Origin 1.1
Arafell
Verified Cephalon
- Location
- Oregon
Worm CYOA. Alexandria power set. Reincarnation in 2004, about seven years before canon.
Perks and complications would be spoilers. I'll post it later on. Will be using new threadmark system to see how it works.
Please keep in mind, this is literally my second story posted. If you see any weird errors, please point them out so I can fix it.
Origin 1.1 - July 11th, 2004
The paramedics checked me out, confirmed none of the blood was mine, then quickly drove me to the PRT tower in the middle of the city.
There was no interrogation. No one pressed me when I didn't want to talk. The room they put me in was cozy and quiet - the only thing making noise was the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. It was completely cut off from the outside world, an oasis of calm with wood furnishings and warm colors.
They sent a shrink in, of course - child psychologist. Left me coloring books and a change of clothes when I didn't respond.
Nice of him, I suppose; the clothes I was wearing were full of bullet holes and blood. I changed in the bathroom, supervised by a mildly embarrassed PRT squad member who brought me back to the office afterwards.
Despite the sound proofing, I could hear them - I could hear the whole floor if I wanted. The tiniest of vibrations made themselves known with the slightest concentration. If I was being completely honest I wasn't sure if I was using my ears or if I was feeling it through my feet. Still, it beat sitting here thinking.
Male. Rough."Joshua R. Daniels, age seven - was on his way home from his birthday party."
Male. Weak, thready voice. "Christ, seven? That's young for a cape, right?"
"Yeah, but not unheard of - happens every now and then in really rough cases. Child capes are almost always really fucked up in the head. Youngest I know of though."
A light shuffling noise - papers being moved. A copy machine went off in the corner, but I tuned it out.
"Seven. Jesus. He did all this?"
A pause, then more shuffling. "The father. His mother. Kept saying 'it's all my fault.' Practically made me cry, and I've been here a long time."
I stood and began to pace.
"Yeah, I - Jesus. What'd the cape doctor say?"
"Quote, 'like talking to a wall of granite' unquote."
Trying to ignore them now, I grasped the expensive table clock and lifted it. There was no apparent strain - I couldn't feel my powers helping me lift. I set it down, then picked up the desk. There was a slow pulse of energy, the feel of something extending, then the desk rose into the air and scraped at the ceiling. None of the papers laying on it so much as fluttered; I set it back down and flopped onto the couch to ponder.
So - the strength was something intrinsic to a projected field. Both objects should have been heavy enough to require strain, but only the desk required extra manipulation. The field appeared to give me extended grip radius, yet I was sure that wasn't all it could do.
"What do you think'll happen to the kid now?"
A sigh. "Probably be adopted by the Wards. He has distant family and a few close friends, but I think Director Howard will want to make an exception in his case. He's already used his powers lethally; they're not pressing charges, but they want him in a controlled environment and they have justification. Power testing and cape adoption program - at the minimum."
I stood and picked up a piece of paper. If I concentrated, I could feel the field - it extended over it very, very lightly. I narrowed my eyes, trying to push the resisting energy out in a surrounding layer. It flopped once, then straightened out until it was perfectly flat. I turned it vertical, then pressed it against the desk.
It passed through cleanly, cutting the antique wooden corner off like I'd been wielding a sword and not a piece of mundane computer paper. It hit the carpet with a quiet thump and bounced underneath the chair. I hesitated a moment, then touched one of its preternaturally sharp edges directly with my thumb. Nothing - just regular paper to my skin.
The door clicked. I set the paper down and turned, kicking the wood fragment underneath the desk.
There was a woman in the doorway - young, tall, with an American flag around her face. She flinched when she met my eyes, but it wasn't a fear reaction. Instead of backing off, she knelt down next to me and enfolded me in a brief hug.
A computer chair shifted and rattled. "What the hell is she doing? I thought we weren't supposed to get in arms reach until he was cleared! Kid could still be nutso!"
"You wanna be the one to tell her that? You realize she's been a cape longer than Alexandria right?"
There was something - something I had to ask.
"Do you remember?" I asked her leadenly, mind whirling with memories that weren't mine. I had to know if they were true - one way or another. "Do you remember the worms?"
She pulled back, startled, then nodded.
"I see," I said, my last doubts burning away. "Then, we should get started."
Miss Militia gave me a long, searching glance. "You don't have to be strong. Not now."
"I don't have time to be weak," I told her, resolve fueled by guilt. I'm the one who'd killed my parents before I was born - why was she the one who was sad?
Whatever the reason, she insisted on holding my hand until we reached the testing chamber. In return, I insisted on going there today - I wanted this over with. A known quantity would be trusted more than an unknown.
They set me in front of a machine, then told me to punch as hard as I could.
I broke it. Dust sifted down from the concrete ceiling, which had cracked from the force of the machine slamming into the wall.
They put me on a hydraulic weight set. Different room - the other one was structurally unsound.
I stood there arms raised for about ten minutes before it started to smoke and they finally took me off of it.
Nothing they tried pierced my skin. They seemed afraid to try too hard, considering my age.
I was easily Brute 9 by the technician's rough calculations. I think they were afraid to go higher without official authorization to use more damaging equipment; either that or I wasn't showy enough with the super strength. I wasn't able to work out the flight even though I knew I should be able to, and I managed to downplay my enhanced senses to an approximate Thinker 1.
I wasn't sure if I trusted them yet. There were mental associations with this place I could only guess at, even with the way my thoughts kept jumping around.
It was for that reason I never told them about the tactile field. They never asked, and I was only seven after all - youth would be a good cover if I was called out. My Striker rating remained untested and unknown.
Miss Militia was waiting for me after the tests, looking strangely anxious.
I don't know why - they weren't her reviews.
"It's going to be okay, Josh," she said, eyes serious. A whirl of metallic colors resolved into a heavy looking pistol at her side, changing calibers with her emotional state.
A thrum of indignant anger raced through me. What did she know about okay?
She was used as a minesweeper by enemy soldiers - that's how she triggered. Her and other children like her - I think she was the only one that survived in the end.
I blinked, then looked away, anger replaced immediately by shame. "What - what happens now?"
"Now, you have a choice," she said, kneeling down again. It was nice of her - I'd always hated being talked down to. "We tried to reach your uncle, Robert Daniels, but his and your aunt's cell phone were both off the grid. He was your emergency contact, at least in your father's files - did you have someone else you can stay with for a little while?"
I shook my head numbly. I had the feeling that things were proceeding according to scenario - if only I could remember. "Grandpa and Grandma lived in Australia. Mom and Dad don't talk about them much."
A flicker of a frown, hidden by the scarf - hidden from normal people, that is. Monsters like me don't play by plebeian physical laws like line of sight. "I see. No matter what, I won't leave you alone. You may have to stay at the base for a few days, but we should be able to get some of your things from the house."
I nodded again and allowed myself to be steered into an elevator. It was large, the silvery walls and lights giving it a futuristic shine. Miss Militia punched in the lowest floor, then a button with a red domino mask. It flashed three times, then turned off as the elevator began to lower.
As we got lower, there was sound. Since Miss Militia didn't seem to have anything to say, I concentrated on listening.
"I'm thinking Terror Tyke."
"Nah, too Tinker for a Brute like that. Besides, Glen would axe it immediately. I was thinking Terrible Tyrant -"
"Knock it off. Won't matter much anyways, he's only seven - you have to be at least ten to officially debut, and he has to ask to join."
The door opened with a cheerful ding. The two of us stepped inside, Miss Militia's hand on my shoulder.
"Wards," she said in a clear, attention grabbing voice. It was mostly futile, seeing as they'd all stopped talking the moment we'd entered. "This is -"
She hesitated for a brief moment, unwilling to divulge my name but stumbling over my lack of a cape persona.
"Tyrant," I supplied without hesitating. One of the Wards - the creepy one in the optical illusion outfit - flinched, looking guilty.
"This is Tyrant," Miss Militia said, frowning at me. I realized, with a thrill of foreboding, that there would be words over the name later. "I expect you all to be courteous to him while he stays here. As he is not a member of the Wards -"
"I will be."
"-and can't make that decision until he's older, he will not be required to go on patrol or attend training. You are also not required to divulge your identities."
This seemed to be a stock phrase, because they immediately started removing masks. I suppose it wouldn't really have been practical in the first place.
"Cognit," the flincher said, his eyes wary. His costume had a curious, almost hypnotizing color scheme that shifted when he moved. The effect was disorienting; I made sure to focus on the face. He was older than I was - at least fourteen. "Also known as Matthew Johnson."
"Landscape," one of the others offered. He was male, African American - the owner of the first voice. His riotously colorful costume's gloves were stained with black ink; it looked like it had been dyed purposefully. His hand twitched as though he wanted to extend it for me to shake but thought better of it at the last moment. "Name's Jacob Smith."
"Sabrina Trellow," the girl supplied, sounding subdued. Her costume was somber, her mask simpler than the others. Less effort had been spent on it, as if she wasn't meant to be out in public; it would explain why I'd never seen her on the news. "My cape name is Maledict. Tia - I mean, Cloudburst and Steelguard graduated to the Protectorate last month so it's been pretty empty here."
I nodded to each name. "Joshua."
There was a moment of awkward silence.
"Well," Miss Militia spoke, trying to sound moderately cheerful despite the dismal atmosphere. "Let me show you to your room."
She showed me the features, like how to extend my bed, then pointed out the other rooms. She hovered for a while, but finally left after the awkwardness exceeded even her threshold.
I examined the ascetic furnishings and sighed. No training, no patrolling, no nothing until I was ten - just school and 'child socialization.' I had no friends I could relate to, no hobbies to distract myself, and no family left to seek out. To wile the time away I had a bed, a dresser and an empty closet, each one a fold-out model built into the wall.
I sat down on the bed, testing it gingerly. The words 'hard' and 'uncomfortable' came to mind.
It was going to be a long three years. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, I didn't need to sleep.
I grabbed a pencil and forcibly extended my structural field around it. The wall behind my bed was thin wood backed by steel, but my power didn't seem to care. The sharp point of the pencil etched the letters with ease.
I considered them for a moment, then sighed and laid down on my bed to let the first day of the rest of my life pass in relative peace.
Perks and complications would be spoilers. I'll post it later on. Will be using new threadmark system to see how it works.
Please keep in mind, this is literally my second story posted. If you see any weird errors, please point them out so I can fix it.
Origin 1.1 - July 11th, 2004
The paramedics checked me out, confirmed none of the blood was mine, then quickly drove me to the PRT tower in the middle of the city.
There was no interrogation. No one pressed me when I didn't want to talk. The room they put me in was cozy and quiet - the only thing making noise was the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. It was completely cut off from the outside world, an oasis of calm with wood furnishings and warm colors.
They sent a shrink in, of course - child psychologist. Left me coloring books and a change of clothes when I didn't respond.
Nice of him, I suppose; the clothes I was wearing were full of bullet holes and blood. I changed in the bathroom, supervised by a mildly embarrassed PRT squad member who brought me back to the office afterwards.
Despite the sound proofing, I could hear them - I could hear the whole floor if I wanted. The tiniest of vibrations made themselves known with the slightest concentration. If I was being completely honest I wasn't sure if I was using my ears or if I was feeling it through my feet. Still, it beat sitting here thinking.
Male. Rough."Joshua R. Daniels, age seven - was on his way home from his birthday party."
Male. Weak, thready voice. "Christ, seven? That's young for a cape, right?"
"Yeah, but not unheard of - happens every now and then in really rough cases. Child capes are almost always really fucked up in the head. Youngest I know of though."
A light shuffling noise - papers being moved. A copy machine went off in the corner, but I tuned it out.
"Seven. Jesus. He did all this?"
A pause, then more shuffling. "The father. His mother. Kept saying 'it's all my fault.' Practically made me cry, and I've been here a long time."
I stood and began to pace.
"Yeah, I - Jesus. What'd the cape doctor say?"
"Quote, 'like talking to a wall of granite' unquote."
Trying to ignore them now, I grasped the expensive table clock and lifted it. There was no apparent strain - I couldn't feel my powers helping me lift. I set it down, then picked up the desk. There was a slow pulse of energy, the feel of something extending, then the desk rose into the air and scraped at the ceiling. None of the papers laying on it so much as fluttered; I set it back down and flopped onto the couch to ponder.
So - the strength was something intrinsic to a projected field. Both objects should have been heavy enough to require strain, but only the desk required extra manipulation. The field appeared to give me extended grip radius, yet I was sure that wasn't all it could do.
"What do you think'll happen to the kid now?"
A sigh. "Probably be adopted by the Wards. He has distant family and a few close friends, but I think Director Howard will want to make an exception in his case. He's already used his powers lethally; they're not pressing charges, but they want him in a controlled environment and they have justification. Power testing and cape adoption program - at the minimum."
I stood and picked up a piece of paper. If I concentrated, I could feel the field - it extended over it very, very lightly. I narrowed my eyes, trying to push the resisting energy out in a surrounding layer. It flopped once, then straightened out until it was perfectly flat. I turned it vertical, then pressed it against the desk.
It passed through cleanly, cutting the antique wooden corner off like I'd been wielding a sword and not a piece of mundane computer paper. It hit the carpet with a quiet thump and bounced underneath the chair. I hesitated a moment, then touched one of its preternaturally sharp edges directly with my thumb. Nothing - just regular paper to my skin.
The door clicked. I set the paper down and turned, kicking the wood fragment underneath the desk.
There was a woman in the doorway - young, tall, with an American flag around her face. She flinched when she met my eyes, but it wasn't a fear reaction. Instead of backing off, she knelt down next to me and enfolded me in a brief hug.
A computer chair shifted and rattled. "What the hell is she doing? I thought we weren't supposed to get in arms reach until he was cleared! Kid could still be nutso!"
"You wanna be the one to tell her that? You realize she's been a cape longer than Alexandria right?"
There was something - something I had to ask.
"Do you remember?" I asked her leadenly, mind whirling with memories that weren't mine. I had to know if they were true - one way or another. "Do you remember the worms?"
She pulled back, startled, then nodded.
"I see," I said, my last doubts burning away. "Then, we should get started."
Miss Militia gave me a long, searching glance. "You don't have to be strong. Not now."
"I don't have time to be weak," I told her, resolve fueled by guilt. I'm the one who'd killed my parents before I was born - why was she the one who was sad?
Whatever the reason, she insisted on holding my hand until we reached the testing chamber. In return, I insisted on going there today - I wanted this over with. A known quantity would be trusted more than an unknown.
They set me in front of a machine, then told me to punch as hard as I could.
I broke it. Dust sifted down from the concrete ceiling, which had cracked from the force of the machine slamming into the wall.
They put me on a hydraulic weight set. Different room - the other one was structurally unsound.
I stood there arms raised for about ten minutes before it started to smoke and they finally took me off of it.
Nothing they tried pierced my skin. They seemed afraid to try too hard, considering my age.
I was easily Brute 9 by the technician's rough calculations. I think they were afraid to go higher without official authorization to use more damaging equipment; either that or I wasn't showy enough with the super strength. I wasn't able to work out the flight even though I knew I should be able to, and I managed to downplay my enhanced senses to an approximate Thinker 1.
I wasn't sure if I trusted them yet. There were mental associations with this place I could only guess at, even with the way my thoughts kept jumping around.
It was for that reason I never told them about the tactile field. They never asked, and I was only seven after all - youth would be a good cover if I was called out. My Striker rating remained untested and unknown.
Miss Militia was waiting for me after the tests, looking strangely anxious.
I don't know why - they weren't her reviews.
"It's going to be okay, Josh," she said, eyes serious. A whirl of metallic colors resolved into a heavy looking pistol at her side, changing calibers with her emotional state.
A thrum of indignant anger raced through me. What did she know about okay?
She was used as a minesweeper by enemy soldiers - that's how she triggered. Her and other children like her - I think she was the only one that survived in the end.
I blinked, then looked away, anger replaced immediately by shame. "What - what happens now?"
"Now, you have a choice," she said, kneeling down again. It was nice of her - I'd always hated being talked down to. "We tried to reach your uncle, Robert Daniels, but his and your aunt's cell phone were both off the grid. He was your emergency contact, at least in your father's files - did you have someone else you can stay with for a little while?"
I shook my head numbly. I had the feeling that things were proceeding according to scenario - if only I could remember. "Grandpa and Grandma lived in Australia. Mom and Dad don't talk about them much."
A flicker of a frown, hidden by the scarf - hidden from normal people, that is. Monsters like me don't play by plebeian physical laws like line of sight. "I see. No matter what, I won't leave you alone. You may have to stay at the base for a few days, but we should be able to get some of your things from the house."
I nodded again and allowed myself to be steered into an elevator. It was large, the silvery walls and lights giving it a futuristic shine. Miss Militia punched in the lowest floor, then a button with a red domino mask. It flashed three times, then turned off as the elevator began to lower.
As we got lower, there was sound. Since Miss Militia didn't seem to have anything to say, I concentrated on listening.
"I'm thinking Terror Tyke."
"Nah, too Tinker for a Brute like that. Besides, Glen would axe it immediately. I was thinking Terrible Tyrant -"
"Knock it off. Won't matter much anyways, he's only seven - you have to be at least ten to officially debut, and he has to ask to join."
The door opened with a cheerful ding. The two of us stepped inside, Miss Militia's hand on my shoulder.
"Wards," she said in a clear, attention grabbing voice. It was mostly futile, seeing as they'd all stopped talking the moment we'd entered. "This is -"
She hesitated for a brief moment, unwilling to divulge my name but stumbling over my lack of a cape persona.
"Tyrant," I supplied without hesitating. One of the Wards - the creepy one in the optical illusion outfit - flinched, looking guilty.
"This is Tyrant," Miss Militia said, frowning at me. I realized, with a thrill of foreboding, that there would be words over the name later. "I expect you all to be courteous to him while he stays here. As he is not a member of the Wards -"
"I will be."
"-and can't make that decision until he's older, he will not be required to go on patrol or attend training. You are also not required to divulge your identities."
This seemed to be a stock phrase, because they immediately started removing masks. I suppose it wouldn't really have been practical in the first place.
"Cognit," the flincher said, his eyes wary. His costume had a curious, almost hypnotizing color scheme that shifted when he moved. The effect was disorienting; I made sure to focus on the face. He was older than I was - at least fourteen. "Also known as Matthew Johnson."
"Landscape," one of the others offered. He was male, African American - the owner of the first voice. His riotously colorful costume's gloves were stained with black ink; it looked like it had been dyed purposefully. His hand twitched as though he wanted to extend it for me to shake but thought better of it at the last moment. "Name's Jacob Smith."
"Sabrina Trellow," the girl supplied, sounding subdued. Her costume was somber, her mask simpler than the others. Less effort had been spent on it, as if she wasn't meant to be out in public; it would explain why I'd never seen her on the news. "My cape name is Maledict. Tia - I mean, Cloudburst and Steelguard graduated to the Protectorate last month so it's been pretty empty here."
I nodded to each name. "Joshua."
There was a moment of awkward silence.
"Well," Miss Militia spoke, trying to sound moderately cheerful despite the dismal atmosphere. "Let me show you to your room."
She showed me the features, like how to extend my bed, then pointed out the other rooms. She hovered for a while, but finally left after the awkwardness exceeded even her threshold.
I examined the ascetic furnishings and sighed. No training, no patrolling, no nothing until I was ten - just school and 'child socialization.' I had no friends I could relate to, no hobbies to distract myself, and no family left to seek out. To wile the time away I had a bed, a dresser and an empty closet, each one a fold-out model built into the wall.
I sat down on the bed, testing it gingerly. The words 'hard' and 'uncomfortable' came to mind.
It was going to be a long three years. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, I didn't need to sleep.
I grabbed a pencil and forcibly extended my structural field around it. The wall behind my bed was thin wood backed by steel, but my power didn't seem to care. The sharp point of the pencil etched the letters with ease.
I considered them for a moment, then sighed and laid down on my bed to let the first day of the rest of my life pass in relative peace.
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