Chapter 16: 2-7 Antebellum

Antebellum 2.7

2000, June 25: Phoenix, AZ, USA

After storing the holy water in my room, I called for pickup and headed to the lab for the afternoon.

I was finished by four. I ended up with roughly twenty-five pounds of Petricite alloy separated into ten bricks, ready to be machined into handcuffs or whatever else the director had in mind. One of them was a little lighter than the others, the one I'd used to make the amulet, glove inserts, and armor plates for my teammates. I'd probably be scolded for making them without approval, but I couldn't be bothered to care. Stingray had a close run-in with Gatling of the Peckerwoods the other day and a bit of power negation wouldn't have gone amiss. Besides, the more I "accidentally" used up in my excitement, the more difficult it would be to notice some of my stock was missing.

Each brick had taken another Mana Crystal to ensure the Petricite was fully merged with the steel, but the result was a material that was heavily absorbent to magic and esoteric powers. It was the very same steel used to craft the armor of the fabled Dauntless Vanguard. Such an armor would be too heavy for me, but I promised I'd make myself a set one day.

I loaded them all onto a small cart and dropped them off with Dr. Sanchez, Head of Power Testing. The write-up for this was sizable, but I was let go within the hour.

That night, I dropped my teammates' new gear into their owners' lockers and settled into my first full, unsupervised shift on console.

"Ranchero, Wildshot, this is Rubedo on console," I spoke into the mic as I topped myself off on Oracle's.

"This is Agent Carter on console for the PRT. Glad to have you, Rubedo."

"Howdy, partner," Ranchero's voice sounded through the headset in an even thicker accent than his father's. I knew he played up the cowboy theme in costume, even going as far as to wave around a lasso he barely had any idea how to use, but the fake accent always got a chuckle out of me.

"Hey, good to meet the littlest Ward. Wildshot of Wards Team Three." I could see on Ranchero's camera a sandy-haired young man with a similar motif to Ranchero. He wore a red bandana over his nose alongside a large ten gallon hat. At his side were twin repeating crossbows. Anachronistic, but probably more PR friendly than actual revolvers.

"Short patrol tonight," Ranchero said, more upbeat than in his civilian guise. With a spin of his lasso, he summoned a golden bull. Ten seconds later, another joined it. "Let's… Run wild!"

"Your puns are bad and you should feel bad."

"Bah, this is why you're single, Wild. No sense of humor. Right, Rubedo?"

"No comment."

"Children," Agent Carter said tiredly. "Focus."

The Wards mounted the bulls and began their patrol. Their route would start from the Tempe Police Department HQ just south of Salt River. From there, they wanted to circle Arizona State University, take the roundabout to Tempe St. Luke's Hospital, then finally head north again to cross Salt River back into Phoenix for pickup. If all went well, it was a four hour walk, two and a half by bull assuming they didn't stop for anything.

The two Wards trotted along on their golden bulls for ten minutes, signing autographs, taking pictures, and generally making sure they were seen. Contrary to my original estimation, in ten minutes, they crossed less than two blocks and I had a newfound appreciation for Taylor's hatred for such patrols. I'd zoned out for a bit thinking about my new pistol when Wildshot's mic came live.

"Console, I'm hearing yelling," he said. "South, three blocks away. Permission to investigate?" Ranchero had already turned his bulls in that direction.

"Granted, but be careful. You have your potions?"

"Yes, ma'am. Pills, ma'am," Ranchero said. "I made sure Wildshot got both the healing and brute ones."

"Good. Ranchero, call out a few more bulls until you feel you have a high enough brute rating. Wildshot behind. Intel only."

"Yes, ma'am," the two Wards echoed.

I glanced at the city map and found the nearest Protectorate patrol. "Cloudstreak and Bunyan are eight blocks away. Two minutes ETA. Should I call them?"

"Negative, Rubedo. We'll reach out if things escalate."

"Yes, ma'am."

Ranchero took point, swinging his lasso every ten seconds until he had a small wedge of six bulls. Each bull he summoned provided him a higher brute rating so long as they "lived," but with diminishing returns. During testing, I'd heard he summoned forty for a brute seven rating. Impressive, if it didn't take north of six minutes to accomplish. Under normal conditions, he typically never called more than eight. There were only so many angus bulls he could cram onto a street before they got in each other's ways.

I watched on Ranchero's bodycam as the two reached the scene. Eleven men faced each other, four to seven. They were clearly divided along ethnic lines, which meant one side was Peckerwood for sure. I couldn't see much else in the twilight, my pericognition limited through video, but Wildshot wasn't similarly hampered.

"Four Hispanics, seven whites," he spoke crisply. "I see gang signs on both sides. PW and SSM. Won't be long 'til someone sees us. Ranchero isn't exactly subtle."

"Don't blame me for being fabulous."

"Ranchero," Agent Carter snapped. "Business now."

"Yes, ma'am," he coughed. "Should I surround them?"

"Hold position. Wildshot, are they armed and how?"

"No guns in sight, but I can see a few bulges that might be pistols. I wouldn't discount smaller weapons too, ma'am."

"Rubedo, are the police aware of the problem?"

I checked the local dispatch for the street names. "No, ma'am."

"Let them know. No capes, not our problem."

"But ma'am," Wildshot cried.

"We're here to keep people safe and arrest villains. Any of them draw?"

"No ma'am," the ranged hero sighed sulkily. "Just insults and slurs."

"If we go in now, there's a good chance our presence will escalate things into violence. Hold position and try to make your bulls inconspicuous, Ranchero. Pull back a bit if you need to."

Ranchero maneuvered his bulls until they were out of the gang members' line of sight. Two bulls were hidden flush against a bus while the others ducked behind a corner. It said much about Earth-Bet that only a handful of people glanced twice, choosing to make themselves scarce from the potential cape fight.

We watched for a minute before twin gunshots pierced the night. A revving noise filled the air.

"Ma'am, Sawtooth inbound!" Wildshot shouted.

Before the Wards could react, a giant of a man fell from the sky like a meteor in between the gangbangers. He wore a leather jacket with "SSM" embossed onto the back, a white wifebeater, and ragged jeans. His only nod to a formal costume was the burlap sack he wore over his head with holes cut out for eyes.

He shouted something I couldn't understand in Spanish before swinging his trademark chainsaw-shotgun in a wide arc. It was an abomination of a weapon, a "sword" with two shotgun barrels stapled to either side of the motorized blade. It was suggested that he was a ballistics tinker purely based on how he could fire the shotguns without breaking the chainsaw. Even so, the demented blade ripped through the first of the Peckerwoods and a nearby fire hydrant, sending blood spraying through the air.

I was shaken out of my stupor by Agent Carter's shouting. "Rubedo, ETA on cops!"

"Four minutes, ma'am," I snapped back.

"Ma'am," Ranchero said urgently.

"Go, prioritize civilians, bulls first. Wildshot rear! I'll call Protectorate console."

"Yes, ma'am!" the two shouted as Ranchero ushered his projections into a stampede.

Everything devolved into chaos as the thundering of hooves filled the air. I saw all but two Peckerwoods scatter. One was the one who had been sawn in half, but the other was shrinking.

In the blink of an eye, a full-grown komodo dragon lunged towards the SSM cape with deceptive speed.

"¡Pinche puto!" Sawtooth shouted, loud enough for Ranchero's mic to catch. I rolled my eyes at one of the few curses I understood in Spanish. Still, his reaction time was better than his language and he managed to shove the sleeve of his left arm into the lizard's mouth. Miraculously, the leather held.

'Must be armored,' I mused as I checked on the Protectorate patrol. Cloudstreak and Bunyan were eleven blocks away and gaining, one much faster than the other. 'Good. Streak must be a mover.'

Sawtooth said something else before aiming his twin barrels at the ground. With a deafening bang, he sailed through the air, his jacket torn from his opponent's jaws. The giant of a man took aim with unexpected precision, firing twice into the komodo's body. Its toxic saliva sputtered as its torso erupted in gore. That was as far as they got before Ranchero's stampede arrived.

He had time to call a seventh. Three bulls charged shoulder to shoulder, forcing the gangbangers to scatter. Two more circled around the intersection on either side, keeping them from simply running away. One bull nicked an SSM member with its horn, the force alone enough to knock him on his ass with a torn bicep. His pistol clattered to the floor. Two more gunshots filled the air, but the hardlight bulls ignored the bullets completely.

I glanced at the Protectorate response timer. "One minute 'til Cloudstreak," I said. "Bunyan shouldn't be far behind."

The komodo dragon changed again while we weren't paying attention. He rapidly gained mass until a full-blown t-rex stood roaring into the night sky. Wildshot let loose with his repeating crossbows, but both shots were ignored. He winced as he ducked behind cover to avoid a gunshot.

"Tranqs aren't working," he growled over the mic. "Freeform's changing too fast for the drugs to take hold."

"Focus on the grunts," Agent Carter ordered. "Ranchero, stand back and crowd Sawtooth. See if you can keep him busy."

"Yes, ma'am," they barked out as they rushed to follow the senior officer.

The Peckerwoods, seeing the massive t-rex on their side, regrouped behind a van and began firing at anything that moved. One of the SSM grunts went down clutching his thigh. Before they could finish off the other three, a golden bull rammed straight into the van, cratering its side and tilting it precariously onto two wheels. That was enough for the five of them to scatter again.

One of the Peckerwoods was running past a STOP sign. Two crossbow bolts fired with pinpoint precision landed through the notched holes of the street sign and into his arm. He was out moments later.

"Got 'em marked," Wildshot said.

I glanced over to his bodycam. He was still crouched behind a car. Rather than rise to take aim, he fired both repeaters into the air, emptying the magazines in the span of six seconds.

I had to switch to Ranchero's camera to see what happened. Each bolt swerved in the air, homing in like demented hornets to separate targets. Six shots, six hits, each on a major vein.

I let out a low whistle. "Damn, that's impressive."

"Thanks, kid."

"Enough patting yourselves on the back. Move the gangbangers out of the cape fight," Agent Carter barked.

"Yes, ma'am!" Ranchero scrambled. With no need to secure the perimeter any longer, he had six bulls charge Sawtooth and Freeform, forcing them to disengage. Each bull didn't last long on its own, but that was enough for him to start moving the gang members. I saw both villains put their fight on hold to slaughter the bulls.

Wildshot tried to distract them by throwing a rock into their eyes, but Sawtooth shot his out of the air and Freeform ignored it completely. The size difference between a t-rex and an angus bull was so large that the bulls could only gore Freeform's shins at best. The wounds closed practically as soon as they were made even as the tyrant lizard's jaws closed on each projection.

Sawtooth blended his way through one bull and dodged the horns of another, only to get clipped by the third. He swore and fiddled with something on the shotgun before firing into the ground, launching himself skyward again. He landed atop a car and took aim at Ranchero from mere feet away

"Ranchero, Sawtooth," I yelled. I felt utterly out of my depth just watching this.

Ranchero summoned another projection as the shotgun roared. The latest golden bull died the moment it was called. I thought for a moment I'd lose a teammate so soon.

Before he could take aim again, Cloudstreak descended on a stream of billowing white clouds. Four fist-sized hunks of hail launched towards Sawtooth, forcing him to fire on them instead of Ranchero. Cloudstreak herself was a woman clad in a form-fitting white costume with blue clouds providing tasteful accents. Her domino mask did nothing to hide her disdain for the Peckerwood cape.

"Ranchero, Wildshot," her voice echoed through the speakers with a faint Jamaican accent. "Withdraw. We'll take it from here."

A whirling chainsaw blade, attached only to the hilt by a rappelling wire, lashed towards the heroine, only for a thick cloud of white to shroud her like a shield. The blade roared but found no purchase and for a moment, I wondered what her clouds were actually made of. Were they just cloud-shaped dimension-fuckery or did Shards physically alter clouds to be denser than metal?

Sawtooth turned around and fired behind him, thrusting himself forward and catching the rebounding blade into its slot with expert skill. He swung overhand, this time at the seams of the forming clouds, and they parted before they could fully solidify. Cloudstreak launched herself back with a curse. Freeform was nowhere to be found.

"Go!" she barked out.

Ranchero ran back, but called a bull to assist her as he retreated.

Seconds later, the ground shook with yet another airborne cape. Bunyan had arrived. He was a tall man with a busy, red beard dressed like a lumberjack in jeans and flannel. Sticking on-brand, he hefted a giant axe almost as tall as he was with one hand. Standing from the cratered asphalt, he glowered at the SSM cape.

"Now would be a good time to surrender," he growled as he held his axe aloft. It wasn't my imagination. The lumberjack cape was rapidly growing taller, gaining entire feet in seconds as though he'd been drugged by Lulu.

Sawtooth shrugged and said something else I didn't understand in Spanish before twisting something on his ridiculous chain-sword-shotgun. Its teeth spun even faster, creating visible heat shimmers in the evening light.

"Ranchero, Wildshot, pull back. This is as far as we go. You two did well," came Agent Carter's voice threw the comms.

"Ma'am, if we stay, we could provide support," Wildshot tried.

"Negative. Pull back. SSM capes are too willing to kill."

While the two Wards were arguing with console, I saw Bunyan lunge forward with his axe. He launched himself with enough force to crater concrete. He shrank as he flew through the air, gaining speed and concentrating force due to his newly decreased mass. His axe blade met Sawtooth's in a shower of sparks, forcing the two apart.

Cloudstreak wasted no time releasing more clouds from her hands, covering the world around them like a veil. It created an arena of sorts, forcing Wildshot and Ranchero out of the fight while locking the two Protectorate Capes in with the villain.

"Pull back and look for civilian casualties," Agent Carter said.

I doubted there would be any. It wasn't as though people couldn't sense a confrontation coming from a setup like that. Still, "keeping civilians safe" was an excuse the Wards could swallow rather than "let the adults handle this" so they said nothing and got to work securing the perimeter. It was then that the cops finally arrived.

'Guess cops being late is a multiversal truism,' I snorted.

It was over in minutes. The gang members were rounded up. Sawtooth, lacking mobility in the cloud cover, could do little against a high-end brute like Bunyan. When the clouds dispersed, it was to Cloudstreak sauntering confidently with her partner slinging an unconscious villain over one shoulder.

"Where's Freeform?" I asked. "He was a t-rex then… I think I lost him sometime when Cloudstreak arrived."

"Yeah, he does that," Ranchero said with a frustrated sigh. "He can turn into any living thing he's ever touched so guy's slipperier than an eel."

"How the hell's he a t-rex then?"

"Museum," three voices echoed.

"We'll get him next time," Agent Carter said. "He's dangerous, but doesn't go out of his way to target civilians. He's less of a priority than SSM right now."

'Huh,' I thought. 'The white supremacists follow the rules? Wouldn't be the first time, I guess.'

X

2000, June 26: Phoenix, AZ, USA

I of course saw last night's escapades blasted over the Monday morning news. Wards heroically kept civilians from harm. Protectorate heroes Cloudstreak and Bunyan arrived in time to arrest nine gangbangers and one cape with multiple homicide charges under his belt. The dead Peckerwood member didn't even get a mention.

I ignored it all in favor of something far more vital: breakfast.

Doenjang-jjigae, Korean version of miso stew, was a staple in both lives. Tofu, mushrooms, clams, squash, onions, scallions, and potatoes gave the dish a deep, hearty flavor that warmed the soul. Funky fermented smell aside, it was a favorite of mine that reminded me of home.

"What are they saying?" my mother asked as she picked out some kimchi.

"A powered gang member was arrested last night," I said.

"Were the Wards involved?"

"Yes," I answered truthfully. "Don't worry, they were two of the oldest and they were there only long enough to make sure civilians didn't get hurt."

"Kids shouldn't be involved at all. What about you?"

"I was in the office, didn't even leave."

"Good. Yusung, I don't want you to fight."

I sipped some broth and tofu. "I know, mom. I'm just working on something for my team."

"Are you going in again today?"

I shook my head. "No, the contract is thirty hours per week. Just because it's summer break doesn't mean I need to spend all my time at the office."

"That's good. You should be a child. Do you want to go to the park?"

"You have work, mom. I'm just going to do some homework, read a book, listen to music, maybe meditate a little. I promise."

"Okay, son. I worry about you."

"I love you too, mom."

X

I wasn't entirely truthful. I intended to stay home, but the moment mom left the house, I brought out my three pounds of Petricite alloy and bottles of holy water. I started by converting each bottle into the Water of Life found in the deepest fountain of Helia. Or at least, my best approximation of it.

Runeterra followed the same general rule as most fantasy settings: Age meant power. And the Water of Life? It was old. It predated Helia and much like True Ice, I would need a hundred Mana Crystals for a single thimble-full. The stuff Maokai saw when he was first born on the Blessed Isles was far from practical at the moment, but that didn't mean my quest was a lost cause.

The Ruination had corrupted the sacred well. Though the relic weapons held a portion of the water's holy power, it was just that, the cinder of a cinder of what it once was. By the time the first Sentinels got their hands on the stones of Helia, the pool had been diluted by the countless undead and corrupted nature spirits into something much more manageable. This, this I could do.

It was unsurprisingly more expensive than a regular healing potion, at five Mana Crystals per bottle. Considering the sizable stockpile under my bed, that wasn't much of an issue.

Then came the part I wasn't sure about: I soaked the Petricite alloy in a pool of the Water of Life while flooding both with Mana Crystals. The goal was to infuse the concepts of "life" and "light" into the metal.

Strictly speaking, I was treading new ground. Petricite trees as a species were born of the Rune Wars and native to Western Valoran, not the Blessed Isles. The Blessed Isles, before the Ruination, predated the Rune Wars by centuries. And yet, I had reason to believe that Petricite alloy would be a worthy substitute for the stones quarried there.

Petricite wasn't just a magic dampener after all; it, being a plant, absorbed mana and used it to grow like any other form of energy. That was why the white forests had so little mana, because the trees hogged it all. My hope was that with the naturally absorbent properties of the magical wood, I would be able to infuse brand new concepts into the metal, creating a relic weapon despite the lack of the Blessed Isles.

Forty. It took forty goddamn crystals and four hours of constant focus before the World Rune pulsed with satisfaction.

'Shit, there goes my stockpile,' I grouched.

Still, I couldn't suppress my glee. It was hardly Avarosa's bow, but damn… The alloy itself had been trimmed and reshaped by the sacred water and transmuted by the World Rune into something else. Instead of the metallic sheen it held before, it now looked to be made of a pristine, white marble that glowed dimly with a light from within. Its body had also been slimmed down, as though tailored for younger hands. I knew that even as I aged, the grip would not fail me.

The grip of the gun had taken inspiration from Lucian's twin pistols. Rather than stone, it had instead doubled down on the metallic sheen, transmuting into a magic-absorbent metal that looked like it was made of wrought iron. It was shaped like a bat's wing. It coiled around the stone, though it lacked the "S" inscribed on the side for Lucian's wife.

If I didn't know any better, I'd call it a glorified prop. Perfect.

I reached out and held it in my hands, feeling the weight of my new pistol. Even at just three pounds, I found it hard to steady with one hand and knew it'd be a long while before I crafted a second. Sometimes, being a kid sucked.

I allowed the World Rune to jump to the surface and fuel the pistol. The inner light brightened in answer and I knew that I could fire this thing as quickly as I could think the thought, the beauty of a soul-fueled weapon.

"Now… how do I test this thing?"