Ascent 9.6

2005, August 19: Jacksonville, FL, USA

I stepped through the Door with a large box of meringue cookies. Meringues were effectively egg whites and sugar beaten into stiff peaks to give them an airy texture and baked briefly for fifteen minutes or so, until the exterior charred and hardened into a crisp shell. I’d been experimenting with different flavors; raspberry was Riley’s favorite.

I figured I’d bring a box with me. I had plenty left over because mom didn’t like them; they were too sweet for her. It’d been a while since I’d last saw Metalmaru and Bluesong. Well, it was only six weeks ago for me, but it had been several years for them.

I wasn’t sure what I was expecting when I asked Doormaker to point me towards the Kajiya home. This wasn’t an official visit despite my promises to Glen Chambers. Before I paid a visit to PRT Jacksonville, I wanted to see my friends and their daughter.

Despite the couple being quite well-off, they didn’t have a house. Instead, their home was a small, two-bed condo in the quiet part of town, roughly eight blocks from the beach and near the Naval Hospital.

Their living room was pleasant and welcoming, with a sea-green wallpaper that made the hanging family pictures pop. There was a couch, coffee table, and TV, but they’d all been shoved a foot or so towards one wall in favor of a toddler’s play area walled off by those plastic fences.

I found Metalmaru, Steven Kajiya, humming along to a trendy pop song as he puttered about the living room, duster in hand. He wore one of those baby-carrying harnesses on his back. The harness was occupied by what I could best describe as a squirming potato.

“So, baby, believe me~ I’m so in love with you~” Steven sang out loud. He hadn’t even noticed the Door, not that Doormaker’s power came with elevator music or something.

“Yo,” I said, directly behind him. “Heard you were talking shit.”

To his credit, he reacted quickly. He stepped forward and whirled around with the same motion, putting his daughter behind him and making some distance. At the same time, he dropped his duster and unclipped something from his pocket that expanded into a bo staff. Metal spread from strategic nodes set into his necklace, bracelets, and belt buckle, forming a suit of armor reminiscent of a samurai, or Shredder from the Ninja Turtles.

I remembered. His specialization was esoteric metals. Back when I first arrived in DC, he’d been the one who helped me meld petricite into my equipment. Though he wasn’t a frontline combatant, his “living metal” armor was highly rated for durability and could protect him from all sorts of esoteric effects.

“Andy?” he yelped, voice muted through the suit.

“Hey, glad you haven’t lost your touch, Steve,” I said. I set the tray of meringues down on the coffee table and picked one out. “Meringue cookie? They’re raspberry-flavored.”

“How did–”

“I joined the multidimensional Illuminati. Now, I can stalk random people to deliver cookies. Neat, huh?”

“I… You scared the hell out of me.”

“I know, your face has been recorded for posterity.”

“Madhouse rule number sixty-eight?”

I quirked an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Stranger test,” he said firmly. “Answer the question.”

“Fair enough. Selling Hero’s bathwater is forbidden. Corollary: Starting an internet flame war over the legitimacy of said bathwater is similarly forbidden.”

“Heh, yeah, I still can’t believe you got that one added to the list,” he said, visibly relaxing. He lifted his daughter out of the harness and began to rock her gently. “How are you? And… Sorry about outing you, Andy. I swear I didn’t know.”

I waved him off. “Seriously, it’s cool. I’m not that broken up over not having a secret identity.”

“Still… How’ve you been since…”

“Since waking up? I’ve been pretty good. Right now though? A little weirded out. It feels so damn weird to see you as the househusband,” I told him. “You were such a workaholic back then. Hero had to order you to take Thanksgiving off.”

“Heh, I guess so. Things just kinda worked out that way. Being a househusband isn’t that bad, and busier than you’d think.”

“I’m glad. You’ve been pining after Bluesong for as long as I’ve known you. Now, you’ve got a kid and everything.”

He grinned ear to ear with pride like only a father could. “Her name is Chioma, Chioma Kajiya.”

I looked her over. Her skin was an almond-brown, darker than her father but not quite as dark as her mother. She had hair that grew in short, thick curls and narrow, piercing eyes reminiscent of her father’s. Like all toddlers, she was quite chubby in that adorable way that made me want to pinch her cheeks.

She looked up at me, more curious than afraid. Her hands grasped the air and I found myself holding out my hand in turn. Tiny fingers closed around my hand, marveling at the texture of my calluses.

“Chioma,” I muttered. “Doesn’t sound Japanese. Nigerian?”

“Yeah, it’s the name of Hassana’s sister.”

“Right. It sounds nice. She’s what? Two? Two and a half?”

“She’ll turn three in February. I have video of her first steps. And, she said ‘da’ before ‘ma!’” he crowed, inordinately pleased over that small victory.

I smiled wryly. “I bet Blue was pissed about that.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe. She’s still pouting even now. Can’t help it, Blue’s the breadwinner in this family; I only do the occasional consulting work.”

“Heh, how is she? I heard her detection system came in handy in Adelaide.”

“She’s doing well. Congratulations on that, by the way. One down, two to go.”

“That was Hero. He’s the one with the bullshit multidimensional laser cannon.”

“Not how he tells it,” Steven said. “According to him, you held Leviathan practically on your lonesome to give him the shot.”

“Lots of people helped,” I waved him off. “Alexandria. Baihu. A dozen other brutes were in my cryo field, even the fools who should have known better.”

“Maybe. Either way, Bluesong’s detection software isn’t necessary anymore. Levi’s dead, job done.”

“True. What’s she doing these days? Jacksonville doesn’t have many big gangs, right?”

“Kinda…” He popped a meringue into his mouth and chewed noisily. He then leaned forward, like he was sharing a secret. “Okay, have you ever heard of Gator Priest?”

“No…? Should I have?”

“No, no. He used to be an idiot named Floridaman. He was the kind of crackhead moron who threw an alligator through a Taco Bell and tried to shoot down a hurricane.”

“I see. And this is… Bluesong’s nemesis?” I asked, amused in spite of myself. Clearly, Jacksonville was in good hands if that was the worst she had to deal with.

“It’s both worse and better than you think. See, back while you were still in a coma, Floridaman rebranded as Gator Priest for a short while. Leviathan hit Istanbul and the idiot decided to build an altar to Leviathan right outside a mosque. I guess he thought that because he could control gators, he was blessed by Leviathan or something.”

“I take it that didn’t go well? Endbringer worship isn’t a joke, Steve.”

“No, it didn’t go well at all. One of the mosque-goers shot him. He made a full recovery, but that was the last of the endbringer worship nonsense coming from him.”

“Okay, then what happened?”

“He rebranded back to Floridaman. Except this time, he went all-in on the state patriotism. He’s even managed to recruit a bunch more ‘Floridamen’ who claim they’re keeping the ‘soul of Florida alive.’”

“That… That doesn’t sound so bad?”

“It’s not, really. Compared to some of the other organized crime syndicates out there, we’re really lucky. Last Christmas, the original Floridaman led his Floridamen on a race throughout the city. They were driving sleds pulled by his alligators,” he said, trying not to laugh. “There’s an entire Floridaman Movement now.”

I understood now. They were a memetic hazard. “Let me guess. They’re strong enough to hold territory and Bluesong is afraid that if she cleans them out, she’ll only invite more serious criminals.”

“Eyup,” he said, popping the “p.” “She says they’re a net positive for the city’s stability, even if they’re massive pains in the butt.”

“Got it. Is there anything you and Bluesong need? I can try to help out for a bit but Chambers has me visiting a few cities.”

“Not that I can think of. You should check in with her though. She’ll probably have you beating some humility into the local Wards teams.”

“That sounds about right.” I stood and called a Door outside the PRT building. “Alright, Steven. Take care. And really, retirement suits you.”

“Thanks, Andy. Don’t be a stranger.”

X

The official portion of my visit to Jacksonville went equally well. Bluesong was a pleasure as always, though I didn’t get to spend as much time with her as I had with Steve because of her busy schedule. She was a dazzling mix of a proud mother and tinker extraordinaire, jumping from showing off baby pictures one moment to talking shop the next.

Contrary to expectations, she had not pivoted from the sea with the death of Leviathan. Instead, she had opted to repurpose her detection network to monitor and record ocean currents and natural disasters. After all, global trade was slated to resume in earnest in the next few months. With her as Jacksonville’s Protectorate Leader, the city was well-positioned to become a major trade port.

As for me, it was as Steven said. She threw me to the Wards for an afternoon so her Wards liaison could have the day off. Rather than try to make time for them individually, I opted to take them through a few combat scenarios, each round followed by a half hour to review the footage and provide feedback.

It was a thoroughly awkward experience I didn’t look forward to repeating. I didn’t tell them so, but the Wards were… disappointing.

They often squabbled for leadership, each of them wanting to impress me. Even when the older members took turns being in charge, they couldn’t carry out a plan smoothly. It was also abundantly clear that they had no experience working as a cohesive unit. Partners, maybe a team of three, that was all.

That could be forgiven. It wasn’t ideal, but the Wards program liked to emphasize that Wards were children, not soldiers. I wasn’t a master of small-group tactics either. I’d never worked in a team before, not really. The closest was when Brickhouse, my former Wards Leader in DC, and I took on Stage Crew at the Kennedy Center.

No, what was truly unforgivable was that they didn’t know the limits of their own powers or how said powers interacted with those of their teammates’.

One of them grew walls of wood to trap me in a cage. I’d let them, if only to see what she was planning. She called for a local pyrokinetic to set it on fire, only to stand dumbfounded when the wall refused to ignite.

And why would it? Life wasn’t a Pokemon game; fire did not beat grass. Due to the high water content of most woods, they didn’t immediately combust. In the end, I waited for the fire to weaken the wood, then kicked out of it even while limiting my abilities and equipment.

Really, I thought Riley would catch up to them in a handful of years. Perhaps that was a good thing. Their lack of training was vexing, but it showed that Jacksonville was a peaceful city. The local Wards were free to be children.

The experience left me questioning myself. If these guys were typical Wards, what exactly could I teach them? How could I relate to them when our experiences were so fundamentally different?

Hell, I didn’t want them to follow in my footsteps.

Then there was Riley. She was… She was my little sister. I wanted her to be happy, to shelter and protect her forever.

Maybe that was selfish of me. If I couldn’t relate to the Wards, could I truly relate to Riley? I could teach her so much, but should I? Was it right for her to be homeschooled, so distant from her peers that her closest friend was a millennia-old yordle?

I didn’t know.

X

2005, August 20: Hyunmu’s Lab, Babylon

I looked out over my lab and whistled, impressed in spite of myself. Project: Gamera was almost ready. Which was to say the lab, a hangar, really, was a mess right now.

Pride of place stood Gamera’s skeleton.  Gamera was forty-eight feet tall at the shoulder, fifty-seven feet at the head. That was roughly the height of a three-story building. Its massive, oblong shell was ninety feet wide at its widest point and one hundred forty feet long from snout to the tip of its shell. The tail alone was another hundred twenty feet long.

It wasn’t the largest thing in the world, roughly about the size of a modest cargo plane, but it was mine. It was a mecha, an engine of war built to combat the original endbringer and safeguard millions of lives. Its core was a Nexus tied to the World Rune, a font of mana that would never run dry. There was something daunting about that, a sense of purpose that permeated the very air around it.

Dozens of drones moved about the Gamera’s skeleton like ants. Roughly a third of them were giant mechs, each about ten feet tall. The models were taken from Piltover’s Guardian series, which were used on rare occasions by the Wardens for law enforcement. They were expensive to make and mana-intensive to maintain so they didn’t get deployed often in the city-state, but I had no such limitations.

The rest were smaller than a grown man, only about four feet tall. I couldn’t stop myself. They were minions, not from Runeterra, but from League of Legends, the horrid, rage-inducing shitshow that almost singlehandedly launched esports into the mainstream zeitgeist in my old life.

Back when League of Legends first came out, the premise behind the Summoner’s Rift map was that Runeterra possessed an Institute of War. It was supposedly an apolitical body of immensely powerful mages, summoners, who would resolve disputes between various nations. Each nation or faction chose Champions to enter the Institute, who would then represent their faction in gladiatorial combat on the Summoner's Rift.

So, for a while, the cute, little minions I used to mug for cash were canon. I knew that the World Rune I had access to came from a very different Runeterra, but I felt a certain, childlike glee in retooling Dr. Heimerdinger’s Wrenchbots into the minions I remembered.

Of course, the minions had to be properly equipped. They each got snazzy, hooded robes, some purple and others blue. I’d even divided them up into “fighters” and “casters,” with fighters wielding multitool maces and casters wielding soldering wands. I’d yet to figure out a way to include the cannon minions, but it was only a matter of time.

Was this really the most efficient way I could reorganize and retool my Wrenchbots? No.

Did I derive an unreasonable amount of pleasure in it anyway? Yes.

“All eleven of the shield generators have been installed onto the main chassis per your instructions,” Dragon’s voice rang out. A number of speakers were placed strategically throughout the hangar for convenience. “We’re having some trouble attaching the two, shoulder-mounted cannons however. That will likely require your personal oversight, Hyunmu.”

“Thank you, Dragon. And the tail? Have you checked to make sure all the charging ports along the vertebrae are outputting enough mana?” I asked. Every drone I used in Adelaide and more would dock along the tail, forming the scales of the serpent.

“Yes. Your ‘mana’ is a fascinating resource. When will you tell me what it really is?”

“I’ve never lied to you, Dragon.”

“Somehow, I doubt ‘soul juice’ is an accurate description of your unique energy source,” she said dryly.

“And you would be wrong.”

“This world is a terrible place.”

“Says the AI with limitless access to the internet.”

“Precisely. I know what I’m talking about.”

“Of course you do. So, all the drones are connected?”

“Yes, Hyunmu. The primary interface you commissioned from father has also been installed.”

“Excellent. And the anti-gravity modules on each leg?” I asked.

That was the biggest headache in my opinion. I’d scaled up my boots, but the turtle was somewhat awkwardly shaped and its center of gravity would shift noticeably as the two main guns shifted and the drones lifted in and out of the spinal charging port.

I’d had to ask Hero for help to design a large gyroscope placed inside the shell. It actually used the oversized Nexus as the core. In essence, the Nexus’ position in the shell, along with a few cleverly placed kinetic amplifiers and vents, allowed it to function as a mass damper, not unlike the ones found in skyscrapers.

“No problems there either. Before you ask, the underside of the shell has several modules of its own to keep it aloft even should the limbs lose power for whatever reason. Other than the two main cannons, all Gamera really needs is interior decorations. Oh, and I suppose the ports in the turtle and snake head for their breath attacks.”

“Of course,” I nodded sagely. “How could we forget those?”

“I still can’t believe you asked for input from your little sister.”

“Why not? ‘Dragons breathe fire so dragon-turtles should also breathe fire,’ is a perfectly valid train of logic.”

“Gamera is neither a dragon nor a dragon-turtle,” Dragon pointed out exasperatedly. “You modeled it after the Black Turtle of the North, a figure in East Asian cosmology and your namesake.”

“Do you not like it? I thought you’d be all for the dragon theme.”

“The aesthetics aren’t the issue. I fear that this will add another level of complexity for the operator. A flamethrower is also unlikely to be useful in the kinds of crisis scenarios that would warrant Gamera’s deployment.”

“Dragon, what’s the purpose of Gamera?”

“To act as a mobile fortress and staging area. Its eleven primary shield generators are rated for thermal, radiation, electric, and kinetic forces. This multi-layered approach makes it theoretically invulnerable within the limited operation time of an endbringer battle. Its tail and drone fleet can protect, heal, and teleport civilians and wounded allies to designated evacuation points.”

“Correct. In other words, it’s an anti-Behemoth mech. So it does everything it’s supposed to?”

“Yes…”

“Then it’s fine, right? What’s the harm in having a little fun? Besides, I never said Gamera will breathe fire. I intend to inscribe a runestone with spell matrices for Smite. Think of it like a kinetic laser beam. But, you know, scaled up to Gamera’s size.”

“I see. I suppose that could work. You spoil her, Hyunmu.”

“I do. It’s a good idea, anyway. The main cannons aren’t nearly as flexible as I’d like, whereas the heads can rotate more freely.”

“Very well. I have a question.”

“Ask away.”

“You will be fighting on the frontline, as will Hero, Legend, Eidolon, and Alexandria. Who will pilot Gamera? Father’s VIs are not advanced enough to make unsupervised decisions of this magnitude.”

I blinked in confusion. “You, obviously. Who else?”

“Me?” I could hear the surprise in her voice.

“Who else? Like you said, everyone else I trust will be busy. Even if they weren’t, the only ones I’d let anywhere near the controls are Hero and Alexandria. Legend and Eidolon are… not technical people.”

“I had thought you would want a human pilot. Was that not why you built a cockpit?”

“I built that just in case I needed to drive it myself. You’ve always been my first choice, Dragon. That was another reason I had your dad build the interface, so it’d be fully compatible with your software and assistant VIs. I suppose Andrew can hop in if he wants as well, but I somehow doubt he would want to be anywhere near an endbringer.”

“I see… Thank you for your trust in me, Hyunmu.”

“Trust that has been earned,” I said firmly. Then, with a teasing smile, “So, still think a turtle shouldn’t breathe fire?”

“It’s a dragon-turtle,” she replied flatly. “Har-de-har-har.”

Author’s Note

Short-ish chapter. Dragon gets her mech (almost). She didn’t trigger, but her trigger allows her to copy and reverse-engineer tinkertech. It doesn’t make her a better AI. With Richter still alive and making assistant VIs, her role as Dragon is probably even more efficient.

I bet most of you forgot about Metalmaru and Bluesong. The Gator Priest thing comes from 7.6 Intermission, in which Hero calls Bluesong for a tinker collab. It was a good chance to get Andy wondering about how he should raise Riley.

In other news, Andy continues to be completely honest. Earth-Bet continues to not believe him.

Animal Fact: Chickens, most birds, really, require a healthy diet of calcium when laying eggs. It’s just more noticeable in chickens because of how often hens lay.

One way farmers supplement their diets is by saving used eggshells, baking them to dry, and then grinding them down into powder. Chickens will eat their own eggshells. It’s like feeding a pork sausage to pork. 

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