PWP: 3.10 Surge (Patreon)

Surge 3.10

2010, November 8: Brockton Bay, NH, USA

I whistled a jaunty tune to myself as I skated along the rooftops towards the Palanquin. Today? Yesterday, technically, had been a great day. I had fun playing with the Wards, got to advertise my Air Treks for whenever I ultimately decided to post them to the catalog, acquired six high-specs computers to tinker with, and I managed to build the portable Digital Storage System.

Granted, it still stuck in my craw that I was fiddling around with expanded bags when I could have done this a month ago, but I decided not to think about that. Past-Bryce’s stupidity could only make present-Bryce’s brilliance look all the better in comparison.

Optimism! Or something…

Most of all, I helped Chris. Or, as much as I was willing to at any rate. Most tinkers considered tinkering a deeply personal process, not least because fugues were a little different for everyone. Finding your specialization was very much akin to finding your purpose in life and I’d heard it said that discovering it was equally fulfilling. I didn’t want to take that away from Chris by just telling him. The journey was as important as the destination.

I let out a snort of laughter. Nah, I just thought the Legos would be funny.

“Ree?” SAINT trilled. A small window opened on my UI, showing me his questioning face. The little duck had a surprisingly expressive bill.

“Nothing, SAINT, just thinking about Kid Win and his specialization.”

“Pory?”

I felt a pulse of concern through our bond. Not for Kid Win, but for me. Porygon weren’t social creatures; they weren’t made to be. Though they could form and benefit from the bond between pokemon and trainer, they weren’t capable of empathy in the sense that they’d care for just anyone they met. They had a very objective-centric perspective on life and if it didn’t impede their objectives or harm their trainer, it wasn’t relevant.

Which begged the question: Why was he concerned? I wasn’t in immediate danger.

I considered it and took a shot in the dark. “Are you worried that I’ve revealed too much?”

“Ree,” he nodded, his turquoise bill bobbing up and down on my screen.

I’d told him everything of course. He was my best friend and closest confidant, not just an assistant. After all, if I couldn’t trust my starter pokemon, who could I trust? “Maybe. I’ve already hinted at knowing a possible future through my PHO introduction. Miss Militia definitely got the reference, so did Tattletale or she’s nowhere near as smart as she thinks she is. If Kid Win actually bothers playing with the Legos and thinks about why I gave the set to him, he’ll probably figure out his specialization.”

“Poree… Porygon. Por-pory.”

“I know it’s dangerous. ‘Knowledge is power’ and all that. But I really do think Kid Win has the potential to be a splendid hero, a real hero, someone this world desperately needs. I won’t regret giving him the pieces, even if he becomes a powerful rival for me later.”

And… Truth be told, he could. I could think of dozens of ways he could push “modularity” to its limits, just from the things he’d made in canon. Teleportation drones fitted with anti-grav modules for battlefield control? A modular alternator cannon that could be assembled with a handful of drones and fired from nearly any angle? Hoverpacks that could split off from his board to grant his allies flight? The possibilities were incredible; Kid Win was likely the most flexible tinker in the setting, with maybe the exception of Dragon herself.

Thinking about his raw potential made me giddy with excitement. If he unlocked his specialization, if he had a “rival” to push him, how far could he go? Could he pose a challenge even to a tinker of fiction?

“Gon,” SAINT huffed. The PRT-ENE logo flashed onto my screen. “Porygon-poree…”

“The PRT? You think they’re going to hound me?”

“Gon.”

“Yeah. That’s why I made the post in the first place.  The PRT, Tattletale, Coil, and whoever else received leaks from the PRT all probably think I either am a thinker, or have thinker support. They might even think The GOAT is that thinker. Not revealing themselves and using a proxy like Creed is exactly the MO of thinkers anyway. That’s kind of why I did it.”

“Ree? Pory-gon?”

I let out a bark of laughter. The little shit sent me a picture of Amy’s face and a question. “Okay, yeah, I made The GOAT handle to mess with Amy, but I saw an opportunity, you know? Why can’t I do two things at once? I think that so long as the gangs are afraid of a third party from outside the city moving in, they’ll moderate themselves. One tinker, no matter how strong, isn’t going to dissuade them forever, but well, the fear of the unknown is a powerful thing. By giving away enough to imply that there is someone else working with me, I can make Creed seem much more dangerous than he is.

“See, now, Creed isn’t just a Wards-age tinker who won the power lottery. He’s a mysterious, capable mercenary backed by other equally mysterious and capable parties, one of whom is a thinker capable of discerning Kid Win’s specialization. Is it just me and The GOAT? Or are there more capes hidden and waiting in the wings? What does The GOAT know? If they attack carelessly, could The GOAT work to sabotage them? Maybe help their enemies? If Creed is attacked or the unwritten rules are broken in a major way, will this new group stop playing by the rules too? Can they? It’s all part of their risk calculus and I’m just thumbing the scale as much as I can.”

“Pory…”

“Yeah,” I sighed. I wanted to take off my helmet so I could feel the wind on my face. I didn’t like having this kind of conversation but it did help to talk things out more sometimes. “I’m playing a dangerous game. Coil’s going to start taking potshots at me in different timelines to try and see what sticks. He’ll move carefully, but he’ll definitely start moving against me now. Still, that was something that would have happened anyway. The GOAT is a smokescreen that’ll keep him in check, at least for a while. He should know that strong thinkers interfere with each other and that’ll make him cautious.”

Two images flashed on my UI: Sierra and mom. “Gon? Porygon?”

“What happens if he finds my identity somehow and goes after my family?”

“Ree.”

“Then I stop pulling punches,” I told him grimly. “I reveal his name. The unwritten rules don’t protect those who don’t abide by them. I give SMILE fruits to random people to wreak havoc in his territory; I’ve never revealed biotinker abilities after all. His power can’t predict what he doesn’t know exists. Those should be out of context powers for him. All else fails, I summon the lady of hats and cut a deal: Coil’s head for information. My family for my service.”

“Gon.”

“Yeah, I hope things don’t get to that point either.”

The sobering conversation did much to quiet my mood as I approached the Palanquin. It was nearing three in the morning, as promised. The club had closed for the night and the remaining cleanup staff knew better than to ask questions.

I landed in the back lot near soundlessly, the quiet purr of the Water Regalia the only thing that announced my arrival. To my surprise, Dodge was already there. Or, I assumed that was him seeing how Big Rig stood next to him.

I heard that the camera added ten pounds. Lies. If anything, Big Rig was even stockier in real life, with a sizable beer belly that strained his construction foreman outfit. Then again, he also had biceps that belonged on some fantasy orc or troll so I didn’t doubt he used to work the sites himself once upon a time.

By comparison, Dodge was tiny. He stood at only a handful of inches past Big Rig’s waist. He was… green… From his emerald hair to his form-fitting tights, he wore a lot of green. His costume had a distinctly draconic theme, though not in the same mechanical way Dragon’s creations did. The boy couldn’t be older than twelve.

“Creed,” Big Rig greeted, as gruff as ever.

“Big Rig,” I nodded back, making sure my voice modulator was working. “And you must be Dodge.”

“Hi, you’re Creed, right? I’ve seen your debut video like a million times already. Your costume looks even cooler in person. Were you inspired by the Sentai Elite too? Who’s your favorite? Mine is Hisuiryu, obviously. He’s the Tokyo team leader and he’s super strong. It’s gotta be Aosame, right? You’ve got the navy admiral look down just like he does. Or maybe Hairou? Is that why your outfit is mostly gray and black?” he rambled.

Big Rig put a steadying hand on his head. “Easy, squirt. Not everyone’s as into them Japanese comics like you are.”

“Manga, Rig, they’re called manga. Get it right.”

“Sure, kid, mangy.” I was fairly sure he was doing it just to get a rise out of the younger tinker. Sure enough, he turned and shot me a mischievous wink as Dodge began to pout. “Anyway, I wanted to show up for the first meeting. Dodge is a little young and business is best closed face to face, you understand.”

I nodded and held out a hand for him to shake. “I get it. Good to see you.”

“Yeh, business now. I don’t like staying up late if I can help it. Dodge, let’s unload and get outta here.”

“Aww, but I wanted to ask about his tech,” Dodge whined like only a twelve year old could. He was only three or four years younger than me but even with my past life’s memories, it still seemed like an eternity. Still, he was cute in that bratty baby brother sort of way.

“Sorry, Dodge,” I told him, “maybe next time. I want to get the fabricator and drone set up before I have to go to school.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Dodge dug around in his pocket for what looked a lot like a remote controller. He tapped some buttons on it and a dimensional gate popped up. I didn’t think he had any at the moment, but I couldn’t help but think that a “subspace tinker” would be incredibly powerful should he choose to invest in offensive options.

The gate looked like something straight out of StarCraft, a black void with some kind of neon-blue light bordering it. Dodge tapped something else on his remote and a metal palette slid forward on a hoverpad. I wondered if it was a stylistic choice or because the edge of the portal was impossibly sharp.

“Here you are, one order of BIg Rig’s fabricator installed with his latest CAD and one construction drone,” Dodge said in a chipper voice that he probably practiced in the mirror. He shot me a cheeky grin and held out his hand expectantly. “That comes with a $10 service fee and a $5 surcharge for packing.”

“Do you even know what a surcharge is?” I asked, bewildered.

“It’s my money.”

“Nice try, kid. If you want a bigger allowance, bug Big Rig here. I’m not Toybox.”

“Aww, why won’t you join? I can make you a dimensional apartment.”

“I have my reasons, sorry, Dodge. I don’t mean to be rude, but I really do want to get all this set up before dawn. I don’t think I’m getting much sleep tonight as is.”

“You’ve got the right idea,” BIg Rig said with a jaw-popping yawn. Time doesn’t flow exactly right in our HQ compared with the east coast, but it’s pretty late for us too.”

Dodge looked ready to protest but thought better of it. “Alright, next time?”

I nodded readily. Dodge was a very promising tinker. Even if talking to him didn’t advance anything in my pipeline, the cheery boy honestly seemed like a good time. “We’ll have more to talk about next time. Maybe schedule this for not 3AM.”

“You two will. I’m satisfied that Dodge isn’t gonna get himself in trouble,” Big Rig grunted. “He can handle deliveries between you and Toybox.”

“Yes!” Dodge pumped his fist.

I moved over to the delivery and pulled out a computer before storing it all in its hard drive. “Welp, that’s that.”

“Wow, you have a dimensional pocket too?”

“Not quite. Digital storage. It’s still technically in this dimension.”

“Sweet! I mean, mine is cooler, but it’s pretty cool that you can store things too.”

“Don’t brag, Dodge,” Big Rig chided.

I laughed. “I don’t mind. He’s right; his is better. Anyway, it’s time for me to go. Cheers.”

“Nice doing business with you, Creed. Keep me posted on any deliveries of seastone,” he said, a not so subtle reminder that though the drone and hybrid engine were one for one trades, the fabricator was an investment.

“I remember,” I waved as I vanished.

I didn’t leave though. Instead, I headed up to Faultline’s office, where I paid her the agreed upon $3,000 for use of the Palanquin as a dropoff site. Though they hadn’t directly made an appearance, I knew that Gregor was watching over us from the second floor, far enough not to eavesdrop but close enough to get involved should the need arise.

After that, I made a beeline for the Gullrest, where I burned through almost my entire liquid cash, about $60,000, on several material orders from Strider that I couldn’t readily acquire here in the bay, mostly volcanic ash. Now that I had a fabricator I could run 24/7, it was time to start stocking up, both for Big Rig and for my custom ship.

X

As predicted, I didn’t get a single wink of sleep last night. I felt giddy, like a child opening birthday gifts. I couldn’t sleep even if I wanted to and ended up spending the rest of the twilight hours figuring out how the fabricator and drone worked. Or, I tried.

I couldn’t make heads or tails of the exact mechanics and I was loathe to tear them apart to attempt to reverse engineer them. In the end, Big Rig was a tinker and his tech was blackboxed to high heaven. What I did get was a pamphlet titled, “Tinkertech Construction and You: Big Rig’s comprehensive guide to operating his creations.”

I shrugged. Did most people know how their cars worked? In the end, it didn’t matter; so long as the drone and fabricator could speed up production, I’d be satisfied.

The pamphlet was surprisingly thorough. It began with a warning in big, bold, red that said he would not be held responsible for any malfunctions or accidents stemming from idiots who did not follow operating instructions. He… wasn’t wrong. I had something similar in my own introductory pamphlet for the hybrid engine. It was tinkertech. If you fucked around with it while ignoring the tinker’s explicit instructions, you deserved everything that happened to you.

Other than the exact mechanics of how it worked, his creations were shockingly compatible with mundane tech. The CAD accepted blueprints in PDF format and automatically translated them into digital models, which I could then edit or pass off to the drone to begin building. The fabricator could process raw materials and mold them into component pieces while the drone was best used for rapid assembly.

For starters, I had the fabricator tuned to disassemble the junk I had lying around from the Hillside Heist into their component materials. A hand vacuum went in, clumps of plastic, aluminum, and other metals came out, all sorted in neat piles for easy use.

SAINT was more occupied with the construction drone, a large-ish crab-like thing with customizable limbs and a large rear bed to store building materials. It honestly reminded me a bit of the pokemon, crustle.

My partner took to hijacking the drone to get used to piloting it. Seeing how he could build things using Psychic, I wasn’t sure how useful a construction drone would be in his hands, but if I input the right plans into it, I figured it could operate more or less independently.

Didn’t matter; he seemed to be having fun so I left him to it and trudged off to my house so I could pretend to wake up. In the end, I took a spoonful of Enchanted Honey and reminded myself to make more, preferably when my sister wasn’t around.

X

“Wow, Bryce, you okay?” Stephanie asked. I groaned in defeat. Stephanie was rather unlike Chelsea. She wasn’t the effervescent girl who could befriend Hookwolf if given half the chance. She was friendly enough, but our relationship was distinctly one of mutual ambivalence. We liked each other enough to eat together at lunch and not make an issue of it.

That even she was concerned enough to ask after my wellbeing said a lot about how tired I looked. As I learned today, even Enchanted Honey had limits and I’d been pushing myself for months living a double life. It was only because I actually bothered to take breaks occasionally that I’d lasted as long as I had.

I moaned something vaguely coherent and offered Steph a thumbs up.

“You want a pick me up?” Amy asked as she sat down with Vicky.

“Nah, I’m good. I had coffee already,” I replied, thanking God she was such an introvert. She didn’t do the touchy-feely thing and wasn’t likely to touch me without good reason. It was also November in New Hampshire so I could get away with bundling up without raising any eyebrows.

“Suit yourself, but for the record, you look like shit.”

“Is that your expert medical opinion?”

“Yup. I’ll even write you a note: Bryce Kiley - looks-like-shit-itis. Terminal. No known cure.”

“You’re an angel, Ames,” I drawled, sarcasm dripping like a waterfall. I stuffed a spoonful of mom’s rendition of egg fried rice in my mouth and chewed carefully. She was of the opinion that anything vaguely Asian could be stir-fried in fried rice, which meant my lunch also contained clam, oyster sauce, bits of grilled pineapple, ketchup, and whatever else she wanted to experiment with this past weekend.

It wasn’t bad, just… unique…

I trudged through the slog that was the rest of the school day, Spanish and AP European history, with a bit more energy from lunch. Neither of those classes stood out to me. Spanish was easy because I spoke it in my past life and AP Euro didn’t matter in the least despite the “AP” moniker. The teacher, Mr. Fauver, made us a deal at the beginning of the year: We could either take the individual grades or replace them with our AP exam scores. Five for an A, four for a B, and so on. Suffice to say, I didn’t plan to try very hard during the year.

History as a whole was something of a declining art in academia. More and more school districts were replacing traditional social studies classes with world issues, which was of course dominated by parahuman studies and current events relating to said parahumans. History was now something high schoolers took to show colleges that they had academic drive, like AP economics or calculus.

I wasn’t sure how to feel about the matter. On one hand, history did seem important, at least to a point. On the other hand, I could understand the need for contemporary knowledge, especially considering Bet’s cape culture. It was a weird feeling to know that a big part of my past life’s high school curriculum was purely optional now.

In my case, mom and dad made me sign up for as many APs as a freshman was allowed, biology and Euro, so I could start prepping for college. It certainly wasn’t voluntary on my part. I hadn’t protested overmuch because I had no powers and didn’t expect any, being Bryce Kiley and all. Now that I did though, I’d likely just settle for a B through the exam and cut down on courses next year, if there even was a next year in the Bay.

I passed Chris in the halls. The boy looked absolutely wired, like he’d been strung up to a car battery or downed an entire six pack of Monster. He was on cloud nine, with a full, ear-to-ear grin that made people wonder if he got laid or something. The guy couldn’t have been more obvious if he wore a neon sign.

I walked out of school with a smile, feeling good about what I’d done. Had I made Hero 2.0? Had I given him reason to believe I was his villainous rival?

Quite possibly.

As I watched him bump into someone, get told off, and smile like a giddy stoner, I decided I didn’t care. In fact, just thinking about how far Kid Win, or Winman if he stuck to that idiotic naming convention, could go now was making me excited.

“Heh, bring it, Chris,” I chuckled to myself. I was the Tinker of Fiction. I looked forward to his challenge.

X

My mood further improved that afternoon thanks to Hannah Chong. Or rather, her mother. Mrs. Chong called to cancel today and all future tutoring appointments, neatly freeing up my schedule. I did need at least one student to meet Arcadia’s extracurricular requirements, but I had two weeks to find a replacement. In the meantime, it meant that I could go back to the Gullrest for a quick power nap.

After a quick nap, I decided to check in on SAINT. What I found was… interesting.

SAINT and the drone faced off against each other. Between them was a neat pile of materials with wires, screws, bottles of lubricant, and other materials all in separate categories for easy access. In front of each was the hollow body of a hybrid soda engine. The two of them began to move at some unknown signal, the crab-like drone reaching out with four limbs for different wires to thread into place while the telltale glow of SAINT’s Psychic enveloped the components of a pressure valve.

He was racing the construction drone. It made sense; I’d probably be bored out of my skull too. He wasn’t organic, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want to mix things up once in a while. I had him practicing his moves when I was at school but even an AI had to have limits. I watched the two go at it. Just from the materials laid out on the ground, I could tell that SAINT had all my junk processed by the fabricator.

I smiled to myself and went about building the Key Mother. It wasn’t as though he wasn’t being productive after all.

X

That evening, I finished my homework assignments and sent off a few new emails to parents of potential tutoring clients so I could have a digital trail to show my homeroom teacher. Mr. Maury couldn’t get on my case too hard if I at least made the attempt to find a new student.

Mom had thankfully resigned herself to American cuisine tonight; her experimental phase was over, for now. After a generic but tasty dinner of lemon cod, green beans, and dinner rolls, I locked myself in my room. I could already see an incoming shortage on the horizon.

Though I could expect a sizable infusion of volcanic ash and other materials from the order I’d placed with Strider, that left me mostly broke. It was time to take on other jobs.

I flipped through my PHO inbox. I hadn’t bothered to do more than skim before, Accord’s commission and my own projects taking most of my attention. I had to admit, even if just to myself, there was something inordinately satisfying about seeing the pages upon pages of messages.

In the end, I decided to take a commission from each catalog, one from a civilian and another from a hero. The civilian was a wealthy businessman in Los Angeles who wanted to buy his son a motorcycle for his twenty-first birthday. Like any normal parent, he worried for his son’s safety despite indulging his hobby. He wanted a bike that could “make Alexandria lose a game of chicken.”

No such bike existed of course, I hadn’t stumbled on DIgimon or Kamen Rider yet, but I told him the Black Rhino was as close to it as he’d get. If it was sturdy enough for Franky to ride it into battle against Charlotte Linlin, it was sturdy enough for some kid who wanted a joyride.

I was stumped when it came to price. From a quick google search online, I found that luxury motorcycles cost somewhere in the ballpark of $35,000. However, that was for mass produced models, not dissimilar to a Lexus. They could get far more expensive, topping out at more than ten million for collectibles.

I also had to consider the soda engine. The engine of a luxury car could cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to replace. The soda engine was not only a luxury good, it was a source of near limitless renewable energy. There would be those who wanted to buy my engine separately so I had to price my bike just a bit higher than the engine, if only for consistency’s sake.

At the same time, the price couldn’t be too high, I didn’t want my bike to be a collector’s item, flaunted by the super wealthy but otherwise never used. I felt that it would be a disservice to Franky. My bike cost that much because wapometal could handle the stresses of the New World, not because it looked good on display. The engine wasn’t just a novelty; its output could pilot a mecha.

It deserved to be ridden.

That decided things for me. I offered the man a deal. $150,000 for the soda engine, $300,000 for the upgraded hybrid variant, and another $120,000 for the bike. So $270,000 for the basic Black Rhino with a soda engine attached. Seeing how he was my first client to order it, I’d shave seventy grand off the price and round down to a neat two hundred if he agreed to send me videos of his son riding the bike for advertisement purposes. After all, the bike was one of the few things on the catalog that I hadn’t had time to personally show off.

Was I ripping myself off? Absolutely. The engine alone should be several times the price I’d set. Even so, I couldn’t find it in me to be too disappointed. I’d make up for the price drop through quantity of sales if necessary; it wasn’t like I was going to lose potential clients anytime soon.

The second commission I was considering was from a hero, and therefore a bit more complicated. Glyph of the Guild wanted a new costume with the same defensive and aerial mobility capabilities as shown in my debut fight. It was a reasonable desire, considering she was one of the Guild’s frontline combatants and could really use additional defensive options than her power-generated shields.

The problem was, I’d just charged $200,000 for a bike. How much should a Germa raid suit, hover boots, and shield module cost?

Too fucking much.

Millions. Hundreds of millions. By conventional military standards, it wouldn’t be unreasonable of me to demand the net GDP of a small country for something like this. It wasn’t a magic handbag or an extra-sturdy motorbike. It was a fucking superweapon. Anyone who wore it could be considered a high-tier brute and decent mover, and that was after I removed both the texturing function and its invisibility cloak.

The problem was, I couldn’t charge what my suit was really worth. On a moral level, she did good work alongside Dragon. That there wasn’t some scandal surrounding her and that she continued to work with Miss Totally-Not-An-AI without said AI arresting her said good things about her. As far as I knew, she was a genuine hero, a rarity on Earth-Bet. I was selfish, but I agreed with Amy: Heroes like that deserved my protection.

On the more practical scale, she couldn’t afford my suit. Hell, no one save the stupidly rich or a national government could shell out hundreds of millions like that on a whim. I knew Canada technically funded the Guild, but I seriously doubted they’d subsidize her costume quite to this degree.

If I charged what my suit was actually worth, the only customers I’d get would be the Number Man or corporate “heroes.” Anyone who had that kind of money on their own likely got it by stepping on others; there was a point at which wealth could no longer be accumulated by ethical means.

I didn’t want my products to be things affordable only by the ultra-rich. Not only did the notion bother me, it was just bad optics overall. So it was a given that Glyph would receive a steep discount. The question was, how much?

“SAINT?” I called to my favorite duck in the world.

“Pory?” He floated to my side. Instead of reading over my shoulder like a normal person, he simply installed himself onto my hard drive. A moment later, I saw a picture of my adorable duck on the corner of my screen.

“Glyph. The heroine who sent me a message for a costume. See her?

“Pory.”

“Look her up. Every public information about her. Her debut, all her activities, any controversies around her, how much someone in her position is paid, everything. I want to know how much I should charge her to impress on her the value of my costume but also not leave her a beggar.”

“Porygon. Pory.” SAINT opened up a google search, an image of a hexagonal logo with the head of a horned beast: Dragon’s logo.

“Dragon? What about her?”

This time, a notepad opened and he began to type: Glyph works with Dragon.

“She does.”

Would Dragon subsidize her ally’s costume? Dragon has the funds to purchase your work in full, Maker-Trainer.

“She might. But remember what I said about her also being an AI? One with far greater restrictions than you? She might decide that I’m not a hero and so should not be funded. Or her restrictions might make the choice for her. Or someone else in the Guild or PRT brass might overrule her because Richter made it so she can’t disobey people in positions of legal authority.”

We know too little, he finished for me.

“We do. I don’t really want to interact with Dragon at present so let’s work with the assumption that she’s a non-factor.”

Very well. I shall compile a dossier on Glyph. Would you like anything else done while you rest, Maker-Trainer?

“Thanks, SAINT,” I said with a smile. “Not for now. Just check on the drone occasionally to make sure the engines are being assembled correctly.”

I shall. Good night, Maker-Trainer.

“Good night, SAINT.”

Author’s Note

Contessa and Cauldron aren’t likely to feature in this story by author fiat, at least for a while. I want something more local and the moment Contessa gets involved, this story will hit endgame or become a copy of Legendary Tinker. I’m not involving her because this fic is meant to be an exploration of cliches, not Cauldron.

Fun fact: Despite what most of the fandom thinks, the Sentai Elite is not just one team, it is a full institution and Japan’s equivalent to the Protectorate. Kyushu did not kill them all off; they even fielded a giant robot during the New Delhi battle.

Once again, Fabled is neither an engineer nor an architect. If my technobabble sounds like something a monkey wrote on a typewriter, that’s because you’re not far off. I was always that one Asian kid that couldn’t count.