PWP: 7.4 Rise (Patreon)

Rise 7.4

Bryce Kiley2011, January 26: Brockton Bay, NH, USA

“Hahahaha!” I guffawed. In front of me was a glass of Mexican coke, the best kind as empirically proven via soda engine, and a bowl of mystery-corn. Mystery, because I had no clue what Amy did to any of it. “Huh… Why does my popcorn taste like salty fish?”

“Because I had a salmon lox bagel for breakfast and felt creative,” Amy said with a teasing smirk. She popped one into her mouth and put forth a valiant effort to swallow. “Like it?”

“It’s… It’s not awful?” I said hesitantly. Truly, the sacrifices I made to amuse the Red Queen. “All the flavors are there. I can even taste the everything seasoning and cream cheese.”

“Good, I did it right, then. I wanted to make more complex flavors.”

“I guess, but that’s kind of the problem. Your popcorn’s trying to do too much. That, and the weird texture contrast.”

“Hmph, everyone’s a critic. You make the popcorn next time,” she said, leaning back into her chair with a huffy sigh.

“Sure. Savory or sweet?”

“Savory, duh.”

“Miso soup, got it.”

“Really? Why miso soup?”

“Hey, miso is an umami bomb. It’s about as savory as it gets.”

“I know, still weird. Fine, I'll try it. What would you rate this?”

“Six out of ten. Not the worst, but definitely nowhere near as good as carbonara popcorn.”

“Shit, fair enough. Six it is.”

We watched as Sabah and “Bryce” duked it out on the practice mat. Sabah, in a custom-made gi she insisted was very important, attacked with a textbook Mantis Kick. She spun on her front foot, curling her back foot around in a sweep meant to drive the heel into the liver.

Not bad, but her timing was off. That kind of sweeping kick wasn’t very practical in a fight, especially not as an opener. It could be devastating if it landed, but it took too long and compromised her balance.

She didn’t truly have the weight or momentum to move the other me but he sold the bit, taking a half-step to the side to better handle the impact. He then slipped an arm around the crook of her knee. Holding her thigh, he lowered his center of balance and blew her off her remaining foot with a Charging Bear.

This was the fourth time she'd landed on the mat today. She hadn't improved much, but I had to give her props for dedication. 

Sabah stared up at the ceiling with a frustrated groan. She turned to us in the peanut gallery with a withering glower. “Not. A. Word.”

I raised my hands in surrender. “Hey, I didn’t say anything.”

“I can hear you laughing.”

“Which isn’t saying anything.”

“I should scrap this thing. The Chameleonbot was a terrible idea.”

“You don’t mean that. You’re only saying that because getting beat up by me by proxy is embarrassing,” I pointed out reasonably. My laptop beeped, telling me SAINT had returned to me.

“I know,” she groused. She tapped a control on her wrist, turning “me” back into a humanoid jackbot. “That doesn’t mean I’m not annoyed. I thought I’d have a chance against someone who literally didn’t have limbs until two minutes ago.”

“Hey, SAINT has limbs.”

“Fine, human limbs.”

“SAINT knows me better than anyone. If anyone can copy my fighting style, it's him.”

“Ugh, yeah. Remind me to leave the fighting to you.”

“You’re doing fine,” I encouraged. And, she was, relatively speaking. As far as normal college-age girls went, Sabah could throw a mean hook. “You could probably kick Amy’s ass.”

Amy threw a kernel at me. “I don’t count. I can just touch people and instantly win.”

“You should still consider training with Sabah. A bit of self-defense experience is never a bad thing.”

“Maybe. I’ll think about it. Say, how are your secret wu coming along? Almost done?” she said, in a blatant attempt to change the subject.

“I finished one. I’m making a few, final adjustments on the other. I’ve been constantly tapped dry in terms of qi for weeks now,” I told them.

“You still won’t tell us what they are, though.”

“Nope.”

“Sabah? Clues?”

Sabah groaned and picked herself off the mat. “I don’t know anything, either. There are too many shen gong wu and I'm awful at the mystical stuff. I barely get glimpses, maybe for things that interact with technology directly? Though I have no idea how that’s supposed to work since everything should interact with technology.”

I ignored that train of thought. I wasn’t trying to hide it or anything, but I wasn’t sure how to tell them that my specializations had a narrative timeline. Sabah was likely seeing shen gong wu that Jack himself personally managed to incorporate into his technology in some way, like the time he hooked up the Eye of Dashi to his time machine.

I opened my laptop and began looking through the readings for the Chameleonbot. As funny as it was watching Sabah get her ass handed to her by my pokemon, she hadn’t sparred with the robot just for the giggles. It was a good way to collect data on the Chameleonbot’s baseline operational parameters.

The Chameleonbot was Jack Spicer’s magnum opus in my opinion, which was why I took time out to assist Sabah in its construction and testing. It could copy the appearance of a target with perfect accuracy. To some degree, this even extended to mannerisms and combat abilities.

That said, its AI was also a disloyal bastard. It was a powerful, effective agent that even snuck into the Xiaolin Temple’s shen gong wu vault, but betrayed Jack almost immediately. In a world without magic kung fu monks, a rogue Chameleonbot was basically a terminator.

Our solution was simple: Rather than install kill switches and failsafes, or lobotomize the budding AI, we simply didn’t make one. All the hardware, none of the software.

After all, why would we? We had a perfectly good, loyal, AI in the form of SAINT. I’d already innovated ways of integrating the pokenav into various pieces of technology from other settings so compatibility wasn’t a challenge, either.

The Chameleonbot was most effective when given a lot of data about its mimicry target. Naturally, the person SAINT knew the most about was me. We’d effectively given SAINT an android body he could occupy at will.

A part of me considered this to be practice. SAINT was perfectly happy with his duck-shaped body. To him, occupying the Chameleonbot was no different than driving a forklift. One could be the best driver in the world, but no one would ever mistake the car for their body.

But, he wasn’t the only AI around. One day, once I found a good chance to deal with the not-as-cool Saint and his pair of idiots, I’d build her a body of her own. 

“Hmm… You know, I don’t have to go to school anymore,” I mused aloud, only for Amy to jab me in the ribs. “Oi!”

“Don’t even think about it,” she said blandly.

“No one will know!”

“I’ll know. And SAINT will tell me.”

“I don’t even need school,” I whined. “Imagine all the tinkering I can get done.”

“Sure, but if you send SAINT to school for you, you’ll have to manage all the automated production pipelines in your base on your own,” Sabah reasoned. “So, no matter what, one of you will be in the lab and one of you will be at school, right?”

“Gon… Porygon, pory,” SAINT trilled from my laptop. Even from cyberspace, his reluctance was palpable through our bond.

“Yeah, fair enough, buddy. I guess it wouldn’t be fair to you to ask you to oversee the base while simultaneously being my body double,” I said, putting aside my dreams of freedom for the moment.

“Pory-porygon? Pory.”

“Got it, only for emergencies.”

“Gon.”

“Are you even sure that SAINT can pretend to be you effectively?” Amy asked skeptically. “You know who Gallant is. He might notice something’s off about you.”

“Oh, shit,” I groaned. “That’s a good point. SAINT’s emotional pattern probably looks nothing like mine. He’ll have to eat alone or sit with the freshmen if he ever pretends to be me.”

“Wait, you’re friends with the Wards out of costume?” Sabah asked, giggling. “Just Gallant, or all of them?”

“All of them except Shadow Stalker, but she was a raging bitch even before she got transferred out. I wouldn't say we’re super close, but I did go to Gallant’s birthday party a while back.”

“He went to a Wards meet-n-greet and had Gallant sign a replica helmet. Then, he gave it back to Gallant at his own birthday party,” Amy said, chuckling. “It was hilarious. Gallant had to just sit there and take it.”

Sabah shook her head with an exasperated smile. “Why does this not surprise me?”

“What can I say? I’ve got a wicked sense of humor,” I shrugged. My phone rang to the sound of the Protectorate Pals theme song, remastered by my pokemon to carry a more electronic note. I glanced at the caller ID and slid the phone to Amy. “Huh, it’s Trainwreck. Wanna talk to him, Ames?”

“Me? Why me?” she squawked in surprise. 

“What do you mean ‘Why me?’ You’re the voice of The GOAT.”

“W-Well, yeah, but I don’t actually use that identity! I barely remember what we talked about! How am I supposed to pretend to be an all-knowing thinker?”

“It's actually not that hard. I mostly just keep silent and let people's anxiety fill the void.”

“Nope. I'm shit at mind games. You do it.”

“Hehe, fine,” I chuckled. Finding amusement in her social anxiety probably made me a bad friend, but I couldn’t help it. Panicky Amy was cute. I clipped the voice modulator to my neck and picked up the call. “Hello, Trainwreck. I hope you’re settling in nicely.”

“I’m doing alright. I… I decided to stay in Nashville. You said I could call to have a background made for me,” he said. He sounded unsure. 

He probably figured that if I planned to drop him, now would be the time. He'd left the city. He was out of my hair and I'd given him a devil fruit. I could reasonably call us even.

Fortunately for him, I wasn't done with him quite yet. “I did say that, yes. I want to hear from you, first. What have you been up to?”

“I’ve been staying out of trouble. I promised,” he growled, in that sullen way that students had when they got asked about their summer reading lists by their teachers.

“I know; that wasn’t my question. What I mean is, what does life look like for you in the future? Do you have a civilian name picked out? What will you do to make a living?”

“Don’t you know everything?”

“No. I know a great deal. Sometimes, some might imagine that I know everything. I have never claimed so, however. Besides, would you really be content with a life I dictate for you?”

“Fine, I… I guess I wouldn’t mind working with metal. You know, something that could keep my hands busy. It’s not like I know how to do anything else. Is there a non-tinker thing I can do like that? Maybe some kinda repair-guy?”

“I’m sure that can be arranged. Giving you some credentials might make getting a civilian job easier. I’ll look into it. And how about a name? What should I call you from now on?”

“Uh… Brock Nash? Yeah, that works.”

“Because you are from Brockton Bay and settling in Nashville,” I said dryly.

“I-Is that suspicious? Do thinkers screen for that kinda shit?”

“No, they usually don’t. It’s a perfectly serviceable name. Very well, you are Brock Nash, thirty years old. I will fabricate your identity accordingly. I’ll see about arranging professional certifications alongside a background, medical history, and a broad-strokes resume.”

“Yeah? Then I guess I’ll look for a permanent place to stay. I’m crashing in a motel room right now. How long will that take?”

“A few days at most. Do you mind if we pay you a visit? There are some things we’d like to study regarding the way your power interacts with your devil fruit. I trust you haven’t had any problems on that front?”

“No, I haven’t. I’m pretty used to having functioning limbs now. I’ve been fixing up people’s power tools for a bit of extra income.”

“That’s fine, but you’ll start to feel an urge to tinker if you haven’t already.”

“Don’t worry about that. I can manage that shit on my own,” he grunted. “Been real careful in the shower, though. Drowning in the bathtub would be embarrassing as fuck.”

“Good. Creed and the rest will drop by in a few days. Good day, Brock.”

“Yeah, you too.”

I cut the call. The next few hours were spent with my team, debating the merits of various details we could include into Trainwreck’s background. 

At one point he once had a wife and kids, only to tragically lose them in a fire, which also conveniently explained why he wore long sleeves, to hide the scars. He was fleeing the ghosts of his past to settle in the simpler, slower South. 

I vetoed that kind of bullshit soap opera tragedy. It was surprisingly hard to come up with a normal-sounding life story. We needed medical records, education records, tax filings to “prove” he wasn’t a criminal, even a social security number.

We even decided to hack the National Institute for Automotive Service Excellence, the organization that provided certifications for car technicians. I didn’t know if he could translate his power to cars specifically, but I figured being able to show a mechanical background would help him keep a job. 

Thankfully, I could leave the bulk of this to SAINT. Dragon was his only peer. She sure as shit had no interest in monitoring NIASE or the Social Security Administration. Backdating his files didn’t take very long.

“You know, this is the single most illegal thing I’ve ever done,” Amy said. “Mom would go ballistic if she knew.”

“It’s for a good cause,” I defended.

“I know. I’m not saying you’re a bad person for doing this, but… I mean, are we going to do this for every Case-53 we help?”

“No? People don’t even know we can make devil fruits yet. I think we should hold off on that announcement until you perfect the fruit to your satisfaction. At that point, we can start taking in Case-53s or using Strider to deliver them across the world. Most Case-53s are with the PRT so they already have IDs. People like Trainwreck are the minority.”

“You know, now that you mention it, I don’t recall you asking what he plans to do in his cape life. Aren’t you afraid he might go back to being a villain?”

“He might, but I think he’ll keep his promise. I don’t think he’ll join the Protectorate or anything, but Nashville will probably see a new independent hero.”

“Rogue,” Sabah chimed in absently. She was only half paying attention while she fiddled with the Chameleonbot’s internals. “I think you’re a bit too optimistic, Bryce. I say he’ll become a rogue rather than a hero.”

“We’ll have to wait and see,” I said. “Whatever the case, I consider a comprehensive background fair compensation for being our human test subject.”

X

2011, January 29: Brockton Bay, NH, USA

Reading Worm sometimes gave the impression that the city was constantly on the verge of one cataclysmic crisis or another. Young girls couldn’t walk down the street without roving gangs of Asian men ready to ship them off to sex farms. Minorities couldn’t approach a bus stop without neo-Nazis dragging them into alleys with prepared nooses. Merchants, worse than literal rats, skulked in the shadows, waiting to acquire new “customers.”

The reality I found myself in was a little different, a little more stable. Worm was Taylor’s story. And so, the protagonist stepped onto the stage just as the powderkeg was being lit. Acting as if the month leading up to Leviathan’s arrival was representative of Brockton Bay was the same as going to Europe and wondering why the countryside wasn’t full of trenches and chlorine gas.

Which was to say, things were largely peaceful, at least on the grand scale of things. Admittedly, a big part of this was because I murdered Coil so early on and got the Undersiders and his mercenaries arrested. Without him and his proxies to stir the pot, the city was left to exist in a state of balance. 

They liked to pretend otherwise, but Kaiser and Lung wanted the same things: money, wealth, and prestige. At the end of the day, neither were the type to start an all out gang war for shits and giggles. They sat at the top of the pile and would dearly like to keep it that way. Even if they thought they could ultimately win, the price of victory was too expensive.

There were unstable elements, of course. Hookwolf and his posse of self-styled gladiators was one. Bakuda would likely trigger in the next two months, which could add another. But overall, I considered my initial mission to be a success: Preserve the balance of power long enough for me to scale.

I’d done so. Perhaps the greatest proof of this was that I could afford to work on the Gullrest and make plans for the dissemination of devil fruits. I felt powerful enough, secure enough, that I didn’t consider giving away samples of my technology to be a crippling setback. Influence, in exchange for tinkertech, was something I could afford to consider now.

I landed soundlessly atop a random rooftop near the Boardwalk. It was Saturday night, and a steady layer of snow was starting to build up. I hadn’t chosen the meeting place. Personally, I would have preferred to have sent a package, but he insisted.

“Halbeard,” I greeted cooly. He’d called with a requested piece of tech. As obligation dictated, I’d delivered. “I would have been happy to drop it off at your door.”

“I am setting off on patrol now. I plan to use your scanner and compare the data with my own before integrating it into my suit,” he said tersely.

I noticed the blue sash wrapped around his right shoulder, coming in across his left hip. It had been tucked into a specially made indent in his power armor so it would not shift while he moved. “How is your third arm treating you, by the way?”

One end of the wu rose into the air. It curled behind him, presenting itself like a scorpion’s tail. The “hand” of it had been modified to fit inside some kind of glove. “It is… useful. I am considering various augmentations that will complement my preferred style.”

“Good, good. Now, how many times have you tripped over it?”

“Professional development processes of Protectorate heroes are to be considered classified information,” he said, probably citing something by rote.

“Suit yourself, Halbeard. The Third Arm Sash is a deceptively complicated wu to master,” I said with a shrug. I reached into my expanded bag and pulled out a partial copy of the Pledge Regalia. “Here, there’s a USB portal on the back if you’ve got a computer. Should be pretty self-explanatory.”

“That is a goat,” he deadpanned. His lips drew into a terse, judgy line. It was indeed a pink, shaggy goat with banana-yellow horns and a derpy smile. “You turned your scanner into a plush goat.”

“I did. I figured the tombstone aesthetic wouldn’t go well with your fun, upbeat personality. We wouldn’t want people to think you’re no fun, would we?”

“The USB port is in its rectum.”

“I assure you, it was the most efficient place to put it.”

“I feel that you are perhaps upset about the outcome of the race,” he said. It was hard to tell, but there was a minute, smug upturn of the corner of his lips.

“My, my, someone’s been upgrading his social engine. I’m a man of my word. Here’s your stupid scanner. Shove it up The GOAT’s ass,” I replied, turning to leave.

I wasn’t truly put out by this, obviously. The GOAT didn’t exist; I ultimately answered to no one. Even so, a bit of theater could only help. As far as the PRT was concerned, these glimpses were the only real way to gather information about the “leader” of my organization.

I cloaked myself and skated into the air until I stepped outside the scanner’s range. Even invisible, the scanner would pick up on the vibrations I caused with each movement. From there, I watched Armsmaster sodomize the goat with a USB cable and tablet.

Robocop obviously didn’t trust me. He probably reasoned that anything that could generate a 3D map of its surroundings could be used to gather information about his lab or the Rig proper. So, we met outside. He was also using a disposable tablet for similar reasons; who knew what I’d installed in the harmless plushie.

Not that there was anything in the scanner. Truthfully, I approved of his choice. Though I’d made it months ago, the Pledge Regalia was still among the best things I’d ever created.

Armsmaster was, despite all the shit I talked about him, an immensely capable tinker. He had his plasma and nanothorn blades so there wasn’t much point in trying to get more powerful weapons. He was already learning to use the Third Arm Sash so adding a difficult maneuverability option like a pair of ATs wasn’t wise, either. 

Given he could easily compensate for most everything else, I was glad that he asked for the scanner. I made sure it wouldn’t be able to manipulate sound waves like the true Pledge Regalia could, but just the sheer detail and precision it offered blew any other kind of sensor he had out of the water. Hell, integrating this into his systems would probably make it easier to keep tabs on his sash.

Author’s Note

For those who aren’t Americans, “everything seasoning” is a very popular seasoning blend you put on bagels. It’s dried garlic, dried onion, sesame seeds, poppy seeds, and coarse salt.

Sometimes, I chuckle at how weirdly omnipresent violent crime is in fictional cities like Brockton Bay or Gotham. For some context, the highest violent crime rate recorded in the US in 2024 was St. Louis, MO. They had a total of 116 homicides, or 41.5 homicides per one hundred thousand people. That is 0.0415%. This is considered astronomically high.

Animal Fact: Naked mole rats can live up to twenty-five years. They form subterranean colonies similar to bees and ants with a single breeding queen. The queen can be identified by her slightly bigger size and paler complexion.

To be clear, there are multiple females in a colony. It’s just the queen that breeds, however. She does this by secreting a substance in her urine that suppresses the fertility of other females.

When she dies though, all bets are off. The females engage in a palace civil war, sometimes to the death, until a dominant female emerges. This is an especially dangerous time for the colony because it takes the new queen roughly six months before she can begin to reproduce.