Might and Magic (and Mirelurks) (2024)

Chapter Five: Caught Out​

In our household, Saturday mornings are reserved for cleaning, and with everyone expected to chip in, the process was fast and efficient. Danny scrubbed countertops while Cody dusted the window sills and high to reach nooks. Dad was busy applying toilet bowl cleaner with Mom wiping down mirrors. My current task was to vacuum the carpet.

We were a practiced, well oiled machine completing the list of chores in a fraction of the time it would take for an inferior family.

With that done, we had the rest of the day open for our individual plans. Dad left first, informing us that he would be putting in a few extra hours at the office. Dad's job paid well, but the on-call hours were brutal.

As for me, the Pip-Boy sang its siren's song, but I had another commitment before I could secure the supplies. Ever since we were kids, Mom made it a tradition to take us out shopping with her on Saturdays. Said tradition is slowly dying out, my brother and sister having outgrown it, but I wasn't too cool to spend time with my mom.

So, that's how I found myself riding shotgun in the van to Target. To an outside observer familiar only with Worm's versions of events, namedroping the widespread chain superstore might come as a surprise, but contrary to popular opinion, Brockton Bay wasn't so far gone that we had none of the signs of civilization (that included Targets and Walmarts). I suspect the reason it never got mentioned from Taylor's point of view was because the superstores were located well away from her neighborhood near The Docks. Or perhaps it just never mattered to her.

We pulled into the busy parking lot, got out, and requisitioned a shopping cart. Harsh incandescent lighting, bland white and red color scheme, overworked and underpaid employees, these were the things that defined a Brockton Bay Target.

The store would be entirely familiar to Samuel but for the differing brands. When cape culture has been normalized your whole life, it's easy to miss how heavy handed and ubiquitous hero advertising is. It. Was. Everywhere.

There was branding on cereal boxes and pickle jars, on cookie containers and beer cases, on Miss Militia brand gardening gloves and Battery endorsed phone chargers, on Armsmaster themed nail boxes and Legend's Lightbulbs that promised a longer lasting, brighter light, on panties and condoms and medicine and toys, oh the toys, every hero imaginable represented in miniature through figurines and lego sets, video games and consoles, collectibles and memorabilia. It seemed that for every three items on a shelf, at least one featured a Protectorate or corporate hero in some shape or form.

Well now I know how the government funds all those Tinker budgets.

Mom and I wound our way efficiently though the store, not fast mind you, but we never backtracked, working through the shopping list.

"You've been awfully quiet today," Mom said.

"Does it seem like there's a lot of cape themed products to you compared to when I was a kid?" If she was caught off guard by the non sequitur, she didn't show it.

"Hmm, I suppose nowadays you get a lot more of that stuff, yeah. Even just ten years ago, you didn't used to see this amount of cape marketing. It's the job of people like me to get those heroes' names out there into the public consciousness. I'd say it's not too dissimilar to brands having mascots or celebrity endorsem*nts, just one form of celebrity replacing another. It's nice to see you taking an interest, Sam, not many kids your age realize how different the landscape is from a decade ago. What got you thinking about cape marketing?"

I already had a plausible explanation lined up, "Current Events assigned an essay about one part of culture and how it's been affected by the rise of parahumans. I chose to write about capes in the entertainment industry, and that got me thinking about how often they show up if you pay attention."

"I'm glad you're putting that mind of yours to good use. If you ever wish to break into the cape marketing industry with artistic talent of yours, I have many contacts you know. Or you can go wherever your passions take you. It's entirely up to you. Your father and I are here to help support you after all, so don't ever be afraid to ask for advice from either of us."

"Thanks Mom," My heart was warmed knowing that my mother meant every word she said, "Love you."

"Of course, Sweetheart. I love you too."

Half an hour later, we were loading groceries into the car, my ambitious plans for the Pip-Boy not forgotten. I made my play.

"Hey Mom, I forgot to tell you that I had plans with my friends at the mall today. I'm sorry to spring it on you just now, but do you think you can drop me off at Hillside? Sorry again."

Mom's face remained neutral, revealing no clue to her inner thoughts, "Sure Sweetheart, but make sure to tell one of us beforehand in the future, okay?"

"Yes, understood."

"Alright, let's get going."

The ruse worked.

Mom drove me south to the Commercial District out near the border between Brockton and the neighboring jurisdiction. Hillside Mall was one large semicircle, several restaurants, businesses, and a movie theater arrayed in an outer arch surrounding the shopping center. Everything I needed, I'd be able to obtain from the middle area, so I told Mom to drop me off in front of the plaza fountain.

"See you later, Sweetheart. I expect to hear from you before six, and I don't want you out any later than eight, understood?" she asked.

"Yes, Mom."

"Bye, Sweetheart."

"Bye-bye," I got moving.

The shopping center was three stories tall and circular, the eye at the heart of the mall. Shops surrounded the central floor on two levels connected by stairs and escalators. Hillside had a blue color theme to go along with the generic mall-white plaster.

My first stop was at an arts and crafts shop. There, I bought some of what I'd need for the Pip-Boy casing: Plastic pellets for the materials, pads for ergonomics, and a one time use mold case for injecting the plastic. I also found some cute penguin stickers (for aesthetics).

I left the store with a wallet $90 lighter and out of cash. I'd have to dig into my checking account funds to pay for the rest of what I needed.

A grumble from my stomach signaled a pause to the shopping. One food court gyro solved my problem, and I soldiered on.

Next on the list, I visited the hobbyist electronics store, acquiring wiring and a cheap programmable microcontroller for the internals. The circuit board was reminiscent of the products Arduino created for digital device prototyping on Samuel's Earth. To go along with that, I picked out a small LCD screen, a rechargeable battery pack, a soldering kit to hook everything together, and a hot plate to serve as a heating element.

Despite my sincerest budgeting efforts, I was out another $140, and I still had no way to safely melt my plastic. Experts generally recommend not heating plastic to its melting point, the resultant byproducts being hazardous to human health. One procedure is to weaken a non chemically resistant plastic in acetone while heating to below the melting point in order to soften up the material.

I couldn't find acetone anywhere in the mall, no chemistry shops or generalized hardware stores nearby. I was about to give up and see if I could find someplace downtown when I realized there was one location that would sell acetone at the mall: The beauty shop.

One 16 fluid ounce bottle of maximum strength nail polish remover and $3 later, I had everything ready to go.

At this point, my arms were laden with multiple heavy bags of eclectic origin, but thanks to my Stamina, muscle fatigue had not set in. I rather enjoyed the benefits my powers provided in everyday life.

The trip had taken surprisingly long, searching for what I needed while balancing cost and quality, and it was nearly dinner time. I sent a text that I was on the way home and caught the bus back to my neighborhood. I couldn't help but be self conscious of the other passengers. Was I receiving more looks than normal? Did anybody think my shopping bags were suspicious? There's nothing to see here, just a perfectly average teenage girl carrying perfectly normal tinkering supplies, move along.

I called myself a Tinker, but I actually understood what I was doing and how all the components worked. There was nothing impossible about a kludged together wrist-worn computer, although I had yet to figure out where all of New Vegas's other abilities fit in.

The bus arrived at my stop, and my worries abated as I disembarked, no one having accosted me on the trip. After a block of distance, I quickly looked around and seeing no peering eyes nearby, I inventoried everything except the stickers. Mom and Dad might think it unrealistic if I had bought nothing while out.

Opening the front door, I was greeted with a tangy aroma, "Hey Mom, Dad, I'm home. What's for dinner? It smells good."

"Stir-fry," Dad called out, "How was your mall trip?" his tone was subdued. I hope nothing bad happened at the PRT building today.

Curiosity guided my response, "Is everything alright? Was there an emergency?"

My dad hummed, "Nothing to worry about, Sweety. They just needed us pencil pushers on hand for a few hours. But you didn't answer my question Sam."

"Oh, it was lots of fun," Shopping for Tinker supplies is fun.

Mom entered the kitchen and stood next to Dad.

"Sounds like it," she said, "Did you pick up anything interesting there?"

"I found the most adorable penguin stickers," I proffered the sticker sheet so they could see, "I'm totally gonna put these little guys on all my stuff."

"That's nice, Sam," Dad said.

Mom cleared her throat and followed up, "Who did you say you went with again?"

Her speech was clipped, arms crossed and shoulders tensed. I was getting a bad feeling.

"Um, I went with Cass today. We had an absolute blast."

I had to pick one of my friends to use for my alibi. It couldn't be Jasmine as she was busy at the shrine today, and Ymena and I hung out last evening. Cass usually spent her Saturdays out and about, and was the most likely to play along with my sham. I'll have to text her in case my parents question her parents and somehow convince Cass to lie to both of them.

"Are you sure about that?" her tone was terse.

I doubled down, "Yes. I'm sure."

"That's very interesting. I wonder why I got a call from the Yoshidas, asking if you would like to join Jasmine and the other girls for afternoon tea."

Oh no. My heart rate spiked, cold sweat broke out on my forehead. My cone of vision narrowed, the edges darkening and blurring. If this was my fight or flight response activating, then I chose the third option, shut down. I was frozen, lost for words that could salvage this worst case scenario. Why did I have to tell such a stupid lie? I could have said I was going to the mall alone, or I could have Mom drop me off at the library and left from there, or a million other lies that are all better than my liability-ridden fabrication. But it's too late now.

My mother looked like she was about to speak again when Dad chimed in, "Honey, let's stop beating around the bush. Samantha, we know you lied to us," his calm demeanor did little to stop my mom's rising anger.

Mom's face was red, utterly apoplectic "You lied to me, right to my face," There was barely contained fury and not so hidden exasperation in her voice, "You'd better have a good explanation young lady, or I swear to-"

"That's enough," Dad interrupted whatever she was going to say next, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. The two exchanged a meaningful look, and Mom took a deep breath. Dad continued on, "We want to hear your explanation, and we'll reserve judgment after that."

I was honestly hoping that Dad would keep talking or that Mom would explode at me, something, anything to give me another few seconds to come up with a response that didn't land me in hot water. Instead, they stared at me in silence, a silence that dilated time a hundred fold, those few seconds the longest of my entire life. And I could do nothing but stand there, floundering, struggling to come up with even a single word in my defense.

Lies would do me no more favors here, only dig me a deeper grave, but the truth wasn't any better. I had planned on revealing my powers only after I had explored them more thoroughly. I wanted to tell them on my terms. I wasn't ready.

My dad threw me the barest lifeline, "Would you care to tell us what you spent one hundred and forty four dollars on?" He enunciated the number carefully as if to drive in the point that the amount of money I had spent concerned them.

In retrospect, my response was not well thought out, "You're spying on my card?! I have a right to privacy! You can't just do that." "Samantha Brown, don't you dare-" Mom yelled over me.

"Stop, please."

Dad didn't yell. Dad never yells. Nonetheless, his authoritative tone carried across our outbursts and quieted both of us. Mom looked upset with him, but let Dad continue.

"Samantha, you are a minor, and your account is co-owned under my name. We have every right as parents to inspect your transaction history until you turn eighteen and are legally able to open an account under your own name. We have not abused this fact but felt it was prudent to check after we caught onto your lie. According to the bank statement, you spent three dollars at Tracy's and more concerningly, one hundred and forty one dollars at NorthEast Circuit and Solder. I'm sure you can imagine why we might be worried about you spending a significant sum at a hobbyist electronics store when you haven't previously shown interest. If you have a reasonable explanation for your actions, now is the time to tell us."

There is no reasonable explanation, Dad. I'm all out of those.

Not even three days into having powers, I had already sunk my plans with my own incompetence.

I stared at the floor between my feet. What could I even say? Based on their reactions, my parents were all but certain I had triggered as a Tinker. What would happen if I confirmed I had powers?

Well, at least it won't be the end of the world. Ha…

My words choked and cracked as I forced them out, "Mom, Dad, I have powers. I'm a Tinker," you could hear a pin drop.

Please say something, anyth-

Oof.

Her words came out muffled and a blubbery, "Oh Sam, I'm so sorry. We weren't there for you. I should have noticed. As your mother, I should have noticed that something was wrong. I'm sorry, Sweetheart."

Dad turned it into a group hug. We stood there, the three of us, for several minutes as the tension flowed out of my body. I recognized now that Mom's anger stemmed from her worry and desire to protect me. If she thought I was putting myself in danger and lying to them because of my powers… it's no wonder she was upset.

"When?" Dad asked tentatively, like he was walking on eggshells. Trigger events were serious matters, and he had no way of knowing how atypical my situation was.

"Wednesday morning."

"If you feel comfortable telling us, how did it happen? Sam, Sweety, we had no idea. We…" Dad trailed off.

I'd have to lie again. I hated myself for it, but I had to. This time, it really might be the end of the world.

"There's nothing you could have done. I was lost and outside myself. In my mind, the world was ending, and nothing mattered anymore. But I'm fine now. I promise you. I haven't had another episode since I gained my powers," kernels of truth.

"You had a -a dissociative episode?" Dad asked uncertainly.

"I don't know, that morning is a blur."

Mom broke off from the hug to blow her nose over the sink, "You're sure nothing else happened? If someone hurt my little girl, or -or is attacking my family," Her words trailed off, but the glint in her eyes promised violence to any who would dare to harm her children.

"Nothing like that happened. One moment I was fine, and the next, everything hit me all at once. Don't people get powers randomly?" I wasn't supposed to know about the intricacies of Trigger Events.

My Dad hesitated on the heavy topic but explained for the sake of his daughter, "Sweety, when people get powers, they go through what is called a Trigger Event. Capes commonly describe it as 'the worst day of their lives'."

That description -might- fit with what I experienced. A shattered worldview was not pleasant, but in relation to other capes' Triggers? I certainly wouldn't compare it to Taylor's harrowing nightmare or the life and death struggles many others overcame.

Mom's sharp voice cut into my contemplation, "Henry, you're scaring our daughter."

"She has to learn the truth sometime," he rebutted, "would you rather she be forced to find out on her own?"

A deep intake of breath from both parties.

"Alright, we can continue this conversation after dinner," Mom said.

"Actually," I said, "I'm tired, and," tell the truth, "I kind of maybe want to build something with my powers?" At their incredulous looks, I clarified further, "It's not anything dangerous, I swear! Just a little wrist mounted computer."

A bout of whispering ensued, my parents' voices too low to make out, but I caught the word "Tinker" several times.

They apparently reached a decision, Dad turning to face me, "Alright, Sam. You can tinker in your room, but we're laying some ground rules. One: Always tell us what you're planning to build before you start. Two: You can keep your door closed, but please keep it unlocked; if there's an emergency, we need to be able to reach you. Three: If you need materials, ask us first. Do you think you can follow those rules?"

"Yes, I can do that."

"Okay. Now, I'm going to ask a few questions about what you want to build, and I need you to answer honestly." Dad's tone was serious.

"Okay."

"Will your 'wrist mounted computer' contain or facilitate artificial or machine intelligence?"

"No." I declared with confidence.

"Will this project involve tinkering with biological materials either living or nonliving?"

"There's no biotinkering involved, Dad."

"Okay, thank you, Sam. We'll let you go now. And don't forget about the door."

"I remember," Keep the door unlocked, "I love you both."

I received affirmations of love from my parents.

"And don't forget about dinner!" Mom interjected.

"I'll eat later," I was already halfway up the stairs.

"Wait," Dad's voice, "where did you put the supplies you bought at the mall?"

In response, I inventoried the bags into my waiting hand, "I have them on me."

He blinked, "You already built a storage device?"

"Actually, it's a part of my powers. It's, uh, kind of complicated to explain."

"Alright, we can discuss the particulars of your power later."

With that dismissal, I finished my run up the stairs and zoomed into my room. Not bothering to close the door as I wasn't expecting Cody or Danny home until later tonight and not minding my parents seeing me tinker, I emptied the bags full of Pip-Boy materials onto my bed. Time to get started.

The hotplate plugged into the outlet, temperature set to 50℃, far below the melting point of the plastic I was using. The pellets were unceremoniously dumped into the metal dish, and nail polish remover was poured, submerging the plastic.

While the heat and chemicals worked on dissolving the pellets, I brought out the blank mold. Carving tools dug into silicone on autopilot, my hands guided by power granted instinct. The casing mold was completed in a matter of minutes, the curves unnaturally smooth for manual labor.

The plastic was smearing out but not quite at the point I wanted yet. I grabbed the microcontroller and my laptop. With the circuit board connected via USB port, I downloaded the company's proprietary software and got to programming.

Honestly, it was not very complicated. This function here directs board to screen connectivity while this section converts analog input into digital signals. A little menu navigation functionality here, a splash of Random Memory Access configuration there, and a dash of color personalization for good measure. This section of storage can hold the sprites, and the drive next to the capacitor can be used for language parsing.

Satisfied with the state of the operating software, I checked on the progress of the dissolving plastic. Seeing that the mixture had hom*ogenized into a thick goop, I upped the temperature to 90℃ just a hair below the melting point of the plastic, but well above the boiling point of acetone. A Pip-Boy full of yucky chemicals was unappealing.

After I felt enough of the acetone had boiled off, I ramped up the temperature to get it molten. However, I would not leave it melting for long since BPA and other nasty byproducts would begin to form. When it held the consistency of a thick syrup, I very quickly moved the tray over the mold. Liquid plastic filled the hollow casing mold and a few dial and button molds.

Having a 3D printer do all of this work for me would have been amazing, but unfortunately, they were not affordable yet here on Earth Bet. I simply did not possess the funds to purchase even the most basic models.

As the plastic cooled, I realized there was nothing more I could do until the mold set.

In my fervor to build, I had nearly forgotten my promise to eat dinner, and temporarily ignored the hunger pangs that now roared back at full force. I need sustenance.

Back in the kitchen, I dished myself up a hearty bowl of the now cooled stir-fry. Dad had cooked it with lean chicken meat, green beans, mushrooms, and water chestnuts in a zesty orange sauce. I mixed it all up with rice from the stove pot and heated it in the microwave to recover a warm meal.

"Mmm," a sound of appreciation. Nobody ever mentioned how hungry tinkering makes you, or maybe that's the result of being emotionally drained.

"Find the food okay, Sweety?" Dad asked me from the kitchen doorway. I hadn't bothered to move to the dining room, instead immediately stuffing myself at the counter.

"Mhm," I swallowed, "It's excellent. Thank you for cooking tonight Dad."

"Of course. It's the weekend, and I thought I'd whip up something special for the three of us."

We were content to stand in silence (besides the sounds of my eating) as I finished up my food.

When I was finished, I got up to wash off my bowl, but Dad stopped me with a gentle hand on my shoulder, "I'll get that. You should talk to your mother, she's still rightfully upset."

"Yeah, I- I need to apologize for lying to her," I may have had my reasons, good reasons even, to lie, but that doesn't change the fact that in doing so, I had hurt my mom's feelings and caused her no small amount of worry.

Mom was lounging on the couch and watching the evening news at low volume with a vacant expression.

Plopping down in the adjacent spot, I wrapped her in a one armed hug, "I'm sorry I lied to you, Mom."

She recomposed herself, putting herself more in the present, "Us mothers can't help but worry about our children. We go crocodile mode when their safety is threatened, snapping at those who would dare to cause them harm," she let out a long breath, "What I'm trying to say is, I'm sorry too, Sam. I shouldn't have gotten so combative with my own daughter, my anger was misplaced, and I hurt you because of that," Her eyes shone wetly.

I did not want to make my mother cry twice in one day, "Apology accepted. Um, I'm sure it can't be easy dealing with the fact that your daughter is now a parahuman."

"Hah, no, the books on parenting never covered this, and working with the Wards didn't prepare me as much as you'd think," sniffle, "We've been positively spoiled by you, always the most straight-laced of your siblings," she blew her nose, "You were bound to have your rebellious phase sooner or later. God knows I put your grandmother through Hell on occasion."

"Really?" I had never imagined what my mom was like as a teenager.

"Oh yes. There was this one time, I snuck out past curfew with my friends to go see Queen live, I was only 14 at the time, younger than you! My parents were livid. My mother did not respect Freddie Mercury for all the wrong reasons, and she thought that concert was a den of drugs and sex," Mom had the hint of a mischievous gleam in her eye, "Now, she wasn't wrong, but most of that stuff happened backstage. Although I did make out with Carson Reynolds that night. Your grandmother did not like him."

"Mom!" TMI, I didn't want or need to know who my mother had gotten with at Queen concerts.

"Oh don't think I can't remember what being a teenager is like. I know you all get up to more than I could possibly imagine. Well, maybe not you, Sweetheart, but I know all the boys and girls won't be able to keep their eyes off of you."

"Moooom," I whined. It was completely unfair for my mom to tease me like this.

"It's the right of parents everywhere to embarrass their children in their adolescent years. Think of it as recompense for the suffering we went through." She chuckled at my unamused glare.

Her light manner faded, "I'm worried for you, Sam. You don't deserve to have your youth stolen, and I- I just wish you could hide away and live a normal life," she paused, "But I know you'll put yourself out into the wide world. Others might think you're a wallflower, but your mother knows better. You're so full of life and passion, never hesitating to share your art with anyone who will listen, and I don't foresee your Tinker creations being any different."

I let Mom's word sink in. She was right of course, I wanted to share my creations out of pride. Beyond that, I could not stay hidden in the shadows forever. Direct action, not subtle manipulations, would be how I changed the world.

"So did you finish your computer thing," Mom brought the conversation back to a lighter topic.

"Not yet," I replied, "I still need to wait for the plastic to cool and do all the wiring."

"You're burning plastic in the house?" Mom pursed her lips.

"Of course not," I said defensively, "I kept the temperature well below the melting point of Polyvinyl Chloride in controlled conditions. There's no chance of significant leaching."

"Don't think you can distract me with scientific jargon young lady," Mom reprimanded in a mock stern tone, "but I'll trust that you know what you're doing."

I spent the evening channel surfing curled up next to Mom, hopefully reassuring her that I was not planning to do something dangerous like go out and fight criminals or plan a crime spree to fund my lab. At half past nine, I bid goodnight, making no attempt to hide my desire to return to my project, but sparing another comforting hug.

Our conversation had reassured me, I would still have my parents' support despite my dumb mistakes. I swore then and there that I would strive to always tell them the truth so long as I was not putting anyone else in danger by doing so.

Newfound resolve accompanied me as I prepared for the final construction steps. The molds housed hardened, matte-white components ready to be assembled into the casing structure, or almost ready, as some filing would go a long way in smoothing out the unevenly formed edges (A perfectly carved mold means nothing to an imperfect material injection system).

The pieces fit together ingeniously, a 3D puzzle of dowel joints reinforced by metal screws from the garage. The LCD, five inches by three, slotted into a hollow rectangle. On the opposite side, the battery chamber was left open, and first the circuit board was affixed to the underside, followed by the battery pack locking into a shallow groove.

It was time for the soldering kit. Window open for ventilation and iron in hand, I grabbed a handful of wires and started weaving a rainbow through the inside from battery to board to display and back again completing the loop.

The plush pads adhered to the inside of the wrist guard fitted to my slender arm, ensuring a comfortable user experience.

My Pip-Boy was not a preponderance of mechanical or electrical engineering, but it was my first foray into Fallout's technology, and it was mine. A single step remained before the completion of my first Tinker creation.

My focus locked onto the Pip-Boy, the room around me growing distant as I carefully anchored the Higher-Dimensional Functionality & Reinforcement Nexus.

And just like that it was complete!

Wait no, hold up a minute, go back! I did what with the what now?!

Tracing the whole process from start to finish, I was unable to recall the last thirty or so seconds, a whole section of my memories made blank. I know I did something with… a thing, or it might not be a thing? It was eerily reminiscent of a Tinker fugue, which I was not happy about, as I thought my power wouldn't be blackboxing technology from me.

Well, no use crying over spilt thermal paste, I wanted to see how well it functioned. I pressed the power button, and the Pip-Boy 3000 Vault Tec OS booted up, text flashing across the screen in classic New Vegas Barren Desert YellowTM​.

Uhh, I definitely did not program all this in.

What I coded was some basic image sprites and placeholder text boxes. Instead I was greeted by the sight of all the default tabs the player had access to in the game.

Items. Perks. Status. A radio? How does that even work? There wasn't anything built to receive radio signals. My Fallout tech was supposed to be grounded in zany but laws-of-physics-abiding principles, gosh darnit!

Ah, I shouldn't complain if my power wants to hand me freebies, I suppose if I wanted to get all the game mechanics, my power had to cheat somewhere.

There were so many new avenues to explore. I'd definitely be staying up late tonight.

Henry James Brown watched as his wife poured a glass of wine, an expensive 1978 vintage that had been a gift from a friend in Boston's PRT branch years prior. Gabriella pushed forward another glass, the unspoken gesture clear. Henry shook his head -he would need a clear mind for this discussion- and took his seat in his study's office chair. His wife took a sip and followed suit, taking the armchair in the corner.

"What are we going to do, Henry? A Tinker. Our daughter's a Tinker."

Henry inwardly shared in his wife's despondency -the statistics on parahuman life expectancy could charitably be described as apocalyptically low, heroes and independents both- and he was afraid for his daughter.

He was a man who always reached for the pragmatic solution however, and so he would act to keep his little girl as safe as possible in a world that would be actively hostile to her.

"She needs to be pushed to join the Wards. We cannot afford to allow her to act as an independent. You know the statistics as well as I do. In this city, for a Tinker? The gangs would have her picked up off the streets in under a week if they don't outright violate the unwritten rules and kidnap her from our own home."

He let the words sink in for her. Tinkers in this city had a pointed track record of not remaining independent for long, and when he imagined what the ABB or Empire would do to have a Tinker of their own? It's a good thing there were no gangsters before him, or he might have engaged in very unprofessional behavior.

Gabby tended to imagine the worst possible scenarios, "What if we end up alienating her? If she feels that we're signing her life away or-or taking her freedom, she could run away from home, join one of those rogue groups, like Toybox."

He could see her spiraling again, his normally level-headed wife falling apart when the safety of her child is threatened. He needed to show her that things weren't quite as bad as she feared.

"Sam is a good kid with a strong sense of justice. I hardly think she will take much convincing at all, the way she idolizes the heroes, and either way, we will roll out the red carpet for her. I'm talking about private tours and one-on-one conversations with whichever heroes she wants. You know I have the pull to swing favors for a potential recruitment," and he did, his influence within the PRT extended beyond the office jockeys and data analysts. The higher ups in the Boston division remembered his exemplary employment record, and Velocity owed him a favor for the Bladeström incident. All that is to say, Sam would have a very easy time being inducted into the Wards, "And we will not be 'signing her life away'. The PRT can and will move mountains for a capable Tinker. Once Sam tells us more about her powers, we can form a negotiating plan. Honey, we'll have the director begging our daughter to join. Yes, she will have to deal with the regulations that all Tinkers face for the safety of themselves and those around them, but we'll bargain for the best possible conditions."

She sagged into the armchair, eyes closed in either contemplation or resignation. Whatever internal debate she had with herself, a conclusion must have been reached. She reopened her eyes, a steely glare present that had been missing since the confrontation with Sam.

"You're underestimating the impulsiveness of freshly triggered parahumans. So we ask her opinion first, gauge her reactions." she said.

"That's prudent," he agreed that they needed Sam to feel like joining was completely her own decision, "and what if she says 'no'?"

"Softsell. Remind her she'll be working at the same place as her parents and alongside some very bright kids her age. We go in hard on access to resources for her tinkering, and we deliver on those promises. I'm willing to argue against the PR head too, make sure Sam gets whatever stipulations she wants on scheduling and image."

Image was more his wife's ballpark, so he was uncertain how much they would be willing to budge in that department, but he was willing to let her give it her best shot.

"Okay. We have a plan. Tomorrow, we need to find out the limits of her power. We know she either already built some kind of storage device or it's built into her powers," Henry inhaled to buy time for thinking how to phrase his next statement, "There's no two ways about it, we'll have to ask her some uncomfortable questions, and we'll need honest answers."

"You're not worried about our daughter being a horrible biotinker, are you?" his wife was indignant. To say biotinkers did not have a positive standing with the community at large would be an understatement, and the mere suggestion that his little girl could number among them carried horrific connotations.

"I'm not worried about Sam being a horrible anything, but unless we know the extent of her capabilities, we could be blindsided by something in power testing that raises concerns with the director."

Henry had opinions about Emily Piggot, director of the Parahuman Response Team East-North-East division. Piggot was undoubtedly capable -proven by a track record of keeping the powder keg of a city from burning to the ground over her decade of tenure- but she was also a professional paranoid, someone who placed far too much distrust on the heroes who worked under her. If she caught a whiff of anything biotinker related, it could weaken Sam's excellent bargaining position.

"Let's get some sleep dear. We'll need it," Gabby said, taking the last sip of her wine glass.

She wasn't wrong. It would be a long day tomorrow.