6.32 Rubicon
20th of May, 2011
The last syllable of the Egyptian incantation I had whipped up falls off my lips as the ritual ends without a hitch, and my human eye flutters open as I take a step back to examine the result of my work over the past few days.
The golden light shining from the four feet tall, two and a half feet wide slab of metal slowly dims as the Millennium Items embedded in their respective slots turn quiescent once again.
I purse my lips together before slowly extending a hand–
"Did it work?" Theia asks out loud.
I side-eye her robotic vessel with my good eye as she idly kicks her feet while sitting atop a nearby workbench before answering.
"I'll have an answer for you in a second," I answer, "This is uncharted territory, after all."
She makes a little noise of assent, and my hand reaches for the Tablet, for lack of a better name.
Barely an inch before I can touch it, my hand encounters some kind of pressure as golden ripples agitate the surface of an otherwise perfectly invisible ward.
My lips quirk up minutely as I feel the interplay of magic under my fingertips, before forcing my way through.
It barely takes me a handful of seconds before I've plucked out the Eye from its own slot and brought it back outside of the powerful soul-and-blood-based ward.
"...It worked," I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding, before tilting my head to the side and adding, "At least the first part. I'm not in a hurry to test the second one though."
"I'd really appreciate it if you didn't, Jacky," The Coraline Shard says earnestly, prompting a humorless chuckle out of me, "What about this mental contamination you were wary of?"
My human eye goes to the Millennium Item still clutched in my hand, before trailing back toward the six others patiently waiting amid the array of runes and hieroglyphs carved into the Tablet, the Puzzle sitting front and center.
"I can feel them," I slowly word out as I redirect my attention to my more arcane senses, "It's like a presence at the edge of my thoughts. It's too early to tell if it'll be enough, but I give it good odds. Worst case scenario, I'll just start wearing the Puzzle."
After all, as its owner and maker, it contains part of my soul, and not Atem's. Which is where the second function of this creation comes in; besides warding me from the more nefarious effects of the Millennium Items, it should serve as a beacon for my Witch-Preyer constitution to 'lock on' in the events of an untimely death.
In other words, the Tablet functions both as a repository of Very Dangerous Doodads and a respawn point. And I'm very glad that Theia isn't in any hurry to see it in use, because I'm certainly not either.
For a moment, I find myself a little at a loss; now that my home is protected, that I've finished Project: Canine, looked into my situation with my Stigma, made it so I am truly the sole owner of the Millennium Items, and finally set up a true, stable respawn point for myself, I don't have any more pressing issues to handle.
For the first time since Somerset, I can rest. And I honestly don't really know what to think about that. Oh, there undoubtedly are some bad actors who'd deserve my very pointed attention – because Bet clearly doesn't lack for asshats – but those issues aren't pressing either.
Dark-chan has grown a little restless and moody since I yelled at her a bit after learning that she had hidden the fact that Emma knew about her existence. I suppose I could 'suggest' for her to take a look at Heartbreaker, it'll surely distract her for a bit.
I'd also like to pay a visit to the Dragonslayers to prevent any future shenanigans; I won't be risking freeing Dragon anytime soon, since an unchecked AI could potentially catch Scion's eye, but stopping the three stooges from killing her at the most inopportune time and/or somehow freeing Teacher from the Birdcage needs to be done. The issue is Saint and his buddies are actually quite well hidden, and siccing Dell on their trail sounds like a recipe for disaster; if they even got a whiff of his existence, they're going to do something incredibly stupid as they're wont to do, and I'm unwilling to risk it for the time being.
I return my attention toward my brain roomie as she looks at the result of my work over the past few days with an intensely intrigued expression written all over her visor in scarlet pixels. I made good on my promise to tune her vessel up a little, which is the reason why she's now sporting a curtain of black hair and a simple red sundress, courtesy of an onboard hologram projector, although I quickly learned that trying to make her wear more clothes than that is a fool's errand. She's willing to acknowledge that I definitely know better on how humans behave, but would rather keep 'an optimal sensory surface ratio' than put some shoes on.
I throw a smile her way when her eyemotes eventually turn in my direction.
"Is there an issue?" She asks with a headtilt.
"Nope," I chirp, "Just taking things in! Though…"
My attention drifts toward the early morning overcast weather, and I purse my lips together, something at the back of my mind telling me to pay attention, that a danger nears.
"...I get the feeling that today is going to be a lot more hectic than anyone else would like it to."
A pause.
"Eh," I shrug, "I'd be a lot more concerned if it was raining cats and dogs. Now, do you mind helping me plug that back in?" I gesture at the Eye with my free hand and some false cheer in my voice, "Your hands are steadier than mine, after all."
Theia's eyemotes blink, before a hesitant smile graces her silicon features.
"I'd be glad to." She answers earnestly, her tone a little happy.
***
Another day on the job, another day spent with the uncanny impression of juggling live grenades. It's barely nine in the morning, and Kamil was already sick of it.
Saying that Accord and his Ambassadors' death and the mess it had left Charleston in kept being felt would be a gross understatement; the Boston PRT Director has no idea if it's something in the water, but it had taken less than thirty-six hours after the dust in Somerset settled for every bostonite villain to start throwing a tantrum in what felt like a bad encore of the infamous 'games' from five years prior. Except this time neither Accord or Detente were present to try to reign in the worst impulses of the other participants, on account of both of them being six feet under.
Kamil couldn't believe that he was missing the presence of the OCD riddled, plan-obsessed mastermind who had been a thorn in his side for half a decade, yet here he was. They hadn't quite reached the point where the city had turned into a bloodbath – his Protectorate and Wards, as well as the odd independents, had been hard at work trying to preserve the balance – but he couldn't even pretend that he hadn't pushed the mayor to declare martial law in a bid to both protect the population and throw a wrangler into the four-way conflicts raging in the streets.
His department was really starting to feel the strain though. The Charleston situation was still being dealt with, which meant he had less than two thirds, a little over half, of his assets to pacify the villains wanting a piece of the pie now that a good chunk of the city was up for the taking. His sole solace being that Blasto was being oddly cooperative, the clone Tinker only looking to 'protect his turf' and nothing else, despite his on-and-off girlfriend Bad Apple being back in town.
The Blastgerm cooperation had been a pain and half to deal with five years prior, so Kamil honestly counted his lucky stars on that front. He was already far less lucky with the rest of the ne'er do wells, especially now that Damsel of Distress had made her comeback the prior evening.
"Director Armstrong," his secretary's voice wrenches him out of his grim musings, and he averts his eyes from the window of his office and the downpour raining beyond to look her way, "The day shift has been assembled, they're waiting for their briefing."
Kamil gives her a curt, polite nod, before chugging the last of his lukewarm coffee and dropping the mug back atop his desk.
"Thank you, Clarice, I'll be there shortly."
***
"It's confirmed, then?" Colin asks, his tone calm and in sharp contrast to the medley of emotions currently raging in his mind; anticipation, fear, self-loathing, even a very faint sense of thrill.
"The weather pattern observed matches with those previously recorded during Leviathan's past attacks," Dragon, his friend long-term colleague answers evenly, clinically observing the facts, "The epicenter of the downpour is localized on Boston's harbor."
"And the Somerset incident has recently plunged the city into unrest," he comments, "To the point that Director Armstrong pushed the Mayor to declare martial law until the situation calms down. Everything fits."
A solemn quiet falls over his laboratory in the depths of the Rig.
"What if we are wrong, Colin?" The woman behind the screen asks, her tone subdued.
For a moment, he wants to scoff. He's even tempted to answer with a boast full of certainty, to say that he doesn't fail.
A distant twinge of phantom pain where his left arm used to be and the memory of a medal awarded posthumously makes him swallow back his words before they can even cross his lips.
Like so many times since the assault on Bakuda's workshop, he takes a moment to really think things through, to evaluate every possibility, going as far as to question his own judgment for a feeble instant, and only then does he put his colleague's doubts to rest.
"We are not," Colin answers, his eyes looking up from his computer to lock with Dragon's own on the wall monitor, "We are far under the margin of error the both of us determined; the algorithm we set up to collate the weather patterns worldwide points toward Boston being the sole major discrepancy at this point in time; and lastly," he pauses, "If only one of us was behind this project, maybe some mistakes could've slipped by. But this isn't the case. I double-checked your work, and you double-checked mine. A true collaborative project, from start to finish."
"The possibility that we are mistaken remains–" she replies tit-for-tat.
"The possibility that we messed up somewhere will always remain," he cuts her off, his tone curt but not unkind, "But I… have faith in your work, just like I know you have faith in mine. We did it. We know where the beast is going to strike. And this time, we'll be ready."
Another solemn pause falls on Colin's workshop as he goes silent, his piece said.
"...Alright Colin, you convinced me. I'm forwarding the alert to the relevant parties." Dragon eventually says after a beat.
His mind already elsewhere as he starts on his pre-battle mental checklist, he lets out an acknowledging grunt while giving a distracted look at the hour.
It is 10:37, the Brockton Bay skyline is overcast, and Leviathan will be starting his attack run on a coastal city eighty miles away from them in one, maybe two hours tops.
"The die is cast." He muses to himself while standing up from his workstation.
[AN: In case this wasn't clear, Levi is targeting Boston this time around due to the unrest in the city post-Somerset kerfuffle and its relatively successful - for Bet - shipping industries, and he is 'relatively early' on his cycle because David got a major case of the spooks - yes, I'm running with the 'he kinda-sorta directs them with his subconscious' theory here because it's the closest explanation we canonically ever get about why the three murder-Kaiju did their little wargames. :3
Hope you enjoy, xoxo!]