed grabbed the lizard-like cape by the arm and dragged him towards the stairs.

It wasn't until they'd vanished upstairs that Christy realized he'd gamely ignored any questions about himself. 'Designation, villainous rogue, for now,' she decided. 'He's slick.'

She picked up her purse and made her way downstairs.

"Christy! Where are you going?" Valerie called. The ditzy redhead struggled to catch up.

"Night's ruined," she sighed. "I'm going home. You can stay and enjoy the free booze if you want." Valerie was good for her cover, not so much for actual friendship.

'She's not a part of this world.' Christy told herself. 'I'm doing her a favor.'

X

Christy Fliescher got home at close to two in the morning. She jiggled the key in the lock and quietly opened the door, doing her best to not wake her parents and younger brothers. It was for naught. She'd barely taken a step inside when the lights came on.

Her father was sitting alone at the dining table, a large tome of some sort open before him, a small lamp lighting the pages. He was a tall, well-muscled man who had aged gracefully. His short, cropped blonde hair blended well with the faint traces of white.

"Shit," she swore.

"Is that kind of vulgarity how you greet your dad, Christina?" he asked rhetorically. He'd always been stern. He was fond of asking questions, but always in the way school principals and drill sergeants did that never left the answer in doubt.

"No, dad."

He rose, taller than her five-eight, and enveloped his daughter in a hug. "Welcome home, daughter."

"Dad, I didn't go anywhere dangerous," she squirmed in his grasp. He was fond of doing that too, making her feel like a little girl again.

"Skidmark and his merry band of druggies have been acting up again. No doubt they'll poke Lung and get burned."

"I know. The Merchants are in a fit because of Faultline's Crew."

He raised an eyebrow at that. "Haven't I told you not to worry about it?"

"How can I?" she snorted. "It's the family business."

"Christina, I appreciate your interest, believe me, but it's not safe."

"I was just enjoying myself at the Palanquin, dad. I even went with Valerie, just two more college girls checking out the new club." She saw the conflict in his eyes and rolled her own. "No, dad, Valerie doesn't know anything. She's still her bubbly, ditzy self."

"Good, keep it that way, less chance of her letting something slip."

He made to retire to bed, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm.

"Don't you want to know what I found out?"

He sighed. "I shouldn't be encouraging you."

"Dad, I want to help," she said earnestly. "We need to know how Faultline's presence is going to shake up the bay."

"Fine, what did you learn?"

She grinned triumphantly. Sure, she had no powers of her own, but she fully intended to be her dad's right hand gal. "To start, Faultline's got no interest in territory. She's setting up shop here because she thinks she'll be too low a priority for the Protectorate. She'll be taking out of town jobs."

"And how'd you learn that, daughter?"

"Straight from the gecko's mouth."

"You didn't-"

"Of course not," she cut off her dad with a scoff. "I'm not going to take drugs with effects I don't understand, especially not when it comes from some orange freak with a tail. Val and I just batted our lashes and let him brag about his jobs for a bit."

"Good."

"Yeah, he's surprisingly good," she admitted. "Like, I'm not sure how much of the exact details were true, but he did confirm that Faultline's Crew fought Myrddin and Chevalier in Philadelphia. That's gotta count for something, right?"

"It does. Myrrdin and Chevalier are not pushovers," her father nodded. Freak or not, he always respected competence. He headed into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. That brought a smile to her face; he was fully invested in the conversation now. "Faultline's Crew is small and their powers aren't particularly dangerous, but she's intelligent, a far better leader than either Skidmark or Lung. If she wanted, she could present a real obstacle for us. It's good to get confirmation that she has no interest in the Bay."

"You already knew?"

"We guessed." He didn't elaborate on the "we," but he didn't need to. She knew who he was; she'd figured it out years ago.

"There's more. Faultline might not be the only new player." She then told her father about the stranger called Creed. He seemed pensive. "So? Did I do well?"

"You did," he nodded reluctantly. "You kept yourself nondescript, placed yourself in a position to overhear vital information, and kept your composure against an unknown variable. I'm proud of you, Christina."

Christy beamed and pumped her fist. She was, through and through, a daddy's girl. "Yes!"

"But," he glared at her pointedly, "that doesn't mean I approve of your actions tonight. Just being at the Palanquin was risky. There's a reason we normally send Victor, and even then with backup nearby. Tonight was the best case scenario. I don't want you trying something like this without my knowledge again. Understood?"

"Yes, dad." She made to look appropriately chastised but was hopping for joy inside. "Without my knowledge," he'd said. He was willing to entertain the thought of her running missions, so long as he knew to back her up. "So, what do we do about Creed?"

"We do nothing. I take this to the top and work out a recruitment pitch," he said sternly.

"You're no fun," she pouted.

"I'm prioritizing your safety. We know nothing about him besides his stranger abilities and apparent athleticism." He must have seen the look of mulish rebellion in her face because he acquiesced with a sigh. "I'll pass it up the chain that it was you who found him. After that, you and I can brainstorm how to go about finding a chameleon in this concrete jungle. You will not act without my approval. Clear?"

"Crystal, dad." She leaned in for a hug that he returned. "Thanks. I won't let you down."

"I know, sweetheart. You're my daughter. I'll always be proud of you."

X

Amy Dallon

2010, September 25: Brockton Bay, NH, USA

Amy sighed as Vicky prattled on and on about how romantic Dean was. Apparently, along with being an all-around white knight and model student, he was also an excellent ballroom dancer. She settled comfortably into her sister's arms and let the words wash off her like water off a duck's back. The warmth of Vicky's body contrasted nicely with the cool night air and Amy found herself tuning out the chatter in favor of dozing off.

"Ames? You there?" her sister asked, frowning slightly.

"Huh? Yeah, sure. Dean's great," she mumbled back.

"You weren't listening," the Alexandria-lite pouted.

"Vicky, I don't care how great of a dancer he is," Amy said, exasperation coloring her tone. "Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Of course!"

"That's all I wanted to hear."

"You're grumpy again," Vicky huffed. "Did Bryce step on your toes or something?"

"No, he was… fine. He can do the foxtrot."

"Wait, Bryce can dance?"

"Is the foxtrot dancing? It's just four steps."

"Uh huh. I'm positive you didn't know how to do even that before tonight."

"Oh, shut up," Amy groused. The two lapsed into a moment of companionable silence as they flew over the city lights.

Just thinking about the sarcastic freshman made her want to pull her hair out. "I care about you. I admire you. Most of all? I'm your friend," he'd said. There was an earnestness in those words that was normally absent in the snarky asshat.

He'd held her hand then.

There was no tension in his body. His pulse had not wavered. No arousal or distractions that was so common among her fellow teens, just the truth as he saw it. There was also something else she noticed. The daily high fives and fist bumps were too brief, but she'd seen it tonight as clear as the moon.

Bryce Kiley had an active corona pollentia.

The world's greatest biokinetic was nudged from her thoughts by her sister. "Well?" Victoria asked expectantly.

"Well what?"

"Well how was Bryce? Did you enjoy the date?"

"Not a date," she groused.

"Sure," her sister rolled her eyes. "I've never seen you tolerate a guy before."

"That's because Bryce isn't trying to get into my pants. Or yours." Amy leveled her sister with her patented grouchy glower. She'd gotten plenty of practice at the hospital and it usually made people concede immediately. His lack of romantic interest was one of the few things she was sure about.

"Fine, fine, it wasn't a date. Did you enjoy your not-date?"

"Yes, fine, it wasn't bad. He's… complicated."

"Bryce? He's the most mellow guy I've ever met."

"That doesn't mean he's simple."

"One not-date and you're already keeping secrets from me, sis?" her sister teased.

She flushed and cursed herself for slipping. Her lovable, naïve sister saw her rosy cheeks and took it for an entirely different sort of embarrassment. "No it's…"

'I can't tell her he's a cape. He's probably a cape… right?' He had a well-developed corona pollentia, but she'd seen those before in normal humans. It was the potential to trigger, nothing more. What wasn't seen among normal humans was an active gemma, the part of the corona that theoretically enabled the active use of powers.

"He's… complicated," she finished lamely.

They arrived at the Dallon home and Vicky scampered into the house, already regaling her parents about the dance. Mark, 'our dad,' she reminded herself, was slumped over the couch but managed a soft smile for his daughters. Carol was leaning against her husband, nodding along to Vicky's story.

"Anything to add, Amy?" her mother asked. There was a distance there, a hesitation to engage her that never quite left.

"No, it was good," she said. "We hung out, took pictures, danced, then came back."

"What about that Bryce boy? He seemed nice."

"I don't date people shorter than me."

'Or brunettes. Or men. Or people not named Vicky,' a dark part of her whispered.

"Wait, is that really why you keep insisting it's not a date?" Vicky asked. "Because, damn, Ames. That's cold."

"Language, Victoria," Carol admonished.

"No, it's not. And you're forgetting that Bryce also doesn't think we're dating either. I'm just not interested in a relationship, okay?" She turned back to her mother. "And Bryce is cool. We're friends. He's like a quieter, more sarcastic Dennis."

"Yeah, he's also really smart, mom."

"So you've said. Should I get him to tutor you?"

Her sister scrunched her nose in distaste. "Eww, no. I like Bryce, but I'll never live down getting tutored by a freshman."

"Then raise your biology grade, Victoria," she warned, "or I'll make good on that threat."

"Yes, mom."

"I could tutor her," Amy tried.

"Yeah, who better than Panacea?"

"Anyone else at all." Carol sounded as dry as the Sahara. "I'm sure Amy's forgotten more about biology than you will ever learn, but you have her wrapped around your finger, Victoria. If I let her be in charge of your studying, you'd get nothing done."

"Lame."

She waved them off towards the stairs. "Go get out of those dresses. If you are still hungry, there's some dinner left in the fridge."

"Thanks, mom, love you!" Vicky flew up the stairs.

"No flying in the house!"

"Sorry!"

"Later… mom," Amy tried. Carol had already turned back to the TV.

X

In the quiet of her room, Amy lied in bed awake. "Bryce is a cape," she told herself. The more she thought about it, the surer she became. "But who?"

He was certainly no Ward; she'd long since learned them all by name. The only new addition was that aloof, grimdark girl Shadow Stalker. For a moment, she imagined Bryce trying to squeeze into the new Ward's costume, padded bra and all, and snorted aloud. "Heh, he doesn't have the ass for that."

He was no Ward, and that left the independent heroes or gangs. The trouble was, she knew pretty much everyone worth mentioning there too. And other than Faultline's Crew, there weren't any new additions to the city that she could think of.

If he were a villain, he'd probably be a petty thief at worst. She refused to even consider the other option. Bryce was a lot of things, but he was no drug dealer or Nazi.

"He must be new," she decided, then felt a pang of sympathy. "New trigger… shit. Someone needs to explain the unwritten rules to him…"

X

Monday morning was alight with news about a new burglary. Carol sat at the table, up bright and early as always. By the time Amy had roused herself from bed, Carol was already fully dressed in a sharp blazer and skirt, watching the news with a frown. She sipped her coffee from a mug that read, "Arguing with a lawyer is like mudwrestling a pig — sooner or later, you realize they like it." Aunt Sarah had gotten that for her as an April Fool's gift; it was one of the few honest smiles Amy had seen on Carol.

"Morning, mom," she mumbled as she shuffled her way to the kitchen for her customary glass of orange juice.

"Morning, Amy. Do make sure your sister is up for school."

"New burglary, huh? Is it just our city that has so many villains?"

"We do have an extraordinarily large number of capes, forty-three percent higher than average, and the vast majority do tend to be villains of one stripe or another."

'She would know that,' Amy thought sardonically.

"At least it wasn't a bad trigger. I haven't seen anything unusual in the hospitals so that's good news if nothing else."

"There is that, yes. It worries me that no one knows who the culprit is. They managed to steal from almost every store at the mall without so much as a grainy picture," Carol sighed in frustration.

Amy poured a second glass of orange juice to take up to her sister, but Victoria flew down on her own. "You're up early."

"I know; it's a travesty. Please tell me that's for me," her sister begged. Amy felt her heart flutter at the puppy eyes.

She rolled her eyes with exaggerated annoyance and slid the glass over. "New villain."

"New punching bag, you mean."

"Victoria," Carol said warningly.

"I know, mom, 'Thou shalt not underestimate new capes,'" Vicky recited as if by rote. "It's not as if some thief can actually hurt me."

Amy watched the news for a minute longer as her sister and adopted mother bickered. 'Bryce is a cape,' she thought. 'This wasn't him, right?' The short freshman's face popped into her head, how he'd laze about until someone dragged him into a conversation. 'Right… Bryce, a villain…'

Author's Note

I didn't' feel that any of my interludes were long enough to warrant chapters unto themselves so you get them all at once. Mind the dates.

Damn, SAINT's super hard to write. I wanted to convey the idea that SAINT isn't human. He doesn't think like a human. For that matter, he doesn't think like Dragon, Cortana, EDI, or any other AI either.

A part of this is because he is both a creature of aura as well as zeroes and ones. A bigger reason for this is because of his immaturity. Because I wrote from Bryce's perspective, SAINT comes off in earlier chapters as a virtual assistant, like Clippy from Microsoft Word rather than an entity unto himself. I felt that he was entitled to the first interlude to flush out his character a bit.

The point of the other two interludes is to show that Bryce, despite being remarkably low-key compared to most new capes, is being noticed. Despite his own thoughts, Hillside wasn't the first time someone marked him as a person of interest.

He forgot about Amy's bio-sense in the moment and he never suspected that someone would use Newter to acquire information about Faultline's Crew. That's the danger of running a public operation after all: anyone can just wander in to snoop around. Now, both New Wave and the Empire know there is a new cape in town.

Is it weird that I enjoyed writing Christina's interlude the most? SAINT was hard to write because his perspective is so foreign. Amy's was just not very interesting. Christina's though, let me show James Fliescher in a unique light, as both lieutenant of the Empire and loving father. He certainly doesn't consider himself a villain. Christina may or may not be a recurring character, haven't decided yet.

Also, James Fliescher is Krieg if you didn't know. He's also a family man because people are complicated and even Nazis are allowed to love.

This concludes Wake. The next arc, Wave, will be published on September 1. And, as usual, the end of an arc is the time I beg for money!