Rise 7.5
Bryce Kiley2011, February 2: Brockton Bay, NH, USA
The past week was an exercise in patience. There wasn’t much I or anyone else could do to speed up the construction and enchantment of shen gong wu. If anything, I feared that attempts to do so would only split my limited reserves and slow the process.
What I could do was train, meditate, and update my tech. I made the Crown Chimera during my third specialization. I was now on my sixth. Three months didn’t sound like a long time, but for a tinker of fiction, it was practically three whole development cycles. I wouldn’t say my regalia was out of date, but I could see ways it could be improved upon.
So, that was what I did. This kind of conventional tinkering didn’t require aura so this was a good chance to update my gear. I took inspiration from the Brockton Bay Grand Prix.
In short, the driving mantra of a storm rider was thus: Speed is king. Speed is initiative. Speed is power. Speed is safety. It is the margin of discretion between committing to a fight and withdrawing. And, for a scant few seconds in that race, I touched a higher realm of speed.
I used alchemy to make dicyanoacetylene, a chemical that burned at over ten thousand degrees Fahrenheit. It was quite literally hotter than the average temperature of the surface of the sun. I used it to yeet myself across the sky like a hypersonic ballistic missile. I made Meteor Impact, a strike that would have made any pokemon proud.
I wanted that again. I wanted that on demand. I wanted that not just as an anti-Lung attack, but as the new benchmark for speed. The problem was, “highly flammable” also tended to mean “highly unstable.” Worse, such high temperatures destabilized the pyrobloin road my regalia made. After all, “condensed water vapor” and “hotter than the sun” didn’t exactly play nicely together.
I’d been brainstorming different solutions since the race. The solution was a combination of multiple specializations. I needed to expand the space inside my regalia so I’d have more room to work with. That space needed to incorporate multiple alchemical arrays.
My first redesign incorporated an array that directly rearranged the gases in the atmosphere into dicyanoacetylene. I then proceeded to slam into the ocean at mach-fuck you. Despite my best efforts, I was forced to conclude that there was such a thing as too much speed, especially in an urban environment.
The problem was that I had no choice but to travel a certain distance, at a certain speed if I used such an explosive fuel source. I’d cause millions in collateral damage and kill dozens of people just by running in a straight line.
My second redesign added two chambers inside Crown Chimera.
The first was a modified hammerspace storage for dicyanoacetylene. The goal was to use it in short bursts as a speed boost without the need for on-the-spot alchemy.
Because the chemical polymerized at room temperature, it had to be stored at the temperature of dry ice, negative one hundred nine degrees Fahrenheit. It also had to be kept away from oxygen or the atmosphere in general. Fortunately, both conditions were easily met thanks to the same tech that enabled Despicable Me’s freeze rays.
The second chamber would be more useful in everyday patrols. Ramjet already took in air. Pyrobloin was compressed water vapor. The Lather Road used surface tension to hold and manipulate vibrations. So, I just cut out the middle man. I made an intake valve beneath my toebox that directly swallowed the pyrobloin road.
From there, I took cues from Scar. As Edward Elric said, all alchemical equations could be divided into three steps: comprehension, deconstruction, and reconstruction. Therefore, if an alchemist could perform a formula, he should be able to perform said formula in parts.
Scar, an Ishvalan serial killer who targeted state alchemists, was not a good alchemist. He wasn’t conventionally educated and so lacked comprehension in the academic sense. Nor did he bother with the reconstruction step. He took his brother’s notes and simply… stopped at deconstruction.
It was an absolutely lethal fighting style, a “what-if Amy could use her power instantly and had no morals.” But rather than use it to fuck people over, I was more interested in quickly and efficiently splitting water molecules. After all, water was the safest means of storing hydrogen and oxygen, also known as rocket fuel. Usually, splitting water required electrolysis, but alchemy let me ignore silly things like that.
So, this chamber would feed hydrogen and oxygen directly into Ramjet. The Rumble Regalia would then convert that into thrust even as Key Mother allowed me to use the expanded volume, heat, and friction for funny Flame Road shenanigans.
There were two costs to doing things this way.
First, the pyrobloin road would be consumed literally as soon as it formed. Slowing down wasn’t an option because slowing down meant dropping out of the sky. Much like a shark would suffocate if it stopped swimming, this method wouldn't let me stop moving.
It also made tricks using the Lather Road a little trickier. Not impossible, seeing how there was usually an abundance of vapor in the atmosphere anyway, but it’d require a bit more practice on my part.
Second, I had a little trouble with stopping. That was what happened when you attached literal rockets to your feet. At least, that was what Sabah said when I first showed her the second redesign.
Which led to my third redesign. Having learned my lesson through repeated collisions, I made multiple gears that toggled just how much water vapor Crown Chimera took in, affecting the rate of combustion. At its base, I could rely strictly on my own legs and the internal motors as I used to.
“You know, I figured watching you spaz out like you’re a sock in a tumble dryer would be more fun,” I saw Amy’s face pop up on my HUD as I did six cartwheels, clipped my toe against the crest of a wave, then promptly ate shit for the hundredth time tonight. “I mean, it was, but it’s gotten a little dull.”
“I’m sorry my training regimen is boring for you,” I grumbled under my breath. I flopped onto my back, arms spread like a starfish. The ocean waves held me aloft, a lonely soul beneath the stars. “Have you considered getting a life?”
“I just got done with a shift at the hospital. My social battery ran dry an hour ago.”
“So go be lame alone, then.”
“No, you’re not my dad.”
“You’re right. Your dad’s in prison and I’m good at the whole ‘technically not a criminal’ thing.”
“I hope you die alone.”
“Love you too, Amy,” I said as I stood up to try again. Shifting between gears was a little harder than I expected. I was testing out different configurations, from facial twitch commands to toe configurations a la Bakuda.
“Say, you could probably reach escape velocity with your new rocket skates, right?” she asked curiously.
“Definitely, but why would I want to? Space is lonely, and boring. And we have too many space whales on Earth as things are.”
“You never thought you’d like to stand on the moon? Like, go to Mr. Armstrong’s flag and draw a dick on it or something?”
“Amy, that’s blasphemy. And probably makes you a communist.”
“You told me that Medhall is an Empire front. Maybe the commies had a point if we’ve fucked it up this bad, just saying,” she said.
“Now you’re just being a bitch for the sake of it,” I snorted in amusement.
“Bryce?”
“Yo.”
“Wanna tag along to the hospital tomorrow? Sabah was there tonight. People are wondering if Creed will come help out.”
“I can’t, Ames. It’s not like I’m just wasting my time.”
“I know, it’s just,” she let out a conflicted sigh. “What aren’t you telling me? You laugh it off, but those falls can’t be fun.”
“My suit can take a ton of punishment,” I replied evasively. I couldn’t tell her. To voice my suspicions was to announce them to the Simurgh. Maybe it was futile trying to game the craftiest endbringer, but I feared just uttering her impending arrival would invite change.
“But your body can’t. You’re not a brute and blunt force trauma is still blunt force trauma. You’ve been training harder than ever. Why?”
“I… I guess I really like the magic kung fu stuff.”
“You’re a bad liar, you know.”
“Maybe, but I really can’t tell you. I’m sorry, Amy,” I apologized.
“Fine, but I’m not going to the hospital, either,” she said. I saw her shuffle out of bed. “Send me your coordinates. I’m going to fly out, too.”
“You? I’m not going to get hurt.”
“You’re the one who keeps telling Sabah and I to practice aerial maneuvers more. If you’re that worried, then… I want in, whatever it is.”
I shook my head with a fond smile. “Fine. Welcome to boot camp, GOAT.”
X
Colin Wallis2011, February 3: Brockton Bay, NH, USA
Creed’s scanner was a direct improvement over my own, albeit with some limitations. It cast a sound-based net that took into account the way vibrations traveled through mediums other than air. If a man shouted in a room, I could pick it up from the street based on how his voice interacted with the glass window. I could see why Wieldmaiden praised it so highly in Damascus.
It was an incredible boon for my scouting capabilities. All law enforcement personnel were limited to public spaces unless we had a warrant to enter private property. There were exceptions, but such exceptions came about from imminent possibility of death or similar tragedies. But now, I could scan a building simply by driving slowly across the street.
I had two, admittedly minor gripes with Creed’s scanner. Both problems stemmed from the nature of sound. Sound dispersed swiftly as it interacted with molecules in the air, not unlike thousands of raindrops sending conflicting ripples along a lake’s surface.
Just the fact that Creed’s scanner could accurately isolate and analyze a single point-source of sound was already impressive. Unfortunately, this analysis seemed to require a relatively consistent exposure, which meant it could not be used while I sped by on the ArmsCycle.
This made me suspicious. Creed was the single fastest tinker alive, at least in short bursts. His “Meteor Impact” was sheer insanity applied to motion. Not even Dragon’s aircraft could accelerate like that.
Given his high-adrenaline style, I wondered if this scanner wasn’t originally meant for field use. At a guess, it seemed best used as part of an internal security system. Which supported the theory that The GOAT had a base somewhere in the city.
The second problem was its relatively short range. Again leading back to sound’s tendency to diffuse in the air, the scanner was only superior to my recon suite for about a hundred yards. I could see in real time the way it populated data and created a three-dimensional map of my surroundings. It reminded me a little of a video game, in which objects in the distance would be rendered as the player character approached.
Nonetheless, these were minor complaints compared to the sheer depth of information it offered. Because of this, I noted a marked increase in the efficiency of my patrols. Said patrol routes became far more flexible as I scanned suspect buildings simply by cruising by.
One such patrol led me to a conflict between the Empire and ABB. Though The GOAT’s arrival had forced the two gangs to be more cautious, they began to test the waters around mid-December. After all, whatever Creed claimed about his moral allegiances, he seldom patrolled and the sole other member of their organization proved to be even more passive.
That left the burden of maintaining public order to the PRT and Protectorate. This was the usual state of affairs. At this point, the director considered The GOAT and Creed to be little different from New Wave and their semi-retired operations.
I quickly scanned my surroundings. This section of the city had a mixed white and Asian population. It belonged to no one, though not for lack of effort.
There had been a construction firm and two bars here back during Allfather’s time that used to launder money for the Empire. Then, when Lung arrived, he opened up a spa and a series of clubs for the same purpose. Most of those businesses had long since gone under, their owners intimidated, assaulted, or outright killed.
Lung quickly learned that “invading” an Empire-held area by trying to establish a business footprint was just asking for those people to be lynched in the street. Similarly, Kaiser stopped trying to prop up new businesses here when he figured out that the ABB was here to stay. At this point, there were few if any such fronts in the area.
And yet, despite a lack of tangible assets, this area remained a hotzone. Lung had once claimed this neighborhood, so it was his. To withdraw would be to lose face. Similarly, Kaiser couldn’t let his “lesser” warlord take the area or he’d look weak.
Personally, I considered places like this quite valuable. Whenever rumors spoke of a hotshot lieutenant or gungho gangster eager to prove himself, I knew to watch these contested zones more closely. So when I heard the two gangs were getting antsy, I knew to keep my patrol routes close by.
I didn’t know what started this particular confrontation. Truthfully, it didn’t matter. Crusader and Alabaster were leading a group of Empire gangsters. They were attempting to fend off Oni Lee’s assault, to limited success.
My siren announced my arrival long before I saw them. Just as I turned the corner, my sensors picked up a sudden disturbance in the air. Oni Lee’s appearance was as swift as ever, but my sash lashed out, equipped with a tranquilizer-laced needle. A burst of ash was my only reward.
I checked my sensors again and grunted in annoyance when he failed to rematerialize. He’d left beyond my reach, leaving me with the Empire capes. Keeping him from teleporting was still a work in progress, though perhaps next time, I could improve the reaction time of the Third Arm Sash.
This wasn’t ideal, but I could at least mop up Crusader and Alabaster. I stopped the ArmsCycle and leapt to engage.
“Surrender and you will–” I began, only to receive a salvo of semi-automatic fire from Alabaster. He had a pair of Glock 19s, an unfortunately common model among gangsters.
I leapt to the side and allowed my predictive algorithm to take partial control. My halberd lashed out to parry the bullets I would not have dodged. Somewhat ironically, a brute or mover was more difficult to predict than a blaster or gunman. After all, most of the latter only traveled in a straight line.
The blue sash rippled behind me as I rushed the albino cape. He tossed his guns aside and drew a pair of combat knives. With a manic laugh, he ran towards me as well. As someone who did not feel pain nor could be killed, he was always happy to engage, no matter how outmatched he was in skill or equipment.
At the same time, Crusader lifted into the air, supported by a phantasm under each arm. The rest of his projections moved to surround me. Knowing him, he’d set down on a rooftop and use the vantage point to command his troops more effectively.
I quickly overwhelmed Alabaster. Enthusiasm could only do so much against power armor and I had no need to hold back. Flicking my halberd upwards, I cleaved his right hand from his arm and stepped forward into a front snap kick.
The sensation of breaking bones vibrated up my leg. It was a fatal blow, which I knew meant I had approximately four seconds. With their frontline temporarily down, I took the chance to incapacitate the rest of the unpowered gangsters foolish enough to stick around.
“Armsmaster, they’ll be receiving reinforcements soon,” the agent on console reminded me. That was the real trouble with taking down Empire capes: We were always on borrowed time.
“Understood,” I replied tersely. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a ghostly phantom approach from the side, spear lowered.
I dodged out of the way. There was no other option. Crusader’s projections were called “ghosts” because they were Manton-limited; they passed through nonliving matter but interacted with humans normally. My halberd, power armor, or even a force field were worthless.
Still, he made a mistake. His projections were only as skilled as he was. Other than their selective intangibility and minor flight capabilities, they were not superhuman.
Two more projections tried to pin me from either side. I launched myself to one side and slapped a spear haft away with my palm. I was stronger and faster. As we fought, I could see my predictive algorithm adapting to Crusader’s fighting style in record time. After all, there were so many “Crusaders;” I was drowning in data sources.
Then, Alabaster rejoined the fight. He rushed me with the same manic energy, briefly obscuring my view. I ran him through, but he grabbed onto my halberd, becoming an awkward dead weight on the end.
Alabaster looked up at me with a bloody grin. “Gotcha, tin man.”
My HUD blared warnings and I dropped my halberd to leap back. Sure enough, I saw a ghostly lance pierce his gut and into where I was only a moment ago. Crusader had no compunctions about spearing his own comrade to get to me.
I reached behind me and withdrew one of my spare halberds. It expanded from a tube the length of my forearm to its operational length with a satisfying snap. It lacked the full functionality of my primary halberd, but it’d have to suffice.
I could still see Crusader’s position. He hadn’t moved from the rooftop, well within my sensor’s range. That was a mistake.
I leapt into the air. At the same time, my sash wrapped around a nearby telephone pole. It stretched and strained but held my weight, as I knew it could. Its material durability was not in doubt.
Unfortunately, my plan was more questionable. I had an image in mind and the sash carried it out with precision. Said image was of me being launched like a stone from a trebuchet to immediately cover the distance between me and Crusader.
Flipping through the air was a thoroughly unpleasant experience. I clenched my teeth to hold myself steady as my stomach tried to evacuate out of my throat. Still, I had enough presence of mind to prepare for landing.
“What the fu–” Crusader shouted. He didn’t get to finish before a tranquilizer dart found his arm.
I came to a tumbling landing as the projections vanished without their master. The rooftop dented and I undoubtedly earned myself a lecture from the director. Even so, the thrill was like nothing else. And, privately, I could admit that the look on Crusader’s face made it all the more satisfying.
“What the hell was that, Armsmaster?” console demanded.
“Three-dimensional maneuverability field testing. Operational parameters met,” I replied clinically.
“Power armor shouldn’t be able to jump that high.”
“Indeed, results exceed initial projections. Now, give me a second to restrain Alabaster.”
“U-Understood. Reinforcements ETA two minutes.”
Author’s Note
Bryce feels paranoid about the Simurgh. He’s treating her a little like the Bloody Mary, like if he says her name, she’ll pay attention more.
Is that true? Not necessarily. She can, theoretically, maintain equal focus across all points of interest in the entire dimensional cluster. That said, Bryce is hardly wrong to feel this way, either.
Amy is loyal to Bryce. It’ll be funnier when I kill her off. Also, you know they’re good friends because he can make dad jokes about Marquis.
In other news, Colin is happy with his scanner and third arm. They’re the sorts of things that scale in effectiveness to their wielder. And whatever else you can say about Colin, he is both great at parsing large volumes of data and a highly skilled close quarters combatant.
Animal Fact: The Galapagos giant tortoise can survive for a year without food or water. Ironically, this led to them being used for meat. Old-timey sailors who visited the islands used to take the tortoises, flip them on their backs, and store them in their cargo holds. This way, they could be stored on long voyages and used as a source of fresh meat, especially given they require no sustenance and don't exactly move about much.
This practice reduced the population from an estimated 250,000 individuals to about 3,000 according to a 1974 census. Harsh, but that's what over two centuries of exploitation does to a species. The population has since bounced back to about 19,000.