Chapter 32: 4-1 Ripples

Ripples 4.1

2000, August 19: Washington, DC, USA

A month.

Even with La Torcha dead, it took a full month to clean up the mess in Phoenix. The Crips, or at least her branch, were largely defunct. With Beartrap captured by Royalle, it left just Bone Maiden and Parade as surviving members. And if Camille's gossip was anything to go by, Parade was only tolerated because he was useful.

I tried to hold back the bile in my throat as I thought of her mangled corpse. After constant therapy, it was getting easier, if only a little.

I didn't see Bone Maiden putting up with Parade for long; she was nowhere near as patient as La Torcha.

The fall of the Crips also signaled an end for the Peckerwoods. I killed Freeform and Royalle's Team One had mopped up the rest in the same day that Alexandria "rescued" me. By all accounts, it was a quick, one-sided battle in which none of the remaining Peckerwoods were capable of handling Royalle's powers.

That just left Dos Caras. Yes, he was dangerous, but at this point, I felt he survived almost entirely because bigger fish had bigger plans. The Southside Mesa were mostly done too with Calavera and Sawtooth in custody, but Dos Caras was the kind of high-functioning crazy that could cause problems regardless of companions. Alexandria had flown back to LA shortly after the Red Sands raid.

Still, the gang war was being smothered out, an unequivocally good thing. I had no doubt that with the Control Wards I'd left in Director Lyons' care, he would be captured sooner or later as well. Not quickly or definitively enough to keep other villainous factions from moving in, but I couldn't do anything about that.

Fuck. Cauldron.

I laughed as I slid into a breathable body stocking meant to prevent pinching. Wasn't it sad? The gang war was an afterthought in the grand scheme of things. A hundred-twenty-nine people dead over the course of a single week and it was a fucking afterthought.

"God I hate Earth-Bet," I muttered.

"You say something, Andy?" Pyrotechnical asked as he tossed me my bodysuit.

I knew for a fact that he was in his early twenties, but he looked older than he should. Pyro was a bulky man of Italian descent with a gut, Mario without the 'stache. I found it funny that his costume even included blue suspenders and a red hat. Though to be fair, it was a red bomb squad cap with flame patterns.

I gave him a smile that wasn't terribly convincing. "Nothing."

And wasn't that a trip. Pyrotechnical, canonically of Toybox fame, was a recent graduate of the Washington, DC Wards program alongside Glace of the same. The two were the "fire 'n' ice" duo, tag-team partners who played up the buddy-cop angle while being mentored by Hero. They even went for the ridiculous "will they, won't they" romance dynamic at the behest of the DC PR department.

I could only assume that they left the Protectorate sometime in the future, possibly following this September. Whether that was canonically because of Hero's passing or because they got fed up with the ridiculous bullshit PR put them through was anyone's guess.

And by Mantheon's sourdough aegis, Hero.

I had a single month until Hero would confront the Siberian in New York.

I slid the external bodysuit Hero gifted me on over the stocking and swore I'd do my best to save his ass. The world was a quantifiably darker place without the cheery blonde.

"Okay, well, you're about to step out in front of the nation. Lincoln Monument, too. You nervous?"

"I wasn't, but thanks, you plumber wannabe," I grouched.

"Hey now, I'll have you know I've been losing weight," he complained.

"Sure, sure." I looked over my suit once more. It was a neutral cobalt-gray, made of some intricate mesh material that looked almost like chainmail in the right light. If I twitched just so, polyhedral patterns would reveal themselves, a unique molecular bonding structure that was visible even extrapolated to the human eye. It was thick enough to not feel like spandex but still breathable. Over my heart was my new emblem, a black turtle shell.

According to Hero, the suit was a tinkertech material he made while studying the way free electrons in the electron sea of tungsten blocks interacted with radiation waves. It was airy, light, temperature-regulating, insulating, and resistant to both knives and small-arms fire. It would even grow with me to an extent. It cost something like twelve thousand dollars and every one of Hero's tinkers got one.

Bullshit, pure bullshit, in other words.

At my hip was a holster with the relic pistol securely fastened. It fit pretty well with the quasi-Star Trek getup I had going on so they didn't take it from me. That it was a murder weapon was a closely guarded secret.

I also wore a black domino mask, long enough to cover my scars but thin enough to give a good look of my face. It was more revealing than my old mask, but that too was intentional. I would build over it eventually, but appearing to start from zero sent a good message apparently.

"Sir, stage in five," Pyro's communicator chimed.

"Got it, thanks, Brickhouse."

I allowed my mind to wander as someone powdered my face for the cameras.

My transfer to DC wasn't the only meaningful outcome of that shitfest.

I'd been played. By La Torcha, yes, but also by Cauldron. I always knew I'd be one cobblestone in the Path, but it was only in hindsight that I could grasp just how thoroughly I'd been used. A part of my problem was that I was so focused on what Contessa might want with me specifically, that I failed to take into account broader implications. And if I could somehow delude myself into thinking this wasn't all part of Contessa's shenanigans, Alexandria picking me up as I left the warehouse put paid to that.

In a way, it was a relief. When I first heard about getting sued, I knew I was national, and therefore a known quantity to Cauldron. I decided then that the best way to not get offed by Contessa was to be useful. I theorized that the Path wouldn't allow her to get rid of me so long as I could be valuable and… I was right.

By all measures, my detainment at La Torcha's hands was mild, downright pleasant at some points. I'd never been hurt. No one I love got hurt. Camille, as emotionally painful as it was to think about her, was a slow-acting master I could reasonably escape if I put some effort into it. In the end, I'd come out of my kidnapping with a handful of creations I'd never have made had I remained in the Wards and a mentorship with Hero.

I couldn't deny that I'd grown tremendously from the experience.

That was proof that Cauldron didn't want me dead, right?

On the other hand, I was livid. Contessa had threatened my mom. Indirectly, sure, but the message was loud and clear. And for what? To see me create without the constraints of the Wards?

No, it was more than that.

I had a month to ponder my place in all this and as galling as it was to admit, I was a catalyst. Nothing more. My own development was just one desirable outcome among many.

Not only was the whole shitshow an incredible PR boost for Alexandria, footage of her hugging me and apologizing taken from an officer's personal camera was still making the rounds, it was also reason for the PRT to grab even more authority.

Following the Red Sands raid, Watchdog confirmed Lawless' ability from my extensive debriefs and linked several information leaks to the local police and government. Most of them weren't hostile or corrupt, but simply had predictable patterns and hobbies that could be exploited, like a woman who loved the slots a little too much or a man who loved to drink at one bar religiously. Coupled with the few that Alexandria had already identified, that allowed Costa-Brown to push for increased compartmentalization and isolation of PRT assets, reducing PRT cooperation with and reliance on local governments.

The argument was that because the PRT could not be held responsible for the cybersecurity measures of local organizations and these organizations had cybersecurity measures of dubious reliability, the PRT should take increased caution to safeguard the identities of their heroes.

It all meant the PRT gained more independence and less oversight, never mind that that wasn't how Lawless found out about my identity. Petricite, yes. My name, no.

But since when did truth matter?

Worse, I found out later that my actions were used by Costa-Brown to justify a post-hoc kill order authorization against La Torcha and the Crips. In order to protect me from legal consequences for "decisive actions taken in self-defense during extreme duress," she back-dated kill orders and announced that Alexandria and local heroes had done the deed. The on-site teams were sworn to secrecy, all to protect a traumatized Ward of course.

I'm sure things like that happened before, but for a Ward? From a supposed civilian agency? I helped to set a hell of a precedent. It was power, plain and simple.

Even then, I couldn't hate Cauldron entirely. I, however grudgingly, had to admit that there were two good things that came of this.

First was the "Red Sands standard" as acknowledge by the courts in a closed hearing. Second triggers, that was the explanation I gave for my vastly increased repertoire, were treated with the same kind of leniency as first triggers. It was effectively a form of temporary insanity and court opinion was a whole lot of complicated legalese that boiled down to, "If you make someone trigger, you deserve whatever happens next."

I didn't second trigger. I didn't even know if I was capable of it. Contessa had to know that seeing how trigger events were some of her only blindspots. And yet, it didn't matter. Polite fiction would be maintained on both our parts.

Second, I helped cement the unwritten rules. As far as the public knew, Costa-Brown had signed off on kill orders against whoever had dared to kidnap a Ward. Alexandria had carried out the order with merciless efficiency, sparing absolutely no one, powers or no powers. The message couldn't be clearer if Scion burned it into the surface of the moon. "If you break the rules, the rules don't protect you."

I could only hope a stronger foundation for the unwritten rules would mitigate some needless suffering later on.

X

I was brought back to reality by the announcement of Chief Director Costa-Brown: "As promised, I've kept my speech short. Now, it is my pleasure and duty to introduce DC's newest Ward, Hyunmu," she said. Even in a celebratory occasion, her tone was rather clipped.

I accepted my cue and walked out. The downside of joining such a high-profile department like DC's was that the PR head was far more opinionated and less willing to take my preferences into account. Ms. Youngston back in Phoenix was pretty chill; she'd listened to what I was willing to do and crafted Rubedo's kayfabe around my input.

Mr. Powell was the opposite. He was the kind of man who considered any input besides glowing praise as criticism and hated taking shit from his heroes, especially Wards. It took a direct order from Costa-Brown to get him to leave my costume alone, though she didn't do anything about the ridiculous name. Worse, he was the kind of racially profiling jackass that couldn't quite be called racist.

I couldn't wait for Chambers to take over for the asshat. Fanon heresy, but I'd die on that hill.

My new name didn't quite fit with the generic sci-fi theme most tinkers had going on, but that was fine. It was a talking point to draw from other subjects I very much didn't want broached.

I walked up, shook the chief director's hand, shook Hero's, then Brickhouse's, before finally returning to the podium to give my speech. My debut was a mirror of the one I'd had as Rubedo: Different people and backdrop, but the vibe was mostly the same. The Reflecting Pool was beautiful and the journalists were loaded up with softballs.

I stood before the podium and took a polite bow, something I'd only done as Rubedo before Redbird, Director Lyons, and other senior members. "Hello, people of Washington, DC," I read from the paper in front of me with a slight accent I definitely didn't have normally. "My name is Hyunmu and I am the newest and youngest Ward. Although I am young, I have the privilege of learning from some of the best tinkers in the world like Pyrotechnical, Glace, Metalmaru, and of course, Hero himself. I will also be supporting the other Wards in the field while working under Brickhouse.

"When my family moved to the United States, many of my neighbors, friends, and teachers reached out to us. They opened their lives and their hearts to make room for us, allowing us to make a home for ourselves in a new country. Their kindness is what inspires me and it is for their sake that I stand here today.

"My namesake, the Hyunmu, is the Black Tortoise of the North. In Korean mythology, he is associated with winter, but also protection and longevity. Ancient Korean warriors would paint black turtles onto shields to receive the blessing of this divine beast. It's a big name to live up to, but I chose it to honor my heritage as well as to symbolize my determination to act as your shield for many years to come." I didn't. I really didn't. "I look forward to working with you all," I finished with another deep bow. I allowed myself a visible wince at the cringey speech the moment my head was bowed and they couldn't see my expression.

It was a drastic departure from my first debut. Where Rubedo had willfully tossed his speech to the winds for some "youthful candor," Hyunmu was respectful, disciplined, and leaned heavily onto Korean culture. Where Rubedo was ambitious, Hyunmu was wise beyond his years. Rubedo's name implied alchemy, where Hyunmu's name was far broader in scope. All intentional. Rubedo was a backline tinker, where Hyunmu would make himself visible.

Soon, we moved on to the expected interview, though not before Director Costa-Brown pretended to pick up her phone and made an excuse to be elsewhere. It could be that Alexandria was needed, but it could just as easily be yet another ruse to emphasize her hardass image. Deputy Director Byron took over.

The first question was eye-rollingly predictable.

"Mike Waldorf from NPR. Hyunmu," an overweight man wearing glasses said, "can you tell us more about your powers?"

I received the mic from Deputy Director Byron with a respectful bow before turning to bow to the reporter as well. "Of course, Mr. Waldorf. I am a tinker, though I do not yet know my specialization. I am very fortunate and it seems I can build many different things like Hero. I have many ideas and I hope that learning from him will help me discover myself."

"Lindsay Insley, The Washingtonian," a pretty young brunette with her hair in a tight bun said next. She smiled at me gently and I knew it'd be a softball. "Welcome to the United States, Hyunmu. Your English is excellent and I'm sure the people of DC are happy to have you. What has been your favorite thing about being in a new country?"

"I love the food. Washington, DC is such an amazing place to try new things. The first week I arrived, I had a different dish every day, from Ethiopian to Thai to Vietnamese. I don't think I will ever get bored of the restaurants here."

"What's your favorite restaurant?"

"Texas Jack's," I replied, no hesitation. "Beef is very hard to raise in large amounts in Korea because of limited land so I never had a barbeque like that before. Brisket might be my new favorite food."

"Donnell Stewart from the Washington Post, Hyunmu. I know you said you're still exploring your specialization, but what are you personally interested in? Have you built anything so far?"

I glanced at Deputy Director Byron. When he gave me a small nod, I pulled the relic pistol from its holster. "This is the first thing I made," I lied through my teeth. With a minute infusion of mana, it began to glow. "It doesn't have a trigger because I wanted to make sure that only I could use it. I can use it to fire hardlight projectiles."

Brickhouse had caught on and tapped his foot. A stone target sprouted from the ground, not even four inches thick. I got up and carefully took aim, cradling my firing hand in the other for stability. I breathed in, and intentionally missed.

Frowning, I took a second shot, this time striking the stone target but leaving it whole. A faint black singe was the only proof that anything had happened at all.

Turning and bowing, I apologized. "I'm sorry, that wasn't very impressive to see, was it? I have a lot of work to do, both practicing my marksmanship and learning more about my specialization. As for something that I really, really want to make… I want to fly like Hero. I know turtles don't fly, but I hope the directors will forgive me if this one grows wings."

X

"Ugh, that was exhausting," I moaned as I collapsed into a sofa in the Wards common room after a grueling run of questions. Most were predictable nonsense, but keeping up that polite wallflower with a funny accent act was exhausting. I wasn't looking forward to PR events.

Thankfully, the room was mostly abandoned save myself and my new leader, Jonathan Rucker, also called Brickhouse.

The DC Wards were divided into three teams: District, Virginia, and Maryland. With Hero being the fuck-massive deterrent he was, there honestly wasn't a whole lot for Wards to do, giving us weekends off. We probably had the best work-life balance compared to all other Wards because despite DC's political importance, it was a relatively small city.

Only about 650,000 people lived in Washington, DC compared to the 8.6 million in New York, four million in Los Angeles, and 2.3 million in Houston, DC was positively tiny. Even Phoenix dwarfed the city with 1.7 million. Sure, the greater metro area was significantly larger, but that was why we had partitioned teams.

Hero was here for the symbolic importance, not because the city warranted such a heavy hitter, which meant the District Team got a lot of free time. We did sortie out to relieve the Virginia or Maryland crews, but it wasn't as common for the Wards.

"You did good, Andy," Jon said.

He had shed the brickwork-patterned armor he wore over his costume, revealing a blend of what looked like a construction foreman's outfit crossed with a football linebacker's protective gear. At five-eleven, my leader was a bulky, tall-ish man with dark skin and short, curly hair that formed a dense dome around his head. He had a bit of a snub nose from one too many football practices, but was otherwise a decently good-looking dude. If I remembered right, he was actually eighteen and would turn nineteen in four months but had not graduated to the Protectorate in order to obfuscate his identity. He would be attending Howard University in a week.

"Thanks, Jon," I replied as I sank deeper into the cushions. "Can't say I enjoyed that mess though. Do we have anything else?"

"You have your therapy session at two and I think Hero wanted to grab lunch with you before that, but until then, you're free."

"Cool. Thanks, man."

"Yeah, no problem.," he grunted as he walked off. "Just remember that you're meeting the rest of the team in two days."

I nodded. It was a long time coming. The circumstances of my transfer meant I was given a lot of time to acclimate, but this debut spelled the end for my isolation.

I relaxed and forced myself to take a deep breath.

I'd been stuck in master-stranger containment for a week, during which time I was briefed basically nonstop, forced to tread the same ground over and over again in the hopes that if I were truly compromised, I would accidentally let something slip in my frustration.

That, I understood. It was infuriating, but the excessive scrutiny made sense.

The thing I hated most was the mandatory therapy sessions. Not even Watchdog clearing me could keep me out of those because like any bureaucracy, they needed to dot their "i"s and cross their "t"s.

My friends kept me sane through it all. Raquel was as jolly as ever and sniping barbs at Jazz let me endure the federally mandated therapy. Penny, for all her worrying, was always happy to lend an ear. David… Our relationship was… complicated.

I… didn't think he hated me? And that was about as much as I could hope for. Every time he saw me, he saw the reason his dad died. Even if he knew I wasn't at fault, he couldn't fully absolve me of blame; his heart wouldn't let him. Things got a little better towards the end when he figured out that Camille and Freeform were dead at my hands; "avenged pops," he'd said. I wasn't supposed to, but I told him anyway. He deserved to hear it from me. Still, he found it hard to be in the same room as me and I heard that he requested a transfer out before I'd ever returned.

I hoped Albuquerque worked out for him.