Salvatore
Late Afternoon
April 15th
Artificers are an interesting case of a relatively new class to the landscape of D&D. Originally, they were a variant of Wizards back in 2e, yet in 4e they were expanded out immensely in the Eberron setting. It was only there that the class got time to shine.
Compared to the other arcane casters, they were a little unusual. Sorcerers were magic by dint of their bloodlines, with an innate understanding of spellcraft. Warlocks didn't have magic so much as their patrons granted it to them. Didn't stop me from genuinely loving short-rest casters, though.
Ironically, it was my brother's Wizard class that were the most similar to Artificers in spirit and function. They dove deep into the innards of magic in order to craft their own workings, to a level that Artificers couldn't reach. We weren't as big on spells the same way they were, so much as we focused on the underpinnings of magic as a structure. There weren't any ninth-level spells in my future, no great workings that would redefine a battlefield with a wave of my hand. But in exchange…?
I could create marvels.
At my core, I held a spark of creativity and ingenuity that hadn't been there before I'd received the class. There were skills present, like how to use a forge, use tools I'd never touched before, and more besides. The fine-tuning of magical artifacts, basic as they might be, was the big one in my eyes.
My brother's ability to create potions was bound to make us a lot of money. But I had the superior ability to create magical items, with all that entailed. Given that most items were functionally ageless, resized to fit their wielders, and could possess effects that were perhaps on par with low-tier parahuman powers…that was a very daunting proposition.
The only obstacles to my progress were a lack of time and a profound lack of magically active materials. For now, those plans of mine were bound to be slow going. That being said, it wasn't as if I didn't have other things I could use my newfound abilities for.
My spell list was odd too, but that was just part and parcel for Artificers. They worked more like Clerics, where I could technically prepare any spell from the given spell list for the day. Right now, I had packing Cure Wounds and Feather Fall. One bright side of all of this was that I did finally have access to spell foci through being able to use any tool for the process. I could pick up a wrench or a screwdriver and access all of my Carian or Night Sorcery spells at the drop of a hat.
Infusion was another positive point. I could only create a handful right now, but in time they'd grow into another nifty tool in my toolbox whenever I had the time to really dive into the field. For now, I'd grabbed Replicate Magical Item(Bag of Holding), and put the second in reserve. Setting them up wasn't all that difficult.
With all of that being said, now that I could actually help out with some of the business side of things, well…I volunteered for stuff I probably shouldn't have. Mostly because it made me aware of several things I hadn't even known I held strong opinions on.
"You're fucking stupid," I barked out, at the blonde Tinker with more tits than sense. "That's a dumb, dumb idea."
She sneered right back at me, as we both loomed over the stripped carcass of a pick-up truck. "That's a bold statement for someone who's looking pretty goddamn wrong himself."
"No, I'm just trying to keep you from making this more complicated than it needs to be," I rebutted, jutting my finger at the vehicle.
We were in the factory base, in what passed for Squealer's garage. It was slowly being filled out by the remnant's of her tools from her Merchant base, and the body of a new creation. We'd started from the body of a 2004 Ford F-150, and had more or less gutted just about every exterior element of paneling, and whatever else was on the inside that we didn't need.
I'd followed Sherrel's lead there because it was a pretty sensible move. Tinkers tended to have three cycles of development, and if I had to guess from her skill level, she was somewhere in the second. The first was where they were new enough to compensate for their relative lack of hard, concrete technical knowhow, and the third was where they were relying more on mundane technology to make their creations more stable.
Given her proposal, I felt confident saying that the blonde was somewhere in the middle.
"We're not stripping out the engine block," I denied, shaking my head at her incredulous expression. "That's just a dumb idea across the board. Creating one from scratch and maintaining it from scratch would be ruinous on repair costs and upkeep time."
"Yeah, and without it genius, it'll struggle to handle some of the other modifications I've got in mind."
I didn't think it was entirely unfair, either, if we were going for the typical loud and proud Merchant faire that she'd been making for years. But the operation that my brother envisioned was something that would be subtler than the Merchants could have ever dreamed of. That meant certain modifications needed to be made.
"For horsepower, sure, but Angelo has different things in mind," I absentmindedly explained, rapping my knuckles against the exposed frame of the truck. "Leaner, understated, and not something that screams Tinkertech when it drives down the road."
She pursed her lips, and I did my best not to focus on how full and pouty they were. In that, I probably failed, but mostly because my brother had done me dirty when he'd left me alone with Sherrel. She was the living example as to why his brand of alchemy was such potent bullshit.
In the story, Squealer was not portrayed very flatteringly. This was rather fair, because in my experience female drug addicts might have been desperate and willing to do all sorts of things, but they also tended to be kind of gross. I'm sure this was likely even true of Sherrel a staggeringly short amount of time ago.
Until my brother's potions came into the picture.
The end result was someone who didn't look like they'd been doing hard drugs for the last few years. It was a sturdy blonde, with a prominent chest, wide hips, and the kind of easy athletic frame that came from a proficiency with manual labor. A certain vitality to her skin, a volume to her hair, that had likely been missing before.
Add in an absolutely trashy sense of fashion, and you had my goddamn kryptonite. I'd said it before, but my preference for fucked up women was perhaps my fatal flaw. It was very likely to get me killed or just come into play at the absolute worst time.
"I might be able to do something with that focus," Sherrel absentmindedly trailed off, eyes half-lidded as she stared at the stripped-down rig.
"Yeah?"
She nodded, approaching the truck and lazily drifting her fingers across the frame. "The engine's strong enough as is, and there's a few places I can strip down the weight even more to improve overall speed." Squatting down, she glanced underneath the upward jacked truck, squinting at the underbelly. "...Maybe some adaptions to the shocks and steering column, for hairpin turns on a dime."
I could see the vision. Smith's Tools proficiency in the modern day carried over to stuff like this, thankfully. "Built for escaping pursuit more than anything else."
"It'd be better if I could make the custom engine," she kvetched, "But I can make it work with what we've got now. Most of the major Tinker components will need to be built with the mobility in mind to make it work."
"Is that a power restriction, or…?"
She nodded, not even looking my way as she was lost in the vision of whatever she saw this machine would be looking like. "Of a sort, yeah. If I had other relevant technology to look at, maybe I could get around that."
…Wasn't there a mobility-focused Tinker in the Bay? Chariot, if my memory served. I'd already kidnapped one prominent parahuman from Coil's grasp, what was another to the list?
"Think it'd be possible for some subtle weapons on it, for defense?"
Standing up, she looked my way, eyebrows furrowed together. "Grafting a weapon system onto a vehicle isn't the hard part, it's accounting for space for stuff like ammunition. Have you ever seen how much space machine gun rounds take up, especially if you want a long, drawn-out burst?"
She sighed, shaking her head. "It's rarely feasible, just because of the money involved. Might be better to scrap that concept for this build."
Right then and there, the inkling of something terrible began to take root in my mind. An awful, horrible, no good idea of mine.
"What if you didn't have to worry about the ammunition restraints?" I tentatively, carefully inquired. "Something that just needs a chamber mechanism but no external means of reloading the gun."
I could tell that the question had confused her more than anything, as her hands settled on her hips and Sherrel looked up at me. "I could build something like that. Real question is why I'd make something so goddamn stupid, design-wise."
There was an evil expression slowly creeping over my features in that moment. The type of grin that spoke of nothing but the satisfaction of a man who discovered an ungodly loophole in some sort of contract.
One of the simpler, more innocent Artificer Infusion was called Repeating Shot. While the weapon it was attached to required attunement after that point on, the reward was just as good. It became a magical weapon with a higher accuracy percentage, lost any need to be loaded, and created its own ammunition in the process.
Typically this sort of Infusion was slapped on crossbows, things of that nature. I doubted any Artificer would have ever dreamed of getting to put it on something like a rocket launcher, a machine gun turret emplacement, or something else silly like that. They were limited by the technological limitations of their world…
However, I had absolutely no limits like that.
"I've got a power that allows me to put relatively stable 'enchantments' on items," I explained. "Kind of like Dauntless. For a gun, I could make it so it didn't need any ammo, shot more accurately, and didn't need to be reloaded either."
At that moment, I could see the lights beginning to flicker on in her eyes. I didn't take Sherrel for an idiot, and I was glad to be proven right as an equally greedy grin began to spread across her face.
"Oh, Cav'..." She shuddered, eyes filled with some bastardized mixture of hunger and if I wasn't mistaken, lust. "Don't tease me with something that beautiful."
A matching grin spread across my features. "Call me Sal. Why don't we get to work, making some crimes against humanity?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
I'd never worked alongside someone on a project like this before, idling away the hours as we shot back and forth ideas. Ways to improve the vehicle's handling, mine more mundane than her Tinker-derived influences. All the same thought, it was genuinely some of the most fun I'd had since dropping onto Earth-Bet, slapping together something cohesive out of the clusterfuck of our design sensibilities.
I would have spent more time there, but alas, I had to also organize something else for my brother. Our operations had the product, and we theoretically had the manpower to disperse our goods. What we didn't have were buyers who wanted or needed the things we sold.
That being said, neither of us were so useless as to not make our own opportunities. And reaching out to Faultline's crew was on my head.
Even mercenaries like her had channels of communications they used to get into contact with their clients. Perhaps they weren't as open about it as the Whitelist, but Blacklist existed and continued to pop up in various iterations, no matter how often it was shut down. Fautline and her crew diligently kept their communication details updated there throughout all those different versions.
It was a little last minute, admittedly, so I hadn't been expecting a response back so soon when I'd introduced myself as Cavalier, and asked for a meeting with Fauntline. Apparently though, Fautline was either terminally online, or open to the prospect of a business proposition much sooner than I'd anticipated.
As in, tonight.
Well then. I suppose there were some reputational benefits to slaying Lung, and being taken seriously right off the cuff was one of them. Now all we had to do was walk into the club like we owned the place and negotiate the regular sale of Angelo's potions to them.
How hard could it be?
Angelo
The Palanquin
Late Evening
My Invisibility spell faded into the ether with a simple mental command as we stepped out of the alleyway, masks on and shoulders pushed back. I was dressed in my best suit - but, then again, any and all equipment became the best when equipped on my magical person. Tailor-made for my physique, trim in the waist and nicely snug against the broadness of my shoulders, I felt more myself than ever in the midnight black suit, even with half a dozen long, void-colored wings wrapped around my back like a feathery, multi-layered cloak.
A bit much? Perhaps. But first impressions were everything, and I refused to show a bad side to the likes of Faultline. Not when she held the potential to rip wide open our first foray into Brockton Bay's black market.
Inside of the stainless steel briefcase gripped firmly in my brother's hand, an entire batch of potions rested in neat, understated little glass vials - only portions of my main stock, partitioned into veritable shots that would still heal with impunity, but gave off the subtle look of restraint. Of moderation.
We have more. Depends on how badly you want it.
Potions of Healing. Potions of Stamina. Potions of Fire Resistance.
Three samplers, spread amongst nine vials. My Statue, in all of its single-minded autonomy, had basically exhausted our complete reagent supply over the past few days, so I'd made some last minute stock with what remained of the ingredients - namely a number of stamina potions that would undoubtedly sell nearly as well as the healing ones.
And not only in the bedroom.
We had a surplus of potions now. A little over a hundred. One fifty. Too many to properly keep stowed away without leaving some in places where they could be damaged or spilled. The greedy businessman inside of me was yearning for the inevitable flood of wealth that my potions would inevitably bring us. Second only to my ambition, my greed was a sin that never stopped taking, and it loves every fucking second of it. I wanted women. I wanted money. I desired power. I craved dominion.
And god fucking damn it, I would take it by the boatload in this world and any one after it. My magic deemed it so, and even if it hadn't, I would've found a way to make it work.
We Bucciaratis were like that.
"Yo, who the fuck are they?! We lettin' masked freaks skip lines now?"
I didn't even spare the blathering idiot a side glance. The uncomfortable but quiet grumbling around him showcased the wisdom of his fellow clubbers.
It was later in the evening, now- about nine or ten PM, and it was a Friday night. I was no stranger to the clubbing lifestyle, too young to drink or not, so the long line of disgruntled civilians extending out past the alleyway we'd walked out of wasn't a surprising sight in the slightest. The Palanquin was a semi-popular Downtown nightclub, no small thanks in part to a fairly sparse competition in its neck of the woods.
The Empire probably saw it as a waste of time, Coil had too much of a stick up his ass, and in the Docks, Lung had been more concerned with drugging and raping his people than bringing them quality and secure entertainment.
But I digress. Thoughts for later.
It was dark, the streetlights and LEDs from the building barely casting us and the line of horny hopefuls in a dim, fluorescent crimson glow. The bouncer was a big, pale-faced man, easily close to seven feet in height - 6'7", 6'8" - but I'd been around taller men my entire life. When we came to a smooth halt in front of him, our heights could've been completely reversed and it would not have made a lick of difference.
He scowled. Beneath my mask, I smirked.
I didn't look down my nose, but it was a close thing.
"If you're lookin' to cause trouble, this ain't the place. Even if you get through me, Faultline's crew'll fuck you up 'fore you make it past the dance floor," the bouncer grunted, crossing his arms over his burly chest. His fitted black shirt was damn near ready to burst at the seams with strong, immobile muscle.
Lich Bane hummed in their dark leather sheaths. They were still all excited and antsy from my casting Invisibility. Ideally, they would stay that way tonight.
"Hexlord and Cavalier," I stated coolly, tilting my head to glance over his shoulder. The inside of the nightclub was damn near full to bursting. "Your boss is expecting us, amico. Real important business. It would be best to check with her before making remarks that sound an awful lot like threats. There are men who would react more rashly to such."
Recognition dawned on his face as soon as he heard our names. Recognition, and horror. I don't think I'd ever had a bouncer yank aside a stanchion as fast as this one did, even as the internationally known Bucciarati heir. For better or worse, we'd put a lot of infamy on our names with Lung's demise.
"… Shit. Step right in, sir. Sirs. Sorry for the, uh, threat. I swear I didn't mean it like that! You just-"
"It's cool," Sal chuckled, and I just patted the big guy on the shoulder as I brushed past him. The music from the nightclub was faint but powerful, thumping through the dark, winding corridor the stanchion had blocked off. Even brighter lights flashed across the smooth walls, blinking in time with some pop-electronica beat.
Not my style, but it wasn't bad.
"Think the bar would try to ID the underage Slayers of Lung?" I murmured to my brother, amused, as we strode down the corridor that would lead into the nightclub proper. Drunken party-goers stumbled out of our way or simply pressed themselves against the wall, eyes wide as they saw our costumes beneath the vibrant lights, but neither of us paid them any mind.
The PRT would not attack the Palanquin. Not without probable cause. Of that, I was absolutely certain.
That got a scoff from my brother, as he walked in step alongside me. "Absolutely not. Even if this wasn't a front for mercenaries, they take identities pretty seriously on Bet."
We were perhaps a little freer with that provision than most parahumans. Then again, when you were strong enough to do as you wished, people made certain allowances for that strength. Neither of us were there yet, but there'd come a time when we were powerful enough to not care whether or not our identities were open secrets.
I made a sound, somewhere between a hum and a chuckle. "Beautiful, I can go for a drink tonight. For now, look alive."
There was another bouncer at the tall double doors separating us from the pounding music and sweaty, gyrating crowd inside, and it only took one glance at us, and a finger against his earpiece, for him to shove the doors open and allow us entry.
A flicker of nostalgia and deep-rooted pleasure filled my chest as we stepped into the nightclub.
It was aesthetically pleasing, all things considered. A bit more grungy and punkish than I'd probably expect from a place dubbed 'The Palanquin', but it worked with the fast-paced, synth funk music blaring from the DJ booth. The dance floor was jam packed and flourishing, while leather booths and furniture hugged the smooth sides of the wide, granite gray walls, where less energetic men and women did that ever popular 'almost fucking but not just there yet' dance that solely involved alcohol, skinship, and low, whispered conversation.
I took all of this in at a glance. A slight pressure towards the back of my brow signified that I'd inadvertently activated my Sharingan.
My eyes flicked right.
"Faultline will see you upstairs," a tall, wiry man in form-fitting security gear stated drolly, loud to be heard over the music, as he approached us from our right side. "If you'll follow me, I'll take you around the crowd. Fridays can get packed up, but it ain't usually this crazy. Folks are celebrating."
Sal hummed, glancing around the room. "What's the cause for celebration?"
After making sure that we were following him, the security guard glanced back at Sal, his stoic expression turning somewhat incredulous. "You're serious?"
"Deadly serious," my brother nodded back. "I've been out of the loop for a bit."
He arched an eyebrow, his incredulity bleeding down into a faintly amused smile that seemed out of place on his face. "Lung's been running some wicked shit in the Docks for, say, four years now. Something like that. Feeding off his own people. Had them all fucking terrified of being pressed."
Shrugging, the security guard turned forward again, pushing past a stumbling drunk dancing several dozen feet away from the dance floor. "You two killed him, didn't you? Streets are tossing around a lot of conflicting info right now, not that I'm too deep in. Still, half the Docks' been coming here the past couple nights."
Silently, I smiled. Good fucking riddance.
"Well, technically I landed the killing blow," Sal grinned, glancing over at me with an impish glint in his eye. "My brother helped out a little."
I arched a brow his way. "A little?"
"I'll grant you about thirty-percent of the responsibility."
Snort.
"Generous. Next time, I'll shrink you to the size of a tic-tac instead. That hunk of scrap of yours'll just be a metal toothpick."
The jabbing came easy. Natural. The security guard chuckled to himself as he inserted a key into the thick metal door at the back of the club, now that we'd gotten past the dance floor. One push of his broad shoulder and it swung open on oiled hinges, revealing an industrial stairwell that led up what looked like, at a slight glance, a couple flights of stairs.
Just like that, we were heading up.
"Guess some of the rumors are true then, huh?" The security guard grunted as he struggled to keep pace, taking two steps at a time. "Jury's out on half the shit people are saying about you two. N-not that I pay attention to rumors and shit. Like I said."
I peered at him out of the corner of one crimson and onyx eye.
The biggest thing about the Sharingan, past the whole 'copy any physical skill' bullshit, was its raw visual acuity. My perception was better than fucking Corvo's, and there was no overstimulation from the significantly amplified sight, either. If I focused, really put my mind to honing in my vision, I could count the very pores on a human's face. The hair follicles. The beading of sweat. All of this, from across the room. Truthfully, it was kind of disgusting.
Made me happy that my magical body absconded from physical imperfection.
In this scenario, however, I could see the way the security guard's pulse quickened on the side of his neck. The slightest movement of his Adam's apple as he swallowed saliva. He was absolutely tuned in on the latest cape news. Funny, that he felt the need to bluster.
"What are they saying?" It came out more as a command than a question, but the man was all too happy to oblige my curiosity.
"Hah. Shit, man, a lot." He worried his bottom lip, significantly more casual now that we were out of the crowd and holding a full-fledged conversation. "Word on the street's that you're brothers, for one. Italian mobsters from Chicago, tryna start a new crew in the Bay. Judging by your accent and the way you two shoot the shit, I'm guessing the streets got the first couple parts right, eh?"
He was fishing for information. To what ends, I didn't know. Curiosity?
Regardless, I flashed an unseen smile. "La troppa curiosità spinge l'uccello nella rete."
His steps faltered, stubbing his work boots against smooth stone. "What?"
"Too much curiosity drives the bird into the net," Sal sighed, though the wry grin on his lips was audible in his voice. "Means 'stop asking questions'. You can keep answering 'em, though. We like to stay informed."
"Sì."
Nervous flickered across the guard's face. "Oh. Alright. Well, there's this one crazy rumor about your pops. Or, shit - who people believe is your pops. But, considerin' the circumstances, I don't really know if-..."
Now it was my turn to almost miss a step. Except, I stopped, cold, and forced our escort to do the same. My hand on his shoulder was strong, but light - strong in the way that it suddenly arrested all of his momentum, nearly sending him falling back into my chest, but light in the way that any sudden movement on his part would allow him to pull away.
My voice was stoic when I spoke. "Explain."
And, clearly regretting opening his mouth in the first place, the bird explained. "Shit. Marquis, old crime boss from, what- twelve years ago? Thirteen? Real old head shit, uh, the mid to late 90s. They're saying you two, I don't fuckin' know, are his bastards? Like, kids he made with some Italian mistress out of state. Coming back to revive his legacy. I- I don't believe that shit, though."
I glanced at his pulse.
He definitely did.
Shit.
My brother saw me, saw the man, and immediately decided to make just about everything worse. "Is it that obvious who our father is?" Sal asked.
"I-It's true?"
"Well…" Sal glanced around, before turning his attention back to the security guard. "You won't spread that around anywhere, would you?"
The man shook his head. "Of course not." I checked his pulse again.
He was definitely lying.
I frowned.
Honestly, my brother seemed to be having a good time setting up this…potentially dangerous connection. Then again, would it actually hurt us, given the fact that we were already going to be villains? Borrowing someone's reputation had pros and cons, and if this random guy had heard about the idea it must have spread wider than I'd initially thought. I was not the same Earth Bet/Worm nerd that my brother was, despite the knowledge he's given me. I did not know very much about this 'Marquis', other than the fact that he was Amy Dallon's-
… Oh.
Wait, that could be very funny if Sal decided to go public with his burgeoning affections.
I smiled.
"I think it would be best for you to forget this conversation ever happened," I patted the security guard on the shoulder, a subtle reminder to keep moving. He jolted at the touch, sweat visibly casting a sheen around his face, darkening the pits of his black security guard uniform. "Don't want to keep Faultline waiting anymore, do we Cavalier?"
"Nope," he chuckled, popping the P.
The birdy was awfully silent the rest of the way up.
…
The Palanquin's upper floor looked more like a penthouse suite than anything else. Multiple times more luxurious than our humble studio, for sure. Wide open space, comfortable looking, modern furniture, and an overall very lived in atmosphere that hinted at the possibility of Faultline not being the complete hardass that I'd read about on online forums. I took a moment to stand there and glance around the living area, valuable silver briefcase held in one hand.
I'd have to see about upgrading soon. This place made me feel broke.
"… Yo. Guessing you two are the guys with the, uhhh… 'health potions', huh?" The blue haired, orange-skinned teenager- Newter, called out from the foyer. He was a tall, gangly boy, all knees and elbows, with a long prehensile tail that curled up and around his chest and shoulders.
A Case-53, like that Trainwreck guy I stabbed.
More interestingly, he sounded very doubtful, arms crossed over his bird-like chest as he stared over at us.
"And you're Newter," I replied evenly, raising the silver briefcase and tapping its gleaming shell with a gloved finger. My voice was dry when I continued, "Take me to your leader."
He snorted in amusement, turning on his heel and falling down into a quadrupedal, four-pointed stance - palms and feet against the smooth wooden floor, tail unraveling and waving boredly in the air. The ease and comfort in which he did it had me blinking owlishly from behind my mask. "Yeah, sure. We're all waiting for ya in the conference room; Faultline's hella excited to see your so-called miracle elixirs. Just follow me."
And without another word, he began padding across the floor like some sort of monkey.
I glanced at Sal, bemused.
"It's not nice to stare, Angelo," Sal whispered back to me. "You've got to be considerate of people with special needs."
The worst part about it was that I couldn't tell if my brother was being sarcastic, or if he genuinely meant it. Either way, we followed after Newter, as I took in the sight of the ungainly Case 53.
"What's your job here, Newter? Wait, do you prefer that, or can I use Newt? The Newster? Teenage Mutant Ninja Newter?" Sal rattled on.
A scoffing chuckle escaped the mutated Cape, and he glanced over his shoulder at my brother. "'Ninja Turtle'. That's a new one. Anyways, most of the time I'm making sure things are running smoothly in the club," he explained, facing forward again. "Sometimes I do a few party tricks. Work out 'arrangements' with people looking for a different kinda high."
"That happen a lot?"
"More than you'd think," Newter admitted. "I'm a living producer of 'hallucinogens'. Figured you'd know that, considering you knew my name already."
I smirked. He had some spice.
But his hallucinogenic bodily fluid had some real potential, if I could figure out a way to make that productive with my alchemical abilities. Which I knew I could. My brother was leery of most drugs, but major criminal groups across the globe operated in that market for a reason. As long as life was tough, and the world hurt, there'd be people looking for an escape from that hurt.
And we'd be there to sell them exactly what they needed in that moment of weakness. Waiting for them to come back for more.
For now, though, I merely stayed silent.
Within only a couple minutes of walking, in which my sharp crimson gaze spotted and logged no less than half a dozen cameras expertly hidden amongst the high ceiling, we finally reached the 'conference room' - a large, nondescript office space centered around a long, pill-shaped desk made of a dark, almost black wood, where several figures sat around, conversating quietly. Newter pushed himself back to his two bare feet, gesturing grandly with one lanky arm as a feminine figure stood to approach us.
"Boss, meet Hexlord and Cavalier, lizard killers and snake oil salesmen-"
"That's enough, Newter. Sit down and be good."
"Man…"
Faultline, I distantly noted, was a viscerally impressive woman. Just my type.
She was tall, lean - but whereas her breasts seemed on the smaller side, the rest of her body was clearly packed with a wiry, defined muscle that you could see even through the sculpted layer of body armor and dark, billowing clothing. Her costume seemed like it was meant more for practicality than anything else - lightly armored around the torso, breathable around the joints, and just intimidating enough to know that she meant business. She wore a slate gray welding mask covering her face, with a shiny black ponytail filled with thorns pulled back behind her head.
With a glance, I noticed suspicious bulging around her sides and long, draping sleeves. Weapons, most likely.
Overall, she definitely fell in the more militant, utilitarian side of Cape aesthetics. No one would feel hope at her arrival, or have fear struck into their hearts. Just somewhere on the side of neutral, with coloring to denote where she fell on the legality side of things.
I was the first to offer my hand. "It's a pleasure, Faultline - your reputation precedes you. My brother and I were pleased to hear you reach back out so quickly."
She's eager for the chance to get an early 'in' with Tinkertech medicinals.
Both Newter and the security guard all but confirmed it. It meant that we could be more aggressive with the sales pitch. Ergo, negotiations were already weighed more heavily on our field than theirs. More importantly, I knew that she knew that I knew.
Fuck, I loved this part.
There was no hesitation when she stepped forward to grasp my hand. Her grip was firm, but nothing so strong that I felt she was trying to be intimidating.
"Pleasure is all mine, Hexlord," she responded evenly, tilting her head slightly to look directly at Sal. "Cavalier. I hope that you had no trouble getting through security. Things around here, and in the city at large, have been busy since two new capes made the play to take out Lung and cripple the ABB."
Sal shrugged, hands shoved into his pockets. "It was light work, and it didn't hurt that we had help."
One of the things I'd noticed about my brother was that his words felt different ever since he'd gotten one of his more recent perks. It wasn't that I felt my mind manipulated, so much as it was that everything he said felt like it had more weight. A sense of importance that had a tendency to grab people's attention. It slid right off of me like oil on water, but I'd seen the likes of Tommy and the other henchmen paying him more mind. Straightening up when he walked by.
"Ultimately though, we're hoping to make things stable after that initial unpleasantness," my brother continued, pulling his hands out of his pockets and spreading them wide. "If anything, we're here to show that we fully intend to put down roots in this city, and make ourselves a reliable part of the local ecosystem."
He was always charismatic in a different way to me, but now lesser-willed people were more easily hooked on his words. On the set of his posture, the way he moved his hands, and a thousand little other tics that could inevitably draw people's attention and regard.
I might have gotten the literal mind control eyes, but he got the practical social power from our newest bout of perk acquisition. Though, I wasn't immediately sure if Faultline had enough willpower or strength to even notice. I guess we'd see based on how good this meeting went.
"And how do you intend on proving that?" Faultline inquired, looking between the two of us from behind her mask. "Words are cheap."
"Miss Faultline, we're businessmen," Sal purred, a deep, rumbling chuckle escaping him. "My brother has products he's bursting at the seams to sell, if you're willing to hear us out."
I was already moving to take a seat at the table. There were more of her crew there, listening, observing patiently - an obese, bald-headed man with translucent flesh, a slim-figured woman in skin-tight, all black leather - but other than a slight nod, I paid Gregor and Spitfire no mind. The silver case was propped up the smooth wood, and with a snap and an unheard whisper-
My violet Mage Hand unclasped the locks, allowing me the space to lean forward and interlock my fingers beneath my chin.
"You heard it when the meeting was first issued by Cavalier," I gestured with my head, and my Mage Hand smoothly pulled a cherry red vial from the opened case, rolling it around between its intangible fingers. "But we are looking to peddle Tinkertech medicinals. I call the most straightforward of them 'health potions', inspired by the magical miracle remedies found in works of fiction, but I think you'll find that the ones I create do not pale in comparison to your fantasies."
A small smile crossed my face, unseen. "I've brought with me nine vials, each group of three holding a different restorative effect."
By now, I could tell that my potions had the undivided attention of everyone in the room. The magic was there to pique curiosity, holding a gaze even if the idea of life-restoring alchemy wasn't to one's interest, and the grandeur of my words? Well… I was just a dramatic man, on occasion. It worked, though, because-
"What 'restorative effects' do they possess?" Faultline inquired, leaning forward across the table to get a slightly closer view. I could hear the intrigue mingling with doubt, her mind probably thinking of how unrealistic it all sounded, but the Mage Hand mollified the edges of her fear.
I would do the rest.
"First is the Potion of Health." I raised my palm, and the Mage Hand tossed the vial home. "They're administered orally-"
Newter snorted, and there was a thump as Gregor thumped him beneath the table.
"And, when imbibed, instantly restores the consumer's health roughly by fifty to sixty percent, depending on if you drink the entire dosage or not. Mind you, this restoration is unbiased with what it heals, as long as the injuries are physical in nature. Torn tendons, burn damage, blood loss, bullet wounds, blunt force trauma…"
"What about lost limbs?" Spitfire asked with naked wonder in her muffled voice - an emotion that was slightly at odds with the morbid question. "Uh, I mean, let's say we're in a pretty bad fight. Newter does something stupid, gets his leg blown off-"
The boy in question choked. "Hey! Why me?"
She didn't even spare him a glance. "Would a 'Potion of Health' fix that up?"
It was a good question. One I knew the answer to. Thing is, the answer was a negative one… so I simply had to flip it.
I chuckled. "Unfortunately, no."
The morally upright arsonist seemed to deflate at my simple answer. "Oh-"
"That would fall under the responsibility of my Potions of Regeneration, which I haven't yet started the production of. The reagents can be a bit… hard to come by, for those of us just starting our first foray into the pharmaceutical business," I continued smoothly, setting the Health vial down in front of me.
Spitfire, and Faultline in particular, seemed to perk up with renewed interest at that. I'd gotten them back on board with a lie that wasn't even a lie but an inevitability, and now I just had to lock it in.
"And as for the others?"
My Mage Hand assistant began tossing me the other vials, and I caught and laid them out with a calm, practiced ease; Stamina and Fire Resistance, a burbling green and fiery orange respectively. "The Potion of Fire Resistance is straightforward; drink it, and flames will temporarily have less of an effect on you. You will still feel the heat and fire, of course, but what may have charred your skin black before would only give you a horrible sun tan now… for about fifteen minutes."
They all seemed very interested in that one. Makes sense, considering one of their heaviest hitters throws around fire like it was going out of style. I slid it to the side, and tapped the green vial.
"Finally, the Potion of Stamina also does exactly as it says on the tin - when imbibed, you'll feel an instant surge of energy, fatigue and exhaustion fading in equal measure."
"An upper?" Faultline questioned doubtfully, crossing her arms over her armored chest.
I shook my head, patient as the ocean. "A restorative, signora. These are not recreational drugs meant to fool the senses - they are Tinkertech masterworks made to heal and restore."
"You-" For a moment, the professional mercenary seemed at a loss for words. She went to rub her forehead, only to stop and drop her gloved hand back down onto the table when she realized that her mask was in the way.
When she spoke again, there was a measured calm to her words, as if she didn't know whether to be impressed or frustrated. "You have to understand, Hexlord; these claims are impressive. More than impressive, even. But they are also unfounded. How, exactly, do you plan to show the effectiveness of your product?"
Without asking me to harm my team?
The unasked question lingered in the air. Fortunately, this was what I was waiting on.
My eyes flickered towards my brother's. I knew that he knew what I planned to do.
I'll be fine. Stab me.
What was a little pain, in comparison to the potential rise of a criminal empire?
With only the slightest amount of hesitation, Sal pulled out the Buster sword, hefting it up. I saw Fautline's crew shift from the corner of my eyes, but they didn't do anything as he hefted up the blade. And then, with a burst of speed too fast for most humans to see, he rushed forward to plunge it into my stomach.
SHHKT!
"Holy shit!" Newter yelled, which was the appropriate response to the amount of blood being displaced. As violent and abrupt as it may have looked, my brother hadn't run me completely through with the massive sword, only slicing through with several inches of the very tip. With Divine Physiology, there were a great many things I could survive. Long enough to get a potion in me, anyway.
"Good form, fratello," I hissed through clenched teeth, the agonizing heat of pain pain pain pounding through the core of my gut like an army of angry fire ants. I'd been stabbed before, but those who say that the sensation was 'bearable' were smoking crack themselves. It was unbearable, actually - only my frayed willpower, stronger than your average Joe's, kept me from grunting out in pain.
There was a little snort from Sal. "I've had some practice." His voice was fraught with tension, though, enough that I could hear the little tremors in his throat. My brother was a very protective sort.
Faultline just watched, the clenching of her fists against the table her only outward reaction, as I calmly stood and-
RIIIIP!
Tore my crimson-drenched dress shirt completely off. My wings fluttered uncomfortably in response to my pain, threatening to expose themselves as more than just a feathered cloak, but I kept them contained. With only an open suit jacket on my torso, the sword wound was on full display; several inches across, torn and frayed skin bubbling from the waterfall of scarlet leaking from the entry point. It looked worse than it was, honestly. And that worked out well for us.
I glanced at Spitfire, the closest one to me, on my right side. She seemed frozen.
"Do you mind?" I smiled through the pain, gesturing to the red vial on the table. My hands were rather preoccupied with holding the flaps of skin together, and audience participation was important.
She looked at Faultline, who nodded once, before quickly standing, popping the cork, and pressing the vial against my lips.
It tasted like cherry going down.
Just like that, heat - a warm, nourishing, damn near euphoric fire - coursed through my veins. I hadn't been actually injured since the gunshot wound back at the Lighthouse gift shop, and even that had been a thin line against my hip that healed well enough on its own. It hadn't been worth a potion. But this - the sound of crackling echoed through the room, like the crackling of a bonfire, and golden-white tendrils of light began to lick at my skin. Over my chest, down my abs, inside of my wound-
And in the amount of time it took me to blink, the pain was gone. The bleeding stopped. The organ that I was almost certain Sal inadvertently nicked was no longer screaming in pain.
A wave of my finger, of Prestidigitation, and all of the blood disappeared, revealing a flawless, bronze-colored torso.
Someone - I think Newter - gasped.
"If you want me to prove the validity of the Fire Resistance potions," I chuckled, eyes level with the crack in a silent Faultline's mask, "We may need to vacate the premises, signora. Though I admit that I am more fond of the heat than I am being stabbed through the stomach."
Faultline paused, fists tight against the table. And then she exhaled.
And when she laughed, a low, smoky, delightful noise that sent chills down my spine, her awed teammates looked at her with surprise on their faces.
I rather liked the sound.
"Fine," she breathed, a note of wry, genuine humor in her voice, "Let's talk business, boys. But I am not letting you leave without a contract being drawn up."
And that was how we ended up in a business partnership with Faultline's Crew.
The terms, I found, were more than agreeable.