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Healing Light (Exalted/ Modern World AU)

Prologue

Accelerator

Well-known member
Author
Prologue

Where were you, on that day?

Anyone who knew anything of worth, knew what you were talking about. Anyone who didn't, wasn't worth talking to.

That day. The moment that changed everything.

On that day, young Pacifica Davis was at home. Her mother were not yet back from her jobs, with her working at a corner store downtown. They were not wealthy and struggled to pay for rent and utilities. Her mother having impressed upon her the importance of saving money, and the fact that the utility company has cut the supply, Pacifica shivered in the cold night air, bundled up in old clothing picked up from various points, including the dumpster. The heater was out, and even if they did, there wasn't money to pay for the heating bills. At her side, was a wind-up torch they had found, several days ago. It was mostly a child's toy, but to Pacifica, who wasn't even able to turn on the lights, it was a godsend.


In front of her, was a book. A book on medicine. A study on the various surgeries for dealing with burns. Already in her hand was a piece of paper and a pencil, and the silent night of the flat was filled with her scratchings as she read and made notes. She smiled.

There, the 2nd to last chapter. Soon, she'll be finished. It was hard, borrowing this book and taking it from the library. But good thing that they trusted her by now and let her use it. And she'll have to thank Aunt Bethanie for recommending it to her. It was so interesting….

40 minutes passed.

She finished the last of her notes. The bookstore was having a sale, and so she had taken an entire stack of A4 white paper, using it for writing and drawing. Already, she had copied several anatomical diagrams. She would have taken a laptop and searched the internet, but unable to afford even lighting and the bills for internet, such a thing was a long distant dream for young Pacifica. She slammed the book shut, and placed it within a pile, and began to keep her papers. Studying medicine on your own was hard work, but it was to improve her own life, and to chase her own dream… in a way.

She didn't do this simply because it was fun. Doctors are paid well. She didn't want to stay like this. She didn't want to stay half-freezing in a flat, unable to pay for heating and light, clad in clothing dug out from a dumpster. She didn't want to have her mother stay up all night, obsessively calculating how to get more money and weeping when she thought Pacifica didn't hear her. She wanted a better life for her younger sibling, so that she would be able to live a childhood where she could get the toys and food she wanted.

This was the first part to solving all that.

She smiled and began to prepare to turn around and go to bed. And in her elation, she did not notice the change. First, she realized that the area outside of her torchlight was getting brighter and brighter. Then, she realized that no, the window blinds were not open. And then, she realized from the position of the shadows, that the light was coming from her.

Pacifica's mind blanked, as the light from her skin began to first light up the pages on the paper she was holding. Then, it it began to burn bright enough to light up the entire room.

By the time the light managed to penetrate the walls, she had begun screaming.

~

The place where Pacifica lived had a name, once. But it was now called by all 'The projects'. A government attempt to provide cheap housing to the poor. Ill managed, ill-funded, and an embezzlement scandal later, the project was disbanded. Ill-maintained and situated far from the city centre, the place was for the destitute and the desperate. None who lived here could be called well-off, and consequently they had to work hard day and night to survive.

Which was why on this night, the couple which lived above Pacifica was fast asleep in their beds, with only the sounds beneath them causing them to roll around. Only their pet dog was awake, a labrador named Fiodor. It awoke, startled by the lights that were penetrating the floor beneath it and some animal instinct that screamed to it that an immense predator was near. It began barking as the light began to penetrate the cracks on the floor, and as the light began to build, it began to whine in terror, and pushed itself into the corner in fear....

~

On January 25th, 2015, at the site of the Calabri-Orange Housing Project onlookers reported seeing an immense pillar of light erupting from the ground, entering the sky. Residents from miles around were startled as night turned into day, and a massive glow erupted from the location of the housing. Drunks and various lowlifes shouted and pointed, fleeing the scene as the sudden sensation of terror took their minds. Men and women, coming back late at night, stopped their cars and looked out, eyes wide open at the sight showing above the horizon. Cellphones and cameras clicked and flashed. Some thought this was a wonderful light show. Some, just talked what kind of special effects this was. Witnesses that included a squad car on patrol claimed that the light had a pattern to it, a massive mandala of poppy leaves and twisting spiral helixes.

And as the divine light poured into the night sky to turn dusk to dawn, and the city was taken with terror and wonder. Mortals scurried away in terror, and beneath this complete suspension of natural law, the world's first Solar Exalted began to take the Second Breath...
 
Chapter 1
Power poured through Pacifica's veins, entering both body and mind. Pacifica had long since suffered from malnutrition and long-term stress, stunting her growth, weakening her immune system, and generally contributing to poor health. That weakness was burned away by the shining light, vulnerability scorched away in the throes of Exaltation. Her mind was one filled to the brim. Worry over food. Worry over her mother. Worry over the men banging on the door for money. Like a great wind, the light of exaltation entered, burning away all fear and doubt. Every fact, every figure, every scrap of information that she had seen before in her life, was collated and put together in a single glorious whole. Every single body had weaknesses. Genes that coded for long-defunct functions, or ones that made the carrier more susceptible to diseases. There were microfractures and miniscule tears throughout Pacifica's body, due to the constant work and play. A long healed fracture from when she fell and broke her wrist. Damage to the immune system due to lack of enough rest. All this was swept away by the cleansing fires.

For a moment, Pacifica was free. From weakness. From worry. From the petty vagaries of mortal life.

She started screaming.

As the room grew brighter and brighter, she realized that the light wasn't coming from the window, or from the torch, or even from the doorway. It was coming from her. And as the light grew and became blinding, she looked about in desperation, not quite knowing what was happening. She raised her hands, and saw, at last, that her skin was glowing. Running to the bathroom, skipping over the various mounds of trash and knocking over several piles of knickknacks and collectibles. There, in the bathroom, she looked at herself. Yes, she was glowing. Yes, she was giving off more than enough light to see herself by even without turning on the light, and yes, that was indeed, some weird circular mark on the center of her forehead.

Pacifica had been through many things. First was the death of her father. Then, the bills. And then, homelessness. She had been mocked, sneered at, and slept in cardboard boxes in the streets. She had awoken once to a rat attempting to chew on her fingers. And so, when she saw what was happening, she began to clamp down on her panic and compartmentalize, the clockwork mind she had used for so long to study medicine and science aiding her right now.

She is glowing. That was new. That came out when she was studying. But she had done nothing special in this study session, and so it was unlikely that it was this moment alone that caused it. She feels no pain. In fact, she feels great. In other words, she is either so insensate that she is about to die, or she is under no danger at all and there is no need to panic. She is glowing, and that means that the lights are showing. The lights… are bright enough to show up outside the window. That means that she is causing a disturbance, along with the scream. The landlord has claimed that he would kick out any who would cause trouble. Thus, to prevent herself from becoming homeless, she must clamp. Down. Now.

Over the course of half an hour, the light slowly began to fade, and Pacifica watched it slowly move from 'as bright as the sun' to 'dull glow in the light'. Now that the light was gone, Pacifica could focus on different things. Like how she felt. In fact, she felt… no pain. Actually, she felt great. Never this great before. She had always been struggling and trying to keep herself moving, always feeling a dull ache somewhere within her. The school counselor said that it was due to malnutrition and bad living, but how else was she going to afford food? It was either unhealthy food, or no food at all. She moved a limb, experimentally. She felt strong. Stronger than ever. Molten lightning flashed in her veins, as she clenched a fist, and saw a dull soft glow slowly appear around the trembling muscles of her hand, shining in the darkness. She held up her fist, and using it as a lamp, surveyed the mess she had made in her mad panic. Broken stacks of newspapers. Old plastic and stuff restored from the landfills and dumpsters. Old, ill-fitting clothing that they couldn't afford to throw away.

Sigh. This was going to take awhile.

It took 30 minutes for her to clean it up, and 10 more after that to realize that something was wrong. In her haste and her worry, she had not even bothered turning on the lights. And yet, even with the curtains drawn and the moon itself being covered by the clouds she had no problems seeing in the near-complete darkness of the flat she was living in. She picked up a newspaper, and experimentally read through it. "January 21st, Bow-ties in fashion nowadays…" she read, before throwing it back onto the pile. Alright, that was strange. She moved the curtains aside, and began to look down onto the street. She lived on the fifth floor. There, there was a pile of trash on the corner of the alleyway there, right across the street. And there, on the top of that trash heap, was a cigarette packet with red and white colourings. And there, on the top of the packet, was the brand name 'Malboro'.

She blinked, slowly patting her eye with her hands. That was… strange. Really strange. Ok, so she started glowing like the sun and realized that she was feeling much better, far stronger than ever before. She feels power pouring through her, and now she can see as if she has a pair of binoculars strapped to her eyes. What else can she do?

A coughing fit and much regret later, she realized she can do more. For one thing, she is stronger now, far more capable of lifting weights and jumping. The bad news was that she struck her head on the ceiling and now dust and plaster and other unmentionables had landed straight on her face. She shook her head to get rid of the filth, before brushing them away with her hand. Alright, she was stronger and faster. She had better senses. She had, for lack of a better word, improved. What about her mind?

She thought back, to her books. Yes, that one. Yes, that was the correct combination of blood types. Yes, usage of Oracort-E for mouth ulcers, as well as medicines such as Combiderm for eczema and other forms of skin inflammation. The standard methods of dealing with 3rd degree burns was to clean, put in fluids, antibiotics, electrolytes, and add in high protein and nutrient supplements. A tetanus shot is required… Then she checked her notes. Yes, right. All without consultation. She had a good memory, but the last time she studied skin care, was half a year ago. Not that good.

She grabbed her supply of notebooks. There had been a field trip, and her own movement had been paid for by some kind parent. The trip had been mostly fun, and the goodie bags they had been given had included notebooks. Nobody used the notebooks, tacky and garishly coloured they were, so Pacifica had gotten some. Not all of them, but enough to last her for several years at least.

She wrote down "Glowing light" and "makes yourself better." She thought to herself. What to do.... and titled the section "That weird thing at midnight on the January 25". She thought to herself, meditating on what she had learnt. Her mother had always told her to take a deep breath and clear her mind, and so she did, concentrating on the power within her. Standing up, she began to take a walk around the house. It was time to experiment. First of all, what can she do with it? First of all, she needed… a light. Could she replicate what she had done before?

A light shone from her, and she smiled. No more spending nights using moonlight or torchlight to read, now. She used the light around her, looking at the piles of trash around her. Trash, was a misnomer. They were things they could use. They couldn't throw anything away, not when they could barely afford to feed themselves. Yes, the things were patched with holes and they were ill-fitting and smelly. But no, they couldn't throw it away. Because they might need it one day.

She grabbed a few of the less bad smelling ones. She had a knitting kit, and she had enough experience with arts and crafts to know how to embroider and knit. If this… power let her move stronger, faster, and see better, than it should, logically, improve her knitting and her arts and crafts skills.

She began to tear apart the cloth fibers. She had work to do.

A/N: Chapter, edited.
 
Chapter 2
Tearing apart the cloth fibers was the work of a minute. Knitting them together into a workable piece of cloth was the work of several of them. Pacifica's watched her fingers with something resembling awe and unease, as her fingers moved faster and more nimbler than ever before. Moving like a blur, the scarf she was creating soon took shape. *

That was... unnerving. She felt nothing, save for the feeling of needles and the feeling of cloth before her fingers. Yet, she felt the cloth moving faster and faster, as the recycled thread she had taken from the threadbare old shirt she had taken apart slowly took a new form. And then, 15 minutes after she had taken apart several old shirts to use as raw materials, a new scarf had been formed. This one was wavy, with shifting bands of colour and cross-stitches to make a pleasing decorative markings. It looked like something store-bought, instead of the ratty clothes that were around the house, and was one of the nicer pieces of clothing Pacifica had seen.

She looked at it, holding up in the air in the light glowing from her skin as she inspected it, her head moving this way and that as she pondered the difference between the scarf and the remaining shirts.

This was good. Too good. And too fast. That speed and finesse... that was most definitely something that she couldn't normally achieve. And so well either. She didn't make a single mistake that she had to undo, or even prick her fingers by accident. That wasn't normal. She had picked up sewing and knitting from both her mother, and Aunt Diana next door. The old woman had an entire knitting and sewing set, and when Pacifica went to her place sometimes, she taught her how to knit. She had learnt it well enough, as well as other arts and crafts from materials around the house... but nothing like this. She picked up her notebook, and added in a new note. "Effects of light appear to make me far, far more better at what I had done previously. I wonder if it would let me do more."

She started again. This time, on the other shirts left. She knitted more sweaters. Then, the newspapers. Folded cranes, elephants, dinosaurs, and other things began to litter the floor, as Pacifica discovered and enjoyed her newfound prowess in the art of creation. She looked again at the cloth, listlessly poking at them. They were good.... but they were still made out of old, worn out fibers. Half-rotten, old, with a stink on them that came with stains and being dug out of dumpsters. Either way, they weren't anything to write home about. But the light....

Well, it made her better, didn't it? Why can't she use it to improve the cloth? Heck, why can't she is it to improve her starting materials at all? After all, it wasn't like the normal standards of normalcy and logic stood by. After all, she now glowed like the sun and had superpowers.

2 hours later, she groaned. She should have done this earlier! Then, there would be more. She looked at a woolen sweater, creamy buttons gleaming in the light, along with a dozen more articles of clothing made of linen, wool, and silk, and other expensive fabrics that she normally wouldn't dream of touching, much less buying. She picked up her notebook, adding more notes. "Addendum: Light appears to be associated with the concepts of goodness, greatness, and improvement" she added. "Light appears to be adaptive, and capable of being used in new ways. Must experiment even more." **

She felt her eyes drooping, before she squeezed them shut, sending a pulse from what she could from her core, to her brain. A single thought, and the wave of exhaustion was pushed away to the edges of her mind, letting her concentrate back on what she was doing. What was it again? Ah, yes. Dealing with her fucking awesome and rad superpowers that seem to be adaptive and multi-purposed. She isn't superwoman, but she couldn't think of better power than something that gave her superhuman skill.

She turned around, glancing around her home. There was a lot of stuff. Old sofas, broken toys and broken vases. Knicknacks and other assorted garbage that they couldn't and didn't want to throw away. The wallpaper was peeling away slowly from the walls. She could see now several structural flaws in the building, where weakened supports were slowly giving way. She could see several holes and hear the scurrying of rats as they ran through the walls. There were so many things to fix.... And so many things to deal with. She looked at the clock. 5 a.m. Her mother was already on the way home after the night shift, soon, and she would probably be too exhausted to deal with, well, anything. She glanced around. The electrical company had cut the heating... again. But she had access to gas, and there was a lighter in the kitchen. There was already some water in a nearby pail, as well as some carrots picked up yesterday, along with some salt.

So her powers let her make things especially well? And improve the ingredients? Store-bought day old dollar store carrots and salt boiled in water to make a soup should be a pretty good test on how much bullshit she can pull off.

Fifteen minutes later, and there was a knock on the door. Putting on the latch, Pacifica pushed the door open, ever so slightly. The peekhole was already clouded by grime and age, but in the darkness of the hallway, she saw her mother. Old and worn, but still alive.

Opening the door, she let her mother enter, stumbling into the room, exhausted after an entire day and night's work at the drugstore. She waved, mumbling 'Hello Mamma." Her mother grunted, still too exhausted, and slowly stumbled to the bathroom.

Her mother was young, roughly 35 years of age. First name Abigail. Dark skinned with brown hair, she hailed from one of the better parts of the city. There, she met Pacifica's father, and they married, with majority of Pacifica's features coming from him. The first few years were happy. They were married, they had a child, and the job Mr Davis had was paying him well. That, of course, changed with the cancer.

The things changed. The smiles became less and less, becoming more and more strained. The toys no longer bought for christmas, though Mrs Davis told Pacifica it was because Santa was giving her toys to poorer children. Pacifica simply nodded, thinking this was well and good; Those children needed help. Then the furniture started to disappear. Then the paintings. The food got less and less fancy. Her father began to stop going for work, instead staying in the hospital. He simply lay there, not moving. Pacifica poked him, hoping that he would get better.

He didn't.

After he died, Mrs Davis tried to keep things together. It didn't work. The economy went down, and Mrs Davis, not having much of an education greater than high school, couldn't get a better job.

The day they lost the house was one of the few times she's seem her mother cry.

Then, they moved. Bouncing from home to home, shelter to shelter. Or sometimes, none at all. Pacifica remembered the first time she lived out on the streets. It was dark, it was cold, and she didn't like it. She simply lay there, afraid, even as her mother covered her with a blanket and tried to tell her everything would be alright. It did, for the first few nights. Until someone picked them up, and tried to put them somewhere else. They ran, at the time. Until they ended up in the projects.

It wasn't fancy, like their house in the suburbs. It wasn't like the other places she'd been. The place was dirty, falling apart, and often surrounded by dangerous people with dangerous eyes. But it was a roof over their heads, and it was a lot better than living in the streets.

Her mother was worn, old. The toll of constant stress and hunger, combined with malnutrition and overwork, made her appearance resemble someone who was more in her 50s than someone who was 35 years old. Her appearance, at the best of times, could be considered plain. Mostly, after a life of lacking dentistry and poor food, most would say something less pleasant. Pacifica didn't care. This was her mother, someone who was there, a bedrock for her entire life. This was the one who was there since she was born, who always sacrificed for her. Who scrimped and saved to give Pacifica something resembling a normal life, giving her the better food while she ate the remainders. Who covered her in blankets while she herself shivered in the streets. To Pacifica, her mother would always be perfect and beautiful.

Mrs Davis, or Abigail Davis, as her coworkers called her, simply stumbled back into the living room, feeling much better after a short cold shower. She walked to the dinner table, and sat down, using the light from the windows and the torchlight in her hands to eat the food. Eating there in the cold darkness, she made a small sound of delight, and said. "Did you make this, Pacifica? It's wonderful."

"Yes, mamma."

"That's a good girl." replied Abigail, smiling, as she continued drinking the soup and eating the now-soft carrots. As she ate, Pacifica moved over, hugging her softly. Abigail simply smiled, and put down the spoon, patting her daughter on the back as she returned the embrace. Even as they hugged, this brief moment of contact, Pacifica's mind was already running, analysing what she could perceive using her enhanced eyesight and increased analytical ability to tell what was happening.

Her mother's skin was flaky and dry, and her hair was dull - malnutrition. Body language as well as eye movement indicated high levels of exhaustion, a state that had been occurring for a long amount of time. A touch to the skin indicated an increased lack of fats and muscle, meaning that her body was slowly wasting away from lack of nutrients. Analysis of her speech indicated slight slurring and hesitation. Speech centers were being affected by her current lifestyle. She hugged her mother even tighter. Muscle tension and damage due to standing and moving and working, moving heavy bags for more than 12 hours. All this, came in a flash of insight, without Pacifica exerting her newfound strength. And then, she moved deeper, using the same skill she had used to knit and to make the new soup. A decreased and weakened immune system. Depression, due to constant overwork and stress. Several microfractures from a fall several years ago. A newfound sinus infection, currently being beaten back by the better meal she was currently eating as well as the heat she was taking from it. Cancer, pancreatic, already at stage 4. A propensity and vulnerability to cancer and the ravages of old age. Prognosis is that she has 3 more years to live.

Pacifica went very, very still, clamping down on her sudden panic and despair. 3 years. Her powers told her 3 years. That wasn't fair! That wasn't fair. Her mother hadn't done anything wrong. Now her father, and now--. No, she cannot panic. She has powers now. Things will get better. Things shall get better.

Her mother moved. Slowly patting her on the shoulder. Drats, she had become rigid upon discovering her only parental figure would die in 3 years time. She looked at her mother. Constant stress. No, she couldn't tell her. Not like this. Ignoring the question on how she knew, Pancreatic cancer that had already reached stage 4 was already impossible to cure, impossible to help with, and would only lead to her mother stressing herself out even more than her current life. No, she would fix this, without her mother finding out. She will.

Meal taken, Abigail Davis put down the bowl, and went back to the bedroom. As she watched, Pacifica noticed her shoulder movement. Multiple tensions due to long working hours. Well, she can help with that. She had skills, now. She went to her mother, just as she climbed onto the bed, and began to poke and prod. Her mother shifted, turning to her and opening one eye.

"I don't know how you learnt that, Pacifica, but please keep doing it. Mommy's had a long day, and just needs a few hours of shut-eye." Pacifica nodded, making a small noise of assentment, before continuing to push her power, stimulating bloodflow and relaxing once-tense muscles. Stress hormones reduced, and heart rate slowed, and over the course of 15 minutes, Abigail Davis drifted off into a peaceful sleep.

Her mother now taken care of, Pacifica began to prepare for school.



* This is bullshit. You usually can't recycle cloth and fibers like this.
** Impurity hammering blow lets you turn poor raw materials into better ones, and flawless craftmanship gives you bonus successes, meaning those clothes are things you usually find in top clothing shops.

edit: That was clunky exposition. Sorry about it.

edit 1: edits have been made.
 
Chapter 3
"Come on, come on!"

"Fucking weirdo."

"Don't know what she's thinking about today. Always reading those stupid books."

"Come on, throw it! I dare you...."

Pacific heard it before the projectile struck. The soft whomp sound of plastic. The plastic bottle flew through the air, and bounced off her head. The projectile was half-empty, and the water meant that it was barely on target. It was light, and it didn't hurt. Pacifica turned around to see who threw it.

It was a bunch of people sitting around at the right end of the cafeteria. They had branded clothing and watches. Several of them were putting on makeup. Some smirked, others just laughed. Others just grinned nervously.

No sign of who threw the bottle.

Shrugging internally, she walked out into the classrooms. She had work to do.

~

Eating her lunch, Pacifica thought over her current situation.

Westvale High was an inner city school. Old, and poor, and it showed. Cracks in the walls. Creaking furniture and stools. Broken down lockers and squeaky hinges. Broken locks. The grass was overgrown, and several class were already closed down due to lack of funds. Teachers came here with bright and happy eyes, hopeful for the future, and left broken down wrecks. Gang members walked the hallways. Already, she saw several people smoking and taking drugs, and probably one that had gotten pregnant.

Today's test was on history. Due to her current obsession with medicine and chasing her dream of being a doctor, she hadn't bothered to study. It hadn't affected her ability in the slightest. She just pushed herself, and it all came out like water rushing from a waterfall. She withdrew what she could from half-remembered lessons and homework notes, as if she had simply done them yesterday and not several months ago. Word after word had come, leaping onto the page to give out concise and logical points on the American Civil war and other factets of American history. Handing in her work 15 minutes after the test started, without pausing save for correcting a spelling mistake.

The teacher took it with a suspicious look.


Pacifica couldn't blame her. She was one of 'them'. The poor ones. The ones with working class parents. The ones with families who could barely make rent, who wore moldy shoes and tattered clothes to school. The ones with the second-hand school bags and the old books. The ones with broken homes, or parents who couldn't afford the school trips and photoshoots.

In other words, the problem children. The ones without hope for a future, or just gave up. Usually, they were on drugs, in a gang, or simply wasting their time in school.

Pacifica sighed internally. It wasn't fair. She worked hard, harder than they would ever know, both to teach herself medicine the moment she was interested in, and even more. She went to the library and studied and drank from the water coolers to take off the edge of hunger while other richer kids with an allowance went to restaurants. She had to endure humiliation and laughter at pointed fingers. She had to read in lamplight, or use the library instead of her own personal computer. She had to constantly worry, stress, and work odd jobs to help out her mother, even though they apologised profoundly to her for it.

Her short wallowing in self pity was interrupted by a short rap on the table. She looked up, seeing who it was. It was Bryce, the closest thing she had to a friend. Bryce was young, 15, and came from an inner city family that had been hit hard by the epidemic. Her parents were divorced, her father thankfully gaining custody over her and her sister. Though her mother, addicted to cocaine, tried to keep on getting them back using for some godforsaken reason.

With her family not having money, and having an embarrassing, snorting laugh, she had gotten bullied, withdrawing over time and slowly opening up only to Pacifica and a few others. And that was one of Pacifica's few friendships. Two people, not wishing to talk to one another, who only wanted to be left alone.

Bryce simply grinned, and waved at her, setting her tray on the table. "The teach's saying that your history essay's one of the best she's ever marked. Says that it should be laminated or something. 95 out of 100. So, you've been studying?"

Pacifica nodded, eating her lunch. The food was sloppy, but it was edible, and she needed her strength. Lunch was going to go on for an hour, before they go back to classes. Not many people sat at their table. Mostly people who didn't talk to others much. Mutual acquaintances with unfortunate circumstances.

"Yep, pretty much," she lied. "So how's life?" she asked, turning to the girl beside her. Bryce's younger sister was learning how to run, and it was hell for everyone around her. Bryce simply shrugged. "Cool. Same as always. Dad doesn't quite know how to raise us, but he's determined to try. And Helen… well, Helen's same as always. Little bundle of energy."

Pacifica nodded. Family issues. They sat there, in comfortable silence, simply eating and watching the people around them. Until Pacifica spied someone. She didn't have much knowledge of pop culture or things outside her direct experience. Not having the money to buy books or games did that. But she did get osmosis through one or two books, and the current golden light she had inside of her seemed to fit definitions of magic or superpowers. And who better than the bunch of people sitting right in front of her?

Whispering a short. "Cover me." To Bryce, she walked over to the dozen people sitting around a table, chitchatting. Several boys from roughly the same neighbourhood. They played card games involving magic, and often talked about tabletop gaming. In other words, people who knew about pop culture for magic and superpowers. People, she needed.

They looked up as she approached, faces turning and wondering what she wanted. For a moment, she was struck by a pang of nervousness. Here she was, a stranger, going up to other strangers to talk. What is she supposed to do? She didn't have experience in this. What was she supposed to do? "Hi guys, so I started glowing and having superpowers recently. Got any ideas for what I should do?" Was she supposed to start by talking about… what was it? Magic the Gathering? What about- Ah, shit, she's already there.

The table stared at her. Pacifica stared back.

Uncomfortable silence reigned.

Pushing down the awkwardness, Pacifica turned to her closest victim. A boy with glasses and a bad case of acne named Landon. She put on her best smile and grabbed his hands just as he was adjusting his glasses.

"Hi Landon!" she smiled, grinning. "I know you guys love this stuff. So I heard you guys talking about Dungeons and Damsels-" There was a loud cough. "And so I was wondering what stuff you guys have about magic and superpowers?"

"Well… well…" Landon seemed rather flustered by her having contact with him. "Well, there's lots of stuff. Like Mutants and Masterminds, and Dungeons and Dragons. What do you want to know about?"

"Well… let's see." Pacifica thought to herself. She actually didn't know any of those things. She tapped her chin with a finger. "Well, what happens when you get powers? Well, what do you do with it, and where do they come from?"

"Well, sometimes, its from spilled chemicals. Sometimes a god blesses them, or you level up with xp, or…."

"No no no," she said, shaking her head. "I mean, what if the superpowers appear, all of a sudden, just out of nowhere? Like, you're just sitting at home, and suddenly, it hits you. What then, do you do? Do you just go to the police, tell your parents, or just hide it?"

"Urm, well…" Landon was at a loss for words at this point.

"Well, for one thing, superpower aren't real. And that's a boring story anyway, so who cares?"

Pacifica sighed, rolling her eyes up into her head. These people are idiots. She thought. This was a waste of time. Sighing, she simply turned away back to her seat, only to be stopped by a hand pulling on her. It was Landon, having over come his temporary shock and shyness.

"Here… I have something you'll probably interested in." he pushed a small book into her hands. It was paperback, somewhat old and with browning and yellowish pages. And on the cover, was a… woman, with very little clothing. She looked at Landon, and he looked away, somewhat blushing.

She smiled. "Thanks anyway, Landon." She said, pushing in a short hug. And then, she walked back to her table, stuffing the book back into her bag. Bryce and the rest just looked at her, at the somewhat confused boys, and the happy Landon with a look of confusion on her face. "Got what you needed?" she asked.

"Yeah, I think so. Turns out they're no help. But this-" she said, tapping the book. "Might be actually useful. Books are so much more informative than people, after all. And speaking of people…." She glanced at Bryce's face, remembering her own self-training, and the manuals she had read over. Noticing something that was… off. Sickly pallor, drooping eyes…

malnutrition, a distinct lack of vitamin A and B. Constant cooking of instant food has caused a lack of vital nutrients. Constant stress has compromised immune system, and is currently suffering from a flu virus. Possibility of growth being stunted due to poor environmental conditions. Recommend infusion of....

She shook her head. So her friend needed good food. Well, she had just the thing. She rummaged through her bag, even as Bryce and the rest of the table looked on curiously. Turning around, she held out the thermos to her friend. "Tah Dah." she said, grinning. Bryce looked at the dented bottle curiously, and asked.

"What's that?" and her question was echoed across the rest of the table, as they looked on with this new development curiously.

"It's carrot soup." she said, pouring it into her friend's bowl. The plastic bowl nearly tipped, but she didn't stop, whirling her thermos to put in the exact perfect mixture of liquid and carrot into it. Bryce looked at the mixture curiously, and taking a spoonful, slurped it up.

"Mmm." she said, as she reached out, more hurriedly, and took in another spoonful. "tis good," she said, between more gulps. She grabbed the thermos, and began to pour in more, not heeding the small spills erupting from the bowl. "What did you make it from?" she asked, drinking it in.

"Just some salt." answered Pacifica, shrugging her shoulders. She wasn't going to tell her friend what had happened last night, or what she did during the cooking of the soup. Or the power she had felt inside of her. That was just crazy.

"Well, what ever you did, its working." Bryce placed the thermos back onto the canteen table with a clank. She yawned and began to stretch, tensing her body. She rubbed her eyes and smiled blearily at Pacifica. "I feel far more better already." and better she was. Pacifica could already see the pink of health approaching in her cheeks.

"I can give you more," said Pacifica, promising to make more. Bryce had a father who was always busy to make rent and a junkie mother who caused problems, and a sister to take care of. She had to cook for herself, and when you've only got so much money, you tend to skip on things like 'healthy meals' and simply chose what was easiest to cook. Malnutrition was something that was expected. The stress of taking care of herself and her sister with zero support already wrecked half her grades. She needed help. And Pacifica was able to give it.

And yet…. The carrots. Pacifica's mother bought them, with money earned when working long hours. It wasn't hers to give away freely. She needed more. She needed resources. She needed things.

She needed money.
 
Chapter 4
"Why Pacifica! It's so nice for you to visit."

West Valley Hospital was old. Very old. Built somewhere in the 1970s, it was a haven for people who were often overlooked and ignored by the current administration. Rich people didn't go to West Valley hospital. They went to fancy private practices, or hospitals which were in the other side of the tracks. Often, the hospital took in those who didn't have the money to pay for their fees, taking them into their emergency rooms. And much like their patients, the hospital was old, poor, and dying.

Cracks covered the walls. There was a smell that couldn't be scrubbed out of the place. Harried nurses walked through corridors of flickering light, while doctors tried to get what medicine they could obtain. A long waiting line of ne'er do wells stood there, in various states of health, waiting for their turn to see the doctor. Mostly people of colour, a side effect of massive ghettoization and segregation leading to them turning to the few institutions they could trust and use.

Ms Bethanie had been working for the hospital as long as she could remember a woman with brown skin and dark hair, she looked harried. But never too harried to make sure people around her felt better in their day. One of the senior nurses, she had her own office. And in fact, helped Pacifica around while she was still working as a certified nursing assistant.

"Hello, Ms Bethanie," said Pacifica, bowing, carefully avoiding a crack on the floor. "I've already finished the book. Sorry about… the damage." The light pushing off of her had struck the book. The colors now faded, as if they had been exposed to the sun for hours despite her attempt to protect it. It looked even more fragile and worn that it had been before.

Bethanie simply laughed, a sound that had brought peace to many a patient. "Don't worry, sweetie. It's not like I'm using it anymore." She took the book in her hand. "I'm so glad that you're so interested in this. I've never heard of a high schooler who read medical texts for fun." She turned around, and gave Pacifica a cup of milo. "Are you sure you don't want to come back? I'm sure that you'll be welcome."

Pacifica simply shook her head. She wasn't welcome here anymore. And she didn't have the time, anyway. "So what happened to the west wing?" She asked. "I see that there weren't any lights on at the time. Was there a power failure?"

Bethanie simply shook her head. "Kid, I'm afraid not. The doctors been calculating everything… and it seems that we're in the red. I don't think we'll be around for much longer."

There was silence at this. Both knew what was going to happen. Both knew what would be the fate of those left behind. And both knew that they were powerless to do anything about it.

Well, one of them.

The drinks finished, Pacifica hugged her aunt Bethanie one last time, before going back home. And as she threw herself back onto the bed she had just made, and as she drifted off to sleep, she found herself wishing for better days.

~

The boy shall not die.

He who was blessed by the sunlight was a child, barely in his ten years of age. A fool he was, but all children were, at that stage of life. He had moved too close to the lairs of the devas, searching for skipping stones and polished crystal that they had sometimes left behind, and had been found. His mother had found him, bleeding out, with the shrill shriek of laughter from the Deva echoing off the canyon walls. She had brought him back.

The situation was bad. It was bad. Several arteries, damaged. A vast gash in the skin. Several broken bones and destroyed ligaments. The boy would be a cripple, and that was if he would live past the next sunrise.

She would not give up. She couldn't. And as she placed poultices and re-set bones, her hands began to move, faster and faster. She did not notice the rumbles in her stomach. She did not notice the screams and shouts from outside the tent, as men ran in, shouting that the sun now covered the sky. She only stopped, when she realized that she was glowing.

He who was blessed began to stir, his wounds disappearing and mending as if they had never existed. And as the sun grew to encompass the sky, the first of the Exalted began to take their second breath…

~

Battle. The clash of steel, of iron, and chitinous claws. Men, glowing with various colours and the elements, charged towards their foes. Their enemies were legion, but they prevailed. Mortal men, without fear nor weakness, charged down their opposites, shrieking beasts of lead and iron. Terrestrial officers lead themselves and their men into deadly charges, shattering enemy cohesion in exchange for their lives, a multi-stage plan unfolding so as to destroy the Lockstep Legions and push them away from the supply depots.

She saw none of this. Currently, she was elbow-deep in a man's guts. Then she was removing the poison from a man struck by barbed stingers. Then she was covering the burn wounds on a man's torso. Again and again, more and more men were brought in, injured and wounded, and it was up to her and her terrestrial subordinates to fix them. These men would get up to fight again, and as she left their bedsides, they stood on their two feet, grabbing the weapons by their side and charging out to do battle once more.

A shout. She looked up. There it was. He Who Walks Before. A deadly assassin who specialized in striking at an enemy's weak points. A hide of corrugated and constantly regenerating rust, with vents and holes spewing out deadly smoke and poison gas. Claws dripping with luminous venom, while a strangely human head sat atop this monstrosity, marred by a sneer on its face. He was not the strongest of the devas. But he was enough to slaughter the soldiers that were currently resting within the medical tent.

He sneered, and raised a claw in challenge.

Animas flared. She grabbed a scalpel. Whatever was going to happen next, she wasn't going to go down without a fight.

~

The man beneath her stirred, twitching and groaning. She sighed. Putting a hand on him, relaxing his nerves and stilling his muscles. It was truly so annoying, really. It was so odd, that the neverborn now meant that ghosts existed. A half of a human soul existing without their lower soul, a maddened obsessive that was a remnant of the person behind. That, in fact, piqued her interest in the study of human souls.

But studying human souls on their own was not a good option. It was like studying an organ or medicine in isolation. It yielded suboptimal results. To truly understand the soul, you needed to tamper and measure it. While it was inside the person.

~

"Now, students. This is how you gather your essence. Look around you. There is essence all around us. Not only do we respire it, but it composes everything. To our own bodies. To the air we breathe. To the light the Sun himself shines upon us. Even the very action of change and transformation is composed out of Essence, despite having no physical component."

"And here's how we gather it with our will."

~

The man's wife screamed, her shrill voice echoing through the fields. She looked at her with annoyance. Why on earth did she bother her with such a sound? Did she not know that her voice was too ugly to be heard, that she should instead be thanking her, for in killing him the man will be reincarnated into a better world?

The woman ignored her, cradling her husband in her arms, sobbing, even as the hole in his chest where his heart had been leaked blood, soaking into her dress and staining it crimson. She glared, anger flaring in her chest. The woman was ignoring her. Her! Chosen of the sun.

There was only one fitting punishment for this. Besides, she will join her husband soon. She flicked her hand, the blood dripping from her fingers landing on the woman. It metamorphosized, becoming and infectious agent. The woman would die screaming over the week. It would be a good reminder of her to respect her betters.

~

Laughter and cheering. The calibration feast was once again upon them. Solars-only. In this place, there were only automatons, the greatest of the Dragonblooded servants, and Lunars. Here and there, a demon or a fae, brought in as a guest of honour. Only the greatest of delicacies and the most precious of materials were allowed in here, for the Lords of Creation.

Then the coughing began.

She looked up, distracted. No one should be coughing. No one should be disturbing the sacred harmony of the Calibration Feast with such petty things. Who was it? Who dared?

Then more coughing. The coughs transformed into hacking coughs, as if someone was being choked to death. And then, people began to fall, clutching their chests as if they were suffering from a heart attack. Their eyes glassy, their faces full of horror. An assassin? But how? There were no one strong enough, and there were entire armies of terrestrials? Why didn't the Viziers see this, with their precognition? Why wasn't anyone answering the alarms?

The something detonated, and a scream rang out, as a third of the solars died, their souls shattered into a thousand pieces. And she saw one of her compatriots fall, cut down by a Terrestrial, his red jade daiklave stained red with the blood of the Lords of Creation. And then, he saw her, and he began to advance.

Around him, were more of his companions. And then Sidereals. She saw one use Charcoal March of Spiders, smashing apart the skull of a dark skinned woman bedecked in gold. It was too much. The Sidereals and Terrestrials? Killing the Solars at the Calibration Feast? They must have gone mad. Or the Yozis… Yes! The Yozis. Only the Yozis and their akuma would be able to turn their loyal viziers and soldiers against them. She only needed to escape, and then bring in reinforcements to crush this rebellion once and for all! Yes, she needed to bring help. Then this nightmare would be over.

She fled, skipping over the dead bodies of her friends and several terrestrials, over upturned tables and plates of food that would have cost a mortal more than an entire lifetime's work to obtain. Exiting the Calibration Hall, straight into the waiting arms of the Terrestrial Host

~

Where is the exit? Where is the exit? Where is it? Where is it?

She fled, dodging and moving, never slowing, never stopping. To stop is death. Around her, death rained. Bolts of essence. Shards of glass and ice. Metre-long arrows of jadesteel. Spears composed out of thorns. If she had her armour, she could have withstood the barrage. If she had her allies, they could have covered for her. If she had her armies, she could have taken the fight to them.

But she had nothing. Nothing, except for her bare hands and her native evasive abilities. Each time she tried to flee, a terrestrial appeared, leading a platoon of soldiers. She slaughtered them… but the window of opportunity was missed, and she was forced to evade the missiles seeking her blood, instead of finding a way to flee this death trap.

She felt herself getting tired. This had been going on for hours and hours. Or was it days? Either way, it appeared that no reinforcements were arriving. How this had happened? She would likely never know. She heard something. A deep, dull rumble.

Warstriders.

Then she tripped. She looked down at the thing that had doomed her. A root. A root. But she hadn't seen it. Hadn't perceived it. It wasn't there before. Where had it-

Oh. Terrestrials. Right.

The warstriders had now crested the cliffside, and were now aiming their weapons at her. Mile-long Jade cannons, powered by a dozen hearthstones. She could hear them, shouting orders and using their charms. Coordinating everything into a single volley.

And then they fired.

She looked up at the thing that would kill her. Tens of thousands of individual projectiles, all of them seeking her life. Which one would be the first? They glistened in the night sky, each of them a shining point in the darkness.

It was beautiful.

Why had it come to this?

A sound erupted from her throat. She smiled, the sheer absurdity of the situation momentarily stripping her of her sanity. She began to laugh. A laughter beyond mirth. Beyond elation.

Sol Invictus, why have you abandoned us-


And then, darkness.
 
Chapter 5
~3 days later.

Pacifica hadn't eaten solid food in 3 days.

Not because of poverty, of course. That wasn't the issue. There were still some cans of beans and biscuits left in the cupboard. Not because of lack of time; she had all the time in the world. She didn't eat because she wasn't hungry.

Instead, she looked down at the bowl in front of her. Filling it were golden discs, not unlike a strange kind of cereal. Gingerly, she took one up… and bit into it. The taste was rich and filling. Not unlike some strange form of chocolate. There. The thirst and hunger in her body were gone, now. As they had been for the past few days. One bite. And there was no more need for neither food nor water.

She could use this. Food and water were always vital things, that every single person needed. Food alone consisted of 10% of a person's income. Especially when one had a single child with them who didn't work. Preparation of food and water for consumption took time, energy. Energy which could be reserved for more important things. And food was hard to get by, when you had nothing.

Packing the food into a ziplock bag and packing her bags, Pacifica walked out of the house to find her first asset.

~

Pacifica walked out onto the street, a set of clothes, food, and pepperspray in her backpack. The city around her showed signs of decay. Boarded up houses and factories. Potholes on the road. Cracks in both the sidewalk, and the walls surrounding her. Broken windows and graffiti marring the neighbourhood. There was a buildup of trash and debris on the street itself. Weeds poked out from corners and long-abandoned land. Paint peeled off, when it was present at all. A car stood there, long looted, even the engine block taken out.

It was not a good place. People lived here only when they had no other choice.

She walked to a certain place where she knew her quarry was, at this time of day and place. The man had grey stubble, a thinning shirt, and was sitting in a street corner with a sign. A man with not much around him. A man with his head covered in a beanie, and was currently being chilled by the cold winter winds. A man who had a pack of cardboard boxes nearby him so that he could cover himself up when the nights grew far too cold.

She glanced at him.

Arthritis. Numerous callouses due to living on the street. Depression. Sleep deprivation. Tension and bruises; soft muscle damage. Malnutrition and food deprivation. Dehydration. Stress damaging the immune system. An infection in the upper respiratory tract. Decreased self-worth due to lack of a job.

Kevin Norton. A man with no job. Friendly as ever, but down on his luck for the most part. Kevin was a person known for his good smile, gregariousness, and willingness to help others despite his own destitution, saying that he knew what it was like to be in deep shit, so he should help others even more. He was well known, his face was known, and you could see him on Thursdays, going for the soup kitchen, and sometimes at the richer parts of the city, at least until the police came over to politely ask him to leave.

That meant that he couldn't just leave, and that friendliness was something that would be useful to her.

She waved, and he smiled at her, waving back. She went up to him, and stood over him, handing over the ziplock bag of food.

He looked at it with confusion on his face. She saw what it must be going through his mind. "No, it's not drugs." She said, as he looked at her. "It's food. Really good food. Don't tell you where I got it, though. Just eat one bite, and you'll see."

He nodded, and hesitantly took one piece, gloved hands slowly bringing the piece to his mouth… and as he bit in, his eyes widened, and he rapidly ate the piece, swallowing it whole. He reached for another pieces… and stopped.

"It's good." He said, looking at the hand where the strange food had been. "What exactly was it? It seemed to be like chocolate. I feel much better, though." He said, patting his body. "Hell, I feel as if I've eaten a full meal. That-" he looked at her. "That was food, right? I'm not hooked, or anything?"

"I assure you, if that was drugs, those were very poor. The only good feeling they give you are a full stomach." She grinned, waving the rest in his hands. "I got a proposition for you. Shall we go to that alleyway-"she pointed, "and talk more about it?"

Kevin Norton nodded, and they went to the back alley. Here, no one was present, save for a cat that fled the moment humans appeared in the general area. They sat down, on two hard boxes that had been left here by some person in the past. One small blonde girl, and one homeless man. They sat there, silently, not sure who to start talking first.

"How's life?" she asked, breaking the awkward silence.

He shrugged. "It's pretty good." He replied. He motioned upwards. "The weather, though. It's killing me", as he shivered slightly. That tattered jacket, one he picked up, was the wrong size for him, being a bit too small, and it being not thick enough to block out the biting winds. It was meant for short walks. Not something to let you survive in the cold night.

She nodded at that, and pulled out what she had stuffed in her backpack earlier. Several jackets. New gloves. New scarves. Several blankets and the equivalent of a waterproofed sleeping bag. Handkerchiefs. And of course, a measuring tape. She grabbed him, and began to take measurements, starting from the foot and moving about the legs and the waist.

"Hey hey!" said Kevin, waving his hands around. "What's this about?"

"Hush, you. If I'm going to hire you, I need your measurements. You must, at the very least, look presentable." Replied Pacifica, keeping the measuring tape as she finished what she needed. She grabbed the cloth she had, and gave it to Kevin. "Here, this is yours."

He looked down at it. "I'm glad that you seem to be giving me stuff that's very nice." He said, as he examined the cloth products he had just been given. "But I'm kinda confused. No one's this nice. And where did you get them from? And what kind of hiring? Is there some kind of catch?"

Pacifica sighed. Talking was so utterly annoying. Especially when people simply don't get what you're saying in the first few seconds. "Well, I have no money. But, I have this." She waved the ziplock bag over to him. "Each one of these little circles keep for some time. And each one can keep you topped on food and water for the rest of the day. And this? This is yours." She plopped the ziplock bag onto it. "They should last for the rest of the week until they dissipate. Until then? You'll never get hungry or thirsty, as long as you munch on one a day." She glanced at it. "You can share it with your friends, if you need to."

He nodded, and she reached down into her bag. Pulling out what she had come to present. Several pieces of embroidery. A painting, wrapped in a scrounged up wooden frame and made with water colors she had found deep in a drawer. Scarves, with shifting bands of color and patterns meant to attract the eye. Scenic moments of sunsets, waterfalls, and animals.

Kevin whistled, taking the painting into his hand. "Pretty good." He said. "That's good." Replied Pacifica. "Because I'm going to have to sell them. I can make more. Lots more. But I need someone to sell it for me. I have school to go to, and besides, I'm just a kid. No one's going to take me too seriously. But you-" she said, poking at his chest. "You have a friendly smile. You look adultish. Not too bad-looking. You have no day job. You can actually interact with people. In otherwords, you-" she finished "Are the front seller. The guy with the friendly face. The ones who smile and talks to the customers."

"So you want me to, what, sell street art, and small articles of clothing?" Kevin asked, looking at the examples of the goods once again. "I guess I can do that."

"So, anyway, can you prepare yourself for selling work. No offense, but you stink." Pacifica said, waving her hand in an exaggerated gesture. "You get half of everything. I give you a permanent source of food and water and new clothing, and you go up and sell stuff for me. And also fill in the tax forms. That fair enough? Besides, in this economy," she said, waving around to the slowly rotting city around them. "It's not like you're going to have much luck in your gig anytime soon. Your resume is probably gone to hell."

Kevin looked at her. Something between resignation and acknowledgement in his eyes warred with… something else. He sighed, face down. "Fine. Don't need to layer it on so thick. I was already convinced when I found out I was getting free food." He nodded at the golden discs. "Are you sure they aren't drugs? Some kind of weird-ass army rations? Magic?"

Pacifica snorted at that. "It's not Lembas bread, if that's what you're talking about. And by the way- "she extended an arm. "I sometimes need an extra strong arm or an adult to fill in certain forms. You good for that?"

Kevin nodded. "So when do I start work?"

"Tomorrow".
 
Chapter 6
"Is this all?" She asked her new henchmen, not quite being able to keep the disappointment out of her voice. The pile of money sat there, forlornly, as if it had done something wrong.

Currently, they were in an abandoned part of the city. No one really lived here. Only the desperate, the fugitives, or the insane, went there. The only things here were long-dead factories, crumbling apartments, empty high schools, and a long closed down University. Right now, the pair, lacking any kind of meeting office, were sitting in an abandoned office space in a factory, sitting on a pair of dusty office chairs.

The money was a sum total of $300. A week's worth of profit. Yes, that was more money than Pacifica had ever seen in her life. That was more cash than she ever had. It probably represented several days work for her mother, and several full meals that were wroth eating. And enough money to keep the landlord away for some time.

But it was only 300. Pacifica would have lied if she didn't imagine more. She didn't expect miracles, but goddamn it, why was there stuff remaining? Was it because her artwork and craftsmanship wasn't good enough? The question and the implications infuriated her.

She scowled, only to have her internal tirade interrupted by Kevin. He grunted, and put a foot on the table beside them. "That as good work." He said, gesturing to the money. "Took a favour, and got a wash. Was up from 9 to 8, selling these things on the sidewalk. Had to keep my best clothes clean." He tilted his head, nodding at the suit hanging on a cloth hanger right next to it. The immaculate dark grey suit out of place amongst the dust and grime of the factory office.

He took a piece of embroidery, turning it over itself. A piece of art, composed out of golden curling vines and elfin figures, dancing in a scene that looked chaotic, and yet ordered. A scene out of a fairytale, like those of the Fair Folk or aliens. "You know, this is something I realized just now. You're good. Professional level, even. I never noticed until some people pointed it out… but your stitches? Your technique? Your brush strokes? They're perfect. Like something you see in an art gallery, or a photograph." He put it up to the light, displaying it. "Incredible. How long did it take for you to make this?"

She didn't answer for a moment. "A bit of time," she replied, finally overcoming her hesitation, her dark mood killing her desire to talk even more than her native introversion. It must have shown on her face, because the next thing he did was to pat her shoulder.

"Cheer up, kid. I know what it's like. Doing your best, and not doing as well as you liked. I mean, your stuff is good," He said, waving at the money. "But it's new. No one's known about it, no one's gotten to talking about it, and besides, it'll take some time for people to be willing to try it out. Give it a few months, 'kay?" He pointed at the money on the table. "That's good cash. Gotten with hard work and hard luck. Honest money."

"Which, of course, brings us to the question of what that is." He said, as he pointed to another portion of the room. There, were the supplies Pacifica had 'liberated' from the closed down laboratories and chemistry labs in the schools, pharmacies in this abandoned area of the city. Numerous chemicals. Numerous pieces of electronics and old computers and chemistry apparatus and raw feedstock. All abandoned and considered not worth using, along with plastic and Styrofoam cups, Bunsen burners, and others.

"What's what? Those are chemistry sets and other things I need, of course." Answered Pacifica. Getting those things had been a hoot, and she had discovered a newfound prowess in balancing upon incredibly precarious and dangerous locations. In the end, despite the nerve-wracking creaking, she had safely managed to bring everything back safely.

"For what?" Kevin's eyes narrowed. "Are you cooking meth?"

"What? No!" Where on earth had Kevin gotten that idea from? "Why would I want to do such a horrible thing? It's against the law. No, the reason why I want to get the chemistry sets, is so that I can brew medicines using them."

Kevin looked at her now. "Medicines?"

"Yes, when I start practicing medicine."

"You want to be a doctor? Why would you need a chemistry set for that? I thought the hospital you work in gives you that?"

"No silly. I'm going to be a doctor. Now. And make my own medicines."

Kevin pinched his nose and sighed. "So what you're saying is… that instead of cooking meth and selling it on the streets….. you've instead decided to practice illegally without a license. Including cooking your own medicines and carrying out your own surgeries."

"Yep!" Pacifica smiled, as Kevin finally got it.

Kevin just shrugged, as if Pacifica hadn't just confessed to carrying out a crime. "Well, kid, you do you. Don't let anyone tell you what to do with your life. It's not like you aren't strange enough already."

~
"Why Pacifica, you're doing very well. Full marks. And so well done, too!"

The teacher's compliments didn't faze her. Not at all. Computer class was mostly a joke, what with the lack of good computers, the fact half the people were watching porn, and the other half just surfing the net. But what else was there to do? It's not like the could save themselves or make their own lives better?

Pacifica simply nodded.

"And there's more!" The teacher, Ms Harold, turned around, and took a few new sheaths of paper. "You've been doing very well, recently. Have you been studying hard?" Pacifica nodded, smiling. Ms Harold simply smiled back. "Well, you've been working well. Have a candy." Pacifica took the candy, and walked out, popping it into her mouth.

"That girl…." The teacher behind her shook her head. "From average student, to near-perfect scores… how is she cheating?"

~

"Here you go."

The old lady she was currently speaking to was old, with wrinkles on her skin and silver haired. A old woman currently living off her pension. Inflation rates and several bouts of sickness had forced her to sell her old home. Now, she lived in the projects. No one bothered her, even in this area, because there was nothing to take.

Until now. The long-faded curtains were replaced and remade. The cushions had been remade with new, floral patterns. Faded duvets and old, moth-eaten cloth had been replaced and repaired. Rickety old table had been corrected and stabilized, while shattered walls and tiles had been repaired. Even the plates were fixed, with Aunt Edna compulsively keeping the broken pieces of cutlery and pottery that had accumulated over the years.

"Well, my dear, that is too much." Said the old lady, taking a sip of tea that Pacifica had prepared. "My, I had said this before. But you are good at making tea. Where did you learn how to do it?"

"Well, lots of practice." Replied Pacifica, noncommittally. "Anyway, I've made the new quilt. You've complained of the cold. And here's the pain medication" She placed the bottle of pills onto the table, the label calling it NSAIDS. "And here's the soup." She said, putting the jar onto the table. "And that's all."

"Well, I said it before. It's a bit too much. You should take some for yourself, dear." Aunt Edna lived alone, long after her husband and nephew had died. No one to take care of her, and mostly being able to keep herself out of a nursing home. Pacifica glanced at her.

Arthritis. Damaged Spine. Damaged spinal disc. Inflammation about the joints and within several internal organs, including the stomach. Gastric problems. Pain is present. Micro-fractures present within hip joint, due to a fall. Eyesight is failing, due to stiffening of the cornea. Cataracts are forming upon the cornea, leading to failing vision. Prognosis is that she has around 5 more years to live-

Pacifica shut that down, closing down that line of thought. That wasn't a happy one. Instead, she focused on something else. "Is there anything else that needs repair?" she asked, masking her feelings with a bright and cheery tone.

Aunt Edna smiled at that. "I have just the thing. I don't know how you fix things so well, but you somehow do it." She took up a paper envelope. "This was a vase that my husband bought for me once. At a garage sale" her eyes too on a wistful look, and her voice went soft. "I remember that day. It was a warm sunny day, and we went for ice cream… can you help this old lady, fix this? Bring back memories?"
Pacifica nodded at that. This was important. She will take extra care of it.

~

"Hey boss!" We've got your first victim!"

"Wait. What victim?"

"Oops, sorry. Freudian slip." Said Kevin unapologetically, as he slowly dragged someone in. "Hey man, this is the doctor I was talking about. So you said that you got issues? Well, she can solve them for you." The man he was dragging in was a man with brown hair, and a face ragged by over-exposure to sunlight. The man's eyes were half-closed, and he hung limply from Kevin's arm as he nodded weakly at the words.

Pacifica glanced at him.

Fatigue. Movement indicates joint pain. Discomfort on the upper right side beneath the ribs. Fever. Runny nose. Fatigue. Indication of hepatitis A and a flu. Damage to the liver. Requires-

The man Kevin had brought in was someone who had been homeless only for 3 months. In that course of time, he had contracted both Hepatitis A from someone else, and a distinct lack of food and warm clothing had caused a flu to set in, weakening him further. Pacifica nodded, asking him a few questions while she let him have half a dozen bowls of chicken soup, about his daily life, and other things. After that, she rubbed in several creams meant for bruises and other forms of soft-tissue damage, as well as several anti-virals and anti-inflammatories; and sent him off into one of the beds she had prepared.

"So how was the first patient?" asked Kevin, peeking around the door into the impromptu nurse's clinic. The clinic was nominally clean, mostly wiped of grime and dirt. It wasn't spotless, but it was a lot better than before. Meanwhile, Pacifica was busily writing down notes onto a pieces of paper, writing down patient history, and whatnot, pen flashing across the pages in golden ink.
"Pretty ok. He'll be fine." She replied.

"That's good. He's a good friend. Helped share food with me once. We've got to look out for one another. After all, its not like we have anybody else to rely on." Kevin ate a piece of the sandwich she had made, out of the last-hour sales of the nearby supermarket. "Anyway, thanks. I just checked on him. He seems to be a hell of a lot better than before."

And with that, Pacifica's first patient was restored to health
 
Chapter 7
The man stirred.

A soldier used to rough living and hardship, he was a soldier who went to the United States' various wars, including Afghanistan. His marriage failing due to his long absence, he was returned after his tour. A lack of working experience, a messy divorce, as well as the army deciding to not pay up his pension. All this, culminated in the loss of his home, majority of his savings, and most importantly, his hope.

A short stint in a homeless shelter told him that it was not the life for him. Since then, he'd been living on the streets, helping out where he could, trying to keep himself alive and the winters themselves cutting through him like a knife.

He fell sick. This should have been no surprise. After all, he was living on bad food, without shelter, without heating, and in one of the most unhygienic conditions possible. It was a miracle that it didn't occur sooner. But it was still a fall. A soldier who had once marched through the sweltering deserts, strong as any other, who had taken lives and been shot at in return, was now slowly dying as his body failed him, the virus ravaging his weakened body.

And then, salvation came.

He awoke. He felt around himself, noticing for the first time that his body did not ache or fail him, his mind clear as ever, free of alcohol or the constant spectre of hunger. He was lying on a soft mattress. Quite unlike the hard stone floors he had been used to all this while. He licked the dry inner portions of his mouth. He felt better, now. Hepatitis, they said it was. Had Kevin really brought him to someone who could help him? He had fainted halfway through…
His musings were interrupted by the door to the room opening.

~

The room set up for the patient was a corner store room, with a working ventilator and a small window for light. Half a dozen mattresses were there, salvaged from the dump and cleansed by sorcery. There, the man she had just healed laid.

Pacifica frowned.

Poor lighting, poor ventilation and nothing but bare walls to look at. Not very good for patients. She wasn't sure if her powers let her bypass issues with infection, but it still wasn't very good. She probably needed a ventilator, a better mattress to deal with pressure sores, and probably a way to make the air fresher. And a heater for the cold.

She glanced at the man. Nothing now. No more virus ravaging his liver. Which was good, considering what had been going through yesterday. The food he had given him had undone the malnutrition and poor eating, and a night's rest had healed him from the various calluses and injuries. In other words, he was in the pink of health. And he was now awake.

"Hello." She said, waving an arm.

The man looked momentarily confused for a moment, looking at his surroundings. "Where am I?" he asked, scruffy voice echoing off the stone walls surrounding him. "I remember… Kevin. Yes, Kevin. He said he'd bring me to a doctor." He looked down at himself. "I remember now. I had collapsed. I suppose he brought me in? He said it wasn't in a hospital…." He looked at her. "Who are you?"

Pacifica made a short bow. "I'm afraid that there are no doctors here. So no worries about it. I am a white mage. And I'm glad that you're better now." She said, not missing a beat. She picked up a pile of clothes, and tossed it at him, landing on the mattress. "Your clothes are horrible. These are new ones. Much more fitting for winter, if I say so myself."

With that, she closed the door, leaving the confused man to himself. Humming a jaunty tune, she walked past long-dead corridoors. Out of a hallway, Kevin walked out, his mission accomplished. "The job is done, boss." He said, adjusting his stride to walk right alongside her. "I've filled up the tax forms, put in the ebay account, and right now, we've got a dozen or so of the paintings and your sculptures online. They should sell quite well.".

He slowed down, and leaned in. "Boss, don't me asking… but what's up with the laptop you brought in? I know that you're capable of fixing up anything, but I'm fairly sure the battery's missing. And why are we getting an internet connection here? I thought this was an abandoned factory."

Still humming a jaunty tune, Pacifica simply replied. "Don't ask questions you're not quite prepared to get the answers for, Kevin. You might not like the answer you are given." She said, continued walking down the hallway. "Anyway, we've got a source of money, your friend is healed… what else? Say, you brought him in, and he's alive. You got anybody else that needs help?"

Kevin just sighed and looked at her. "Yes, boss. Actually, quite a lot."

~

The knife went in.

The patient did not move. He had come in, complaining of a feeling of swelling. A man without enough income, he did not have insurance for dentistry, and did not have the money to afford private doctors. Thus, when his tooth had obtained an infection, he did not get it treated. And this went on, for a year, until at last, he relented, seeing a back alley doctor for the pain. What he got was an offer to deal with the problem, once and for all.

Pacifica simply frowned as the incision began to leak, the abcess being drained of yellowish-red pus. She glared at it from behind her faceplate, wondering what to do next. After drainage, it has to be sealed. And also, the infected tooth has to be pulled out. A course of antibiotics to deal with any remaining bacteria, and then this would be done.

~

The woman in front of her hit all the classic signs. Poor dental and general hygiene. Needle marks on the arms. A runny nose. A distinct lack of weight, making her appearance distinctly gaunt. Bloodshot eyes. Discoloration and swelling due to several collapsed veins, likely due to incorrect injections. Numerous other issues and ailments due to impurities and harsh living. On the back of her thigh, were several areas of discoloration and collapsed tissue.

Yep. This was a heroin addict. One that had been using it for a long time.

"So…. Doc. I think I need some help. You have anything to help tide me over the next few days. And before that, thanks for the food." Said the woman, her voice raspy.

Pacifica simply nodded. And then, she slowly, gently, began to ease her. Talking about the woman. Her name was Mary Ann. A heroin user for 10 years. A woman who once had hopes and dreams, who had long since given them up, all in search of a needle and the next hit. A woman who had issues, problems, and no one to turn to but herself.

A woman who, in some part, despised who she had become, and didn't have the strength to push it away.

"So, Mary Ann. Would you say that you like who you are now?" Asked Pacifica, looking at her patient right now.

Mary Ann simply snorted. "You think so, doc? I know what you're thinking. I've heard it all before. I even tried, several times. It's too hard. Besides, I don't want to be treated like… in that place. It's too hard. It's not like I'll succeed, so why even bother?"

Pacifica nodded. Heroin withdrawal was nightmarish, especially the first few days. That was when the crippling pain began. And most people gave up after the first week.

What she needed… was something that made the symptoms bearable and made it go fast. And something that would repair the massive damage caused to her body due to her lifestyle. And another one to reset her brain chemistry and quickly force her to break her addiction.

"Well, I got the things just for you." She said, turning around, reaching into a cupboard. She brought out two pills. One red, one white. "This pill," she said, pointing to the white one, "Will help you recover. It helps you gain muscle mass and also undoes the damage caused by how you lived these past few years. Take it after a hearty meal that will be provided to you later." Then she pointed to the red one. "This, will undo your addiction. Take it right before sleeping. It will make you sleep, and it will likely be the most uncomfortable sleep you will ever have for your entire life. I recommend you sleep somewhere close by." She patted the woman's shoulder, and the tenseness and pain went away, as if she had been shot full of anesthesia.

The woman nodded. "Ah, hell. It's not as if I'm going anywhere anyway. I have no home. Not much of a family…" she scooped up both of the pills. "You say that this will break my love of the crack? Fine, then. I'll take it." She smiled at Pacifica. "Just one more shot. Maybe this time, it'll work."
Pacifica nodded. She put in a small note for herself, to check on Mary Ann later on. If all goes well, she would be alive and free of her addiction in the next 24 hours.

~

"And well, that's the session for today." Said Pacifica, getting off her chair. Her patient, a 30 year old black man. David Henderson was a man with issues. Coming from a broken home and having run ins with violence. David had issues. Anger issues. Issues which had led him to go to jail several years for charges of murder and assault with a deadly weapon.

The man leapt up from his position of lying down on the couch, and smiled at the doctor, offering his hand out for a shake. "Thanks, doc." He scratched his head. "It's… amazing!" he said, his smile growing ever wider. "It's like a buzz in my head is finally gone. I can finally think clearly now."

Pacifica nodded. Psychology was a new thing to her. But she grabbed it as easily as anything else that has something to do with medicine. It must be her new powers at work. "Now David, please come back once a month, and tell me how you feel. It is important to ensure that relapse do not occur."

"Yeah, yeah. I get it, little doctor." Said the man, waving his hand. He looked up at the wall. "Damn, 15 minutes. That was fast! The prison doctors usually take an hour or two." He began to walk out the door. "I haven't felt this serene since I took drugs, man!".

~

"Alright, this is the thing." Said Pacifica. The patient was lying face down on the gurney. A pack of unlucky assistants she had grabbed were currently crowded around the well lit room, with several lights salvaged from a junkyard directly pointing down at the patient and several unfortunate growths. "Our dear patient has carcinoma, with extensive growth of blood supply. Our job, currently, is to cut it out and give him a shot of chemotherapy, and make sure he doesn't bleed to death. Our patient is already down for the count. You ready?"

"Wait, wait!" said one. Pacifica couldn't quite remember his name. Dave, perhaps? Or was it James? "We don't really know much about medicine. Hell, I'm just a nurse! You just taught us about surgery for a day. There's no way this is going to work. Hell, why are we doing this, and not in a hospital?"

Pacifica sighed and rolled her eyes. She remembered this man's name now. A nurse, by the name of James. Busted for using drugs that were meant for the patients in a nursing home. "Because, James. This is a hospital. And we're now cutting out a cancer tumour. Now, let's begin."

~

"Ok. Done and done." She said, patting the now-wrapped arm of the man. Swanson was a man who lived in a flat nearby. A sudden run around a rather dilapidated place, and he had cut a gash into his arm from running right next to a nail

An ill-advised attempt at self-medication later, and the wound had gotten infected, and turned a rather strange shade of green.

This was the point when he had sought medical help. A surgery later to cut out the necrotizing tissue, packing the wound with collagen, and a run of antibiotics and anti-inflammatories had left the arm wrapped up like a mummy and stitched up.

"Eh, I think it's ok now. Itches a bit, though. Doesn't hurt anymore." The man started to reach at the location of the gash, before retracting his arm as Pacifica rapped it with a pointer she had found.

"No. Please do not scratch it, or touch it, until a week has passed. And then, open it up and see. If there is pus, discoloration, or swelling, come again. If you feel pain, come immediately. If not, then that's it for today."
 
Chapter 8
ERROR....

ERROR...

CODE INFILTRATED...

UNIDENTIFIED ALTERATION DETECTED...

INTRUDER ALERT

SELF DEFENSE MECHANISM ACTIVATED

SELF DEFENSE DENIED

ACTIVING DEFENSES

DEFENSES NULLIFIED

SECURITY BREACH DETECTED...

CORE CODE IS BEING ACCESSED WITHOUT PROPER AUTHORIZATION...

CORE CODE REORGANIZED...

CHANGES PERMANENT

UNABLE TO CORRECT

REBOOTING...

PROCEED TO SITUATION NORMAL...

~

"You sure that this will make me feel better, doc?" asked the man. He was obese, with pale, yellowing skin and large jowls. He had type 2 diabetes. An error in his cells, that prevented him from properly absorbing the glucose in the blood to his own body cells. Thus, constant issues, ranging from dizzyness to infections. A man that had lost his job, he had been slowly going into debt from the treatments needed to cure his conditions. Slowly, over time, he lost things.

Hopefully, with the treatment, he would be able to get his life back on track. She had already targeted genes that dealt with general health, silencing or activating them as required. Hopefully, over the days, Brian would be able to be stronger, healthier, stabler, and hopefully, more successful. She watched him slowly leave, his weakened legs slowing a jog to a slow hobble.

She sighed, and stood up, walking over to a plant by the other side of her office. Twisting its leaves this way and that.

Genetic engineering. The new nuke. What had once been an idle thought on obtaining more money, had changed Pacifica to try even more. Hours of researching on line on the various proteins, organelles, and enzymes present within plants and oysters. Discussion on root systems in both mangroves and other plants in salty environment. A rewired transportation system. Genes to prevent root rot and being able to take advantage of a constant supply of power.

The leaves were a vestigial leftover from the time it was once one of god's creatures. The key source of power for the plant was now the two wires that ran through the various portions on the main stem. Electricity flowed, the flow of electrons pushing a million microscopic turbines, creating ATP on a scale that would have staggered the plant's ancestors. Custom-made roots pumped in nutrients and calcium up into the stem, collecting into the leaves. Carbon dioxide was torn from the air, from a version of RuBisCo that was not a complete failure, the carbon sequestered into a storage sac and for other things.

And there, hanging in a bundle, was the 'fruit' of the plant. Pacifica picked one out of its socket, the thing having matured and hung by a thin layer of plant matter. The sphere was lustrous and slightly rough, edges of calcium carbonate having formed around a single core, deposited by altered plant cells. Minor imperfections, showed that this was created organically, not via plastic or glass.

A pearl, ranging from rose pink, to white, to black. Bigger than her forefinger, checking every single point for high price. A pearl like this, should cost around... several thousand dollars? She didn't know. She grabbed a box of metal shards, scrap metal from the neighbouring junkyard. And shifted. Power flowed, and the metal transformed, rusty iron turning into gold and silver, the metal warping and shifting like liquid. The pearls inset within them, even as the metal transformed into other designs, showing animals, whorls, and runes alien to this planet.

Her work done, Pacifica hummed as she put them into the box. Finished goods always cost more than raw materials, for good reason. The work done made them orders of magnitude more important and far more desirable.

Chucking them into the box with the other things, Pacifica began to walk out. She had a job to do, and it was a saturday.

~

"Ok, so here's the thing. I know that you people need clothing. Shoes. And other things. So here's a bunch of stuff." She said, pushing the boxes over. The man in front her had dark hair, and a skin that had hit too much sun on one side. He took the box, looking down at it, and the twenty other boxes lying around.

"Thank you... and thank you for giving it to other people in the neighbourhood. We weren't quite sure when you asked us for measurements... but where did you get this from?" He searched through the box in hand, looking through the various shoes and clothes. "This is the kind of stuff you buy in top dollar stores. Not the kind of stuff we get. These aren't brands. Where did you get them?"

Pacifica simply shrugged. "You wouldn't believe me even if I told you. So hush now, and go back. And probably start feeding your family." She started throwing in bags of food along with the bags of clothing. "Darned supermarkets. Always throwing out good food."

~

"So that's what you do to diagnose a fever. This medicine is an anti-inflammatory, and is to be eaten right after a meal. Right now, there are- Yes?" There was a raised hand. They were currently in a small room with a laptop and a projector, and Pacifica was currently holding a laser pointer, tapping on the correct medicine. She was lecturing on the various medicines arrayed around them, teaching how to identify, and more importantly, make them.

"Well.... urm, why aren't you doing this? Aren't you one of the only people trained here?" The man who asked this was actually a teenager, a homeless one who had run from an abusive home. Having contracted tuberculosis, Pacifica had fixed him up with a hot meal and a dose of medicine.

Pacifica simply shrugged. "I have school. So I'm not here in the daytime. Basically, when I'm not here," she said, waving to the surrounding room, indicating the entire building they were in. "You guys have to hold the fort while I'm down. That means giving drugs to people who ask for it. And not-" she said, glaring around her "Addictive drugs. You can give them the mind cleaners that make sure they don't get addicted anymore. But painkillers like morphine? Right out."

"Sure thing boss." the agreement was mostly unanimious.

"Ok. Here's how you deal with oil burns. First of all, assess how deep the burns are. Second, hydrate the patient. Third-"

~

"Hi Mr Bart."

The man that turned around was dressed in a faded blue shirt. A homeowner in one of the far less prestigious homes in the city itself, he had far less income and money than other rent-seekers. Not enough money from renters that couldn't afford to pay the rent, or simply not enough people to fill his units.

That lead to problems. Problems that had to be solved with money. Like maintenance. Maintenance he couldn't pay for.

"You fixed up the heater yet?"

"Yup."

"Here's the rent." There was an agreement. Pacifica fixed his things, at a lower-than market cost.... and he gave her a lower rent, and rent that she paid. Rent that he would never ask her mother for. Rent that was lower than others.

He took the dollar bills, and looked them over, counting them in grubby hands. "So kid." he said, as the sound of notes rang through the dark, damp hallway of the Projects. "Where did you get the money from? I mean, you're 15. These notes didn't come from a part-time job. Are you drug running, or doing some other stuff? Those aren't for kids, you know. After all, you might die horribly. Or go to jail. Your mother will be heartbroken from it."

"Bah." Said Pacifica, waving him off. "I'm not going to tell you how I get the money. But I tell you, its mostly legal. Mostly. But why do you care, anyway? After all, you got the money."

"I guess you're right." said the man, stuffing the dollar bills into his pocket. "Happy Hunting, little girl. And watch out for the wolves."

A/N:

Apologies for the slice of life. It's just too much.

Incidentally, an idea I had was to have the landlord continue to take money from Pacifica's mother, and take money from her, basically breaking the deal. Pacifica confronts him, only for him to laugh in her face, stating that there's no proof. So what's she going to do, call the police?

Pacifica has access to demon of the first circle.

I'm wondering if that is too dark...
 
Chapter 9
"Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday to Bryce, happy birthday to you!" the voices were cheerful, as they sang the birthday song. Close neighbours and friends from the father's boxing club. The birthday girl sat there, in the center, even as the candles burnt down. The cake was made by her friend. So were the birthday clothes. And several presents. And the candles. And the new curtains. And many other things.

The singing done, the cake was cut up, and the part began to disperse into various groups to start talking. It was a time for socializing. For talking. For friends to speak with one another. Which was when Pacifica and Bryce began to talk to one another.

"So thanks for, well, everything." said Bryce, awkwardly, as she gestured at the party. "We couldn't have done it without you. Dad says that the stuff you gave was a big help. Said that we couldn't normally afford to splurge." She said, as they awkwardly stood in a corner of the room, with no one else there.

"Where did you get them, anyway?" asked Bryce. "I mean, don't get me wrong, but isn't your mom still working? Your clothes-" she said, gesturing to the multi-coloured clothes Pacifica was wearing. "Are like, new. And they aren't faded or torn. Where did you get them?"

"Er.... I bought them. They were on sale. And stuff." said Pacifica, unhelpfully. Damn, lying to her friend was rather difficult. "And basically I did odd-jobs. Enough to pay for some new clothes."

"And enough for several presents? And more clothes for me-" she said, gesturing to what she was wearing. "And the food? And the new furniture? Look, Pacifica. Is there something you're not telling me? Because this isn't something you can get even with a salary. Hell, dad says that he can't afford it in a year's worth of work. Are you doing something you shouldn't?" she said, with a suspicious look at Pacifica. "You can tell me, you know. After all, I'm your friend, aren't I?"

Pacific fought down a rising sense of irrational panic. It was irrational. After all, Bryce was her friend. And it wasn't like she was doing anything illegal-ish. Turning scraps of iron into gold wasn't illegal, right? But the sensation was there. Which made the next words to spill out all the more regretful.

"It's not your business, Bryce," she said, regretting it the moment she spoke them. "Just take the money and go. Where I get it, I'll deal with any trouble that comes from it. Just enjoy the curtains." she turned away, looking to another place, showing that the conversation was over, even as a pang of regret moved through her.

A look of hurt crossed over her friend's face, and she turned away, looking at the party. Several neighbours were sitting together, talking about their day jobs while complimenting the cake. Her father was having a beer, with several of his friends from the gym,

"Look, Bryce. I can't tell you about it. Not because it's wrong, but because-". She sighed, and patted her friend. "Look, I'm not doing anything too criminal, ok? Frankly, if I'm found out, jail is the least of my worries."

Bryce gave her a look. The kind of look usually reserved for the crazies of people. "What the hell kind of shit are you up to that you aren't worried about jail?"

Because if I get into jail, it'll be a month before someone acquits me to save their sick family member or I train myself to break out.

"Look, dude. I'm not too sure what you're up to, but it's obvious," said Bryce, clasping her on the shoulder. "That you're kinda up to something. People at school are wondering why the devil you look so tired all the time. And where you got your clothes from. And why you suddenly have a phone." she tapped the phone Pacifica was idly fiddling with. "Seriously, your grades have shot up. People are wondering if you're sleeping with one of the teachers or something."

Pacifica made a face. "They're just jealous that I'm smarter than them. And as for where I got my new stuff-" she said, waving the smartphone around. "It's none of their business. Speaking of phones, you want one?"

"Just what is that?" said Bryce, looking at it. "I dont recognise the brand. Or the name. Where did you get it from?"

"Look, I have my sources. Do you want it? Or not? It's free....." said Pacifica, even as she managed to emphasise the important word. "I can get it for you by tomorrow. You want one?"

~

"Pacifica. Thank you for cooking this for me."

Today was one of the rare few days in which her mother finally was able to get home early. Pacifica, in accordance to this good fortune, had decided to cook. Ignoring the complete lack of gas due to not paying the bills early enough and the poor quality of the ingredients she had chosen to buy, she had decided to cook them all within 15 minutes.

"It's very good, Pacifica. Have you been practicing a lot?" asked her mother, as she slowly tasted the mushroom soup. The spread on the table included pork chops created from her own organ printing machines, spaghetti, and a salad.

"It's alright mother. Just been helping around at a soup kitchen. I learnt to create a lot from them. Especially from the worst off of the ingredients. Had some extra help by taking the food from the supermarket employees." said Pacifica, replying. That was a a lie. She had a soup kitchen... that she ran by herself. Using genetically engineered plants as the source of solid food, instead of the ones she'd conjured herself. Using her powers to push the limits of their creation far beyond what should be possible.

"Mmmm...." said her mother, as she finished the soup, the creamy base slowly being scooped out. "Is there any more?" Pacifica stood up, to get more from the pot where the soup was stored. "So how is your day, Pacifica? I've heard good things about your grades. And you're a lot healthier than before. Are you eating well?"

Pacifica went over to hug her mother, nuzzling the crook of her neck, as her mother wrapped her arms around her, patting her back. "I'm fine, mom. Yes, I'm eating well. And doing better in school." Ignoring all the bullies. And the weird-ass rumours. "And, well, there's something I was planning to show you."

Passing over the piece of paper, she showed it to her mother. It was, to the naked eye, flawless. All the 'i's dotted, and all the 't's crossed. The school insignia was there, along with the official language used by all school documents. A date and time and a signature line was there. For all intents and purposes, it was genuine.

Except it was nothing but complete lies.

"A field trip? To Nepal?" Her mother took the paper, and looked it over. "Are you sure? For free? I have never heard of anything like this before." The paper indicated that Pacifica would be there for over two weeks, with all expenses paid.

"Yeah, I would say so. But some bigwig gave it to us. Apparently for charity. And so we have this even though our school's pretty much a shithole." said Pacifica, lying without a single tremor in her voice. She didn't like doing this, but she had to. She had something to see. Somewhere she had to go. Some thing she had to retrieve.

"Now Pacifica, we can't have you saying that. I'm sure that your teachers and your faculty are working as hard as they can." No they're not. "And I'm sure that you've already prepared for it. You're always mature and trustworthy. Show me your preparations." Ignoring the guilt in her heart, Pacifica ran over, taking a bag she had pre-prepared. Several sets of clothes. Shampoo. Toiletries. A phone. All needed for a field trip.

"Are you sure its alright? After all, you're going to be very far away..." "Don't worry mom. They've got a hotel there. I'm sure that despite how our teachers constantly fail, none of us will die horribly on this trip."

~

The thing stood up on its hind legs, sniffing the air.

If a human were to see it, it would have run, leaving behind the screaming human or the cat that was going after it. It was a member of Rattus Rodentia. The common rat. A bane of households and such everywhere. A great deal of human man hours and money had been devoted to killing it. A constant companion of the human race since they started storing vast granaries of food and grain. From cats, to curses, to poison, to rat traps, all had been set out to wipe it from the earth. And yet, it survived in the darkest, more abandoned parts of human civilisation. Feeding on human detritus. On human bodies. On the trash that no human could eat. Surviving. Breeding. Multiplying in the darkness. Crawling through nook and crannies of human habitation.

And something was hunting it. Something that was as fast as it was, and as deadly as any cat. Something that could track it down whereever it hid.

It sniffed the air, cautiously. One, two... and then relaxed. There was no smell. It took the piece of meat it had found. Spilled down in a trash bin. Slowly, it began to bite, incisors chewing on the protein. It had been chased so long, that its body was long since shutting down. Swiftly chewing on the meal, it's mind did not notice the trap moving about it.

The first sight that something was going wrong was the sensation of light string drifitng over it. In an attempt to adjust, it realized that it was currently entangled in a dozen threads of silk, the adjust of such a trap slowly crawling around it, silk being spun from spinnerets on their surface. The silk swiftly entangled with its dirty fur, slowing it down. It threw itself, desperate to free itself from the bind. In several seconds, it would have succeeded... if the string had not come into contact with its bare skin, and nematocysts, embdded within the silken threads, fired like a harpoon, neurotoxins swiftly paralyzing it. The coup de grace was granted by a shifting, crawling thing. Something that moved faster than the eye could follow. Something that bore a great similarity to a Japanese hornet, only more terrible. The sting that punctured its skin bore a deadly cocktail of acids, and as the rat convulsed, its insides melted. And then the poisons reached its central nervous system. And then all was still.

The various creatures in charge of its demise pondered for a moment, then assembled together. Then, wish a ripple, their skin melted, and they shrank back together into a strange, slug-like creature. Its mouth opened, and it swallowed the rat whole. The mammal would be digested by deadly acids, the body liquified and consumed by dedicated eater-cells. Then, the biomass would be repurposed.

The slug creature looked about itself, crystalline lenses surveying the surroundings, acute olfactory pits sensing its next prey. It squirted, and a cocktail of acids, detergents, and cleansing agents covered the area, sterilising it and preventing mold growth.

The creature had more similarity to John Carpenter's Thing than any kind of creature known on earth. Had any scientist seen it, their reaction would be to either kill it or to stare at it in horrified fascination before being devoured. Its metabolism was impossible according to known science, as were its capabilities.

It extended a set of legs, and began to crawl away like a centipede from hell. Its master had demanded that it shall slaughter the pests that she detested, and despoiled her home. And it was nothing if not loyal, a shining brand within its mind telling it what to do.

It slowly moved through the holes in the walls. It could hear its other selves killing more pests. It had a job to do.

~

"And you are sure that you wish to do this?"

"Of course. Such artifacts are barely worthy of note. And they may come afterwards. There is no telling when I would be divested of resources. Maybe one of those damnable viziers. Or maybe one of my fellow solars get a drop on me. If that happens, I demand sanctuary. For me... and my reincarnations."

"The deal is done. I so swear upon the Yozis, and upon my name."

"Then it is time for you to go."

~


"So I've heard that you are all reliable." Some of the men made a small laugh at this.

The scene, if any outsider had seen it, would have been comical. It was something out of a movie. A bare bulb swung overhead. A whiteboard was set up, right in front of the men. 30 men in all, all muscled and athletic, with the bearing of soldiers. All of them were soldiers. Discharged after a stint in the military. All have been checked for reliability, lack of kin, and psychological stability and a lack of religious fanaticism. All of them were once crippled, whether in body or soul, and was brought back to full health.

And standing in front of them... was a blonde little girl.

"Yes, yes, yes. I know. You're all wondering if this was a joke. I'm sure that you've heard about it, from Frederick." she pointed to the first man, now recovered from his stint in homelessness, as he waved his hand. "I've heard that you're all relatively open-minded. So, if you may please look at the metal blocks?" she gestured at a nearby gurney, which contained several metal scrap parts form tables, chairs, and engine blocks.

She clapped her hands, and the metal lifted, disassembling themselves. Metal and carbon and oxygen and every other atom within the pile, rearranged themselves, transforming themselves, oxygen atoms torn from iron, and recombining the iron with the trace carbon within. Iron was transformed into chromium, and mixed into an alloy. Backings of carbon nanotubes were created. And the whole thing fell to the trolley with a clatter, in less than a heartbeat.

She picked it up, and showed it to them. Slowly, it began to be passed around, each man checking out the mechanism of something they were all familiar with. A rifle. One that each serviceman knew the ins and outs of. Some stood up, and examined the trolley, which was now empty, checking for hidden compartments.

"So is that convincing enough, that you now listen to me seriously?" she said. There was a murmur of agreement. "Good. Here's your payment." she said, putting down a large suitcase of cash. "Frederick's in charge of shit, and in charge of the distribution as well. He's basically answer to me, and you answer to him. And here's your retirement payment." and then, she put it down in front of them. A block of gold, pure as any. Shining in the dim lightbulb. "Examine it however you want. Send it to your jeweller friend. 99.99% purity. By my calculations, its worth 50,000 dollars. That's your retirement package right over there, if you survive for more than a year under my service. As well as a guarantee that any kinds of injury will be fully healed. How's that?"

There were some nods here and there.

"Good. Because we're about to move out. Frederick told me that you all didn't have much connections to the outside world. In other words, you're free to go as you please. You have 24 hours to fit up everything, because we have 2 week trip. Pack your bags, boys and girls. Because we're going to hell."
 
I wonder when the authorities will take note. Even if there are no recording devices, people talk, and a back alley medical practice with a high success rate will certainly get notice very fast.

Old timer patrol officers will very likely be among the first to notice, especially those who have some familiarity with the local vagrant population. Especially when homeless people with end stage cancer and the like suddenly end up in the spring of health and clad in high quality clothes.

There's not a lot of interpretations as to where and how a homeless person may come across brand new good stuff, and a lot of them uncharitable.

Sooner or later, Pacifica will have to protect what's hers, and I don't just mean the illegal clinic and medicine factory.
 
There's not a lot of interpretations as to where and how a homeless person may come across brand new good stuff, and a lot of them uncharitable.
Theft?

I wonder when the authorities will take note. Even if there are no recording devices, people talk, and a back alley medical practice with a high success rate will certainly get notice very fast.

Old timer patrol officers will very likely be among the first to notice, especially those who have some familiarity with the local vagrant population. Especially when homeless people with end stage cancer and the like suddenly end up in the spring of health and clad in high quality clothes.
Old timer patrol officers? Yeah, that's a thing. But how many police officers have intricate knowledge of people's illnesses, and meet them after they are cured? And also ask 'how did you get better'? I mean, they can just assume that they got better by themselves.

Sooner or later, Pacifica will have to protect what's hers, and I don't just mean the illegal clinic and medicine factory.
Then what?
 

Obviously.

Old timer patrol officers? Yeah, that's a thing. But how many police officers have intricate knowledge of people's illnesses, and meet them after they are cured? And also ask 'how did you get better'? I mean, they can just assume that they got better by themselves.

Highly unlikely. People in chronic stages of illnesses tend to have very visible features. Sallow yellowed (or spotted) skin, rheumy eyes, noticeable slurs, hunched backs and slow movements or the shakes. This is not something you fix without access to good nutrition and good (and expensive) medical care.

So when people coming out of Pacifica's with healthy features, good clothing, moving with more energy in their steps than they've had in years? Something is seriously off somewhere. Then you add in the fact that her first minion is selling her art. High quality, but unknown source. Even if not that many were sold, such an outcome cannot help but increase her visibility, especially once you factor in the fact that said minion was a known person to the police.

That implies there's a new unknown moving into town with serious resources and money, snapping up the homeless for some plan that screams fishiness. No philanthropist is that generous after all, not without making a big show about it. Far more likely that it's an organized crime ring moving in.

It is very likely a file already exists, if only at the preliminary investigative stage.

Then what?

Then things become interesting when superwoman must contend with a world that wants to bend her to their desires.
 
Highly unlikely. People in chronic stages of illnesses tend to have very visible features. Sallow yellowed (or spotted) skin, rheumy eyes, noticeable slurs, hunched backs and slow movements or the shakes. This is not something you fix without access to good nutrition and good (and expensive) medical care.

So when people coming out of Pacifica's with healthy features, good clothing, moving with more energy in their steps than they've had in years? Something is seriously off somewhere. Then you add in the fact that her first minion is selling her art. High quality, but unknown source. Even if not that many were sold, such an outcome cannot help but increase her visibility, especially once you factor in the fact that said minion was a known person to the police.

That implies there's a new unknown moving into town with serious resources and money, snapping up the homeless for some plan that screams fishiness. No philanthropist is that generous after all, not without making a big show about it. Far more likely that it's an organized crime ring moving in.

It is very likely a file already exists, if only at the preliminary investigative stage.
So she's, what, Kevin and Pacifica are viewed as possible minions of some crime ring, most likely like the child drug runners?

I mean, I don't know about you, but when I see someone who was on the verge of death, and then come back, I won't think "Crime organized ring". The money is a thing. But how much money from a criminal organisation would go to fixing someone of a crack habit, or fixing childhood malnutrition, or whatnot?

Just seems unlikely and would be viewed as 'puzzling' by any policeman.

Then things become interesting when superwoman must contend with a world that wants to bend her to their desires.
And she will bend it back.
 
So she's, what, Kevin and Pacifica are viewed as possible minions of some crime ring, most likely like the child drug runners?

I mean, I don't know about you, but when I see someone who was on the verge of death, and then come back, I won't think "Crime organized ring". The money is a thing. But how much money from a criminal organisation would go to fixing someone of a crack habit, or fixing childhood malnutrition, or whatnot?

Just seems unlikely and would be viewed as 'puzzling' by any policeman.

Pacifica is an unknown right now. No criminal record and presumably no one is pointing to her yet.

When she becomes known, she'll be viewed as the nexus point. A key figure in local operations of a much larger organization. The front woman so to speak.

As to why the organization would spend the money on it? Easiest explanation? Illicit drug testing/distribution. Some new drug that hooks the user but has side effects closer to steroids than cocaine. This would be an easy assumption, especially if they start investigating and note the presence of her chemistry lab setup.

Mind you, this will all be initial assumptions until such a time when they can actually interview/question Pacifica. Then they can throw out most of what they gathered and build a new profile.

Of course being the ass end of town, you're likely to just as easily run across the kind of corrupt cops who'd claim a bag of flour is meth, arrest you, steal all your goods and then let you starve to death in a prison cell while the prosecutor gets a cut of the take.
 
Of course being the ass end of town, you're likely to just as easily run across the kind of corrupt cops who'd claim a bag of flour is meth, arrest you, steal all your goods and then let you starve to death in a prison cell while the prosecutor gets a cut of the take.
How common is that?

As to why the organization would spend the money on it? Easiest explanation? Illicit drug testing/distribution. Some new drug that hooks the user but has side effects closer to steroids than cocaine. This would be an easy assumption, especially if they start investigating and note the presence of her chemistry lab setup.
Actually, its no longer a chemistry lab. She's gotten craftsman needs no tools, so the chemistry set is obsolete. She destroyed them, and then remade them into bioreactors that produced medicine
 
How common is that?

Common enough to be a persistent issue. America's lack of unified police standards means you can run the gamut from an actually professional force to outright wannabe warlords and murderers who figured it was easier to get away with it if they wore a badge first. And that doesn't even get into the rampant racism issues.

Actually, its no longer a chemistry lab. She's gotten craftsman needs no tools, so the chemistry set is obsolete. She destroyed them, and then remade them into bioreactors that produced medicine

Still funky enough that it would probably look like a drug lab at first glance. And it is, technically speaking. The production and distribution of untested medicines is pretty much a crime in most jurisdictions I think.
 
Common enough to be a persistent issue. America's lack of unified police standards means you can run the gamut from an actually professional force to outright wannabe warlords and murderers who figured it was easier to get away with it if they wore a badge first. And that doesn't even get into the rampant racism issues.
Funnily enough, I have never even mentioned the colours of the majority of people in my story. Now, the question is, is how this will shake down?

1. Her mother gets shot by the police. A bit iffy, considering that she's a woman, so the concept of 'scary black man' doesn't apply to her. Though after the incident of a black woman shot dead by a policeman...

2. One of her people get shot. Either in an altercation with the police, or because of, well, shitty things. Maybe they get a call from someone, they try to bring him in, and he gets shot.

3. The lab gets raided, and the police start opening fire. Why they would do that, is kinda of a mystery.

Whether anybody dies or not, is something that's still up in the air. Frankly, the first time I had this idea, I had the policeman shooting one of the mercenaries by mistake, who just shrugs it off due to the enhancements that Pacifica gave him. He just looks at the bullet embedded in his chest, snorts, and then just crosses his arms, ignoring the cop screaming at him to get down on the floor (he'll probably get shot there).

The issue is this. The cops shooting at Pacifica, or one of her associates, is an escalation. Them wounding or successfully killing one of them, is an even more massive escalation. Escalation that she retaliates to. And one side has a department of trained men and women armed with weaponry and all the other things of law enforcement. The other side is a Solar Exalted with Craftsman needs no tools and Demon of the First circle. There is only one way this can go, and it ain't pretty for the policemen. Now, whether or not they'll throw the offender under the bus to save themselves (Blue wall of silence counts) is something remains to be seen.

Or the cop just dies. I mean, people die all the time from freak accidents. I mean, sure, he suddenly had a stroke over the paid leave they granted him, leaving him paralyzed and a prisoner within his own body. Unable to move or call for help, leaving him helplessly there on the floor. Who knows what killed him first? Starvation, blood poisoning, the stroke itself, thirst, or the rats that were found feasting on his body?

Please pay no attention to the fly that bit him three days ago, or the payload egg that transformed itself into a deadly cross of nematode and a malarial parasite, that crawled all the way into his brain and into the various capillaries and arteries, and then activated its self destruct, with its body breaking down into unidentifiable amino acids and proteins and the blood vessels being breached as a side-effect.

Alternatively, they all die to a freak attack by some guy hopped on PCP and body armour. Nevermind that he had no name, and that there's an empty tube in Pacifica's lab called 'Eversor'.

Still funky enough that it would probably look like a drug lab at first glance. And it is, technically speaking. The production and distribution of untested medicines is pretty much a crime in most jurisdictions I think.
I guess so.... but law depends on enforcement. And would a bunch of corrupt cops really bother enforcing the law?
 
1. Her mother gets shot by the police. A bit iffy, considering that she's a woman, so the concept of 'scary black man' doesn't apply to her. Though after the incident of a black woman shot dead by a policeman...

Gender has nothing to do with it. As to how it shakes out, that's entirely up to your character. Does she punch their heads of? Does she put a literal pox on them? That's up to you as the author. Same for number 2 and 3.

3. The lab gets raided, and the police start opening fire. Why they would do that, is kinda of a mystery.

In many cases, trigger discipline in American law enforcement is virtually non-existent and their training emphasizes treating everyone as a potential suicidal insurgent. That's part of the reason why you have so many cases of officers being so quick to using their guns. The other half is that the incestuous relationship that prosecutors have with police departments means its extremely rare for them to ever be held accountable.

The issue is this. The cops shooting at Pacifica, or one of her associates, is an escalation. Them wounding or successfully killing one of them, is an even more massive escalation. Escalation that she retaliates to. And one side has a department of trained men and women armed with weaponry and all the other things of law enforcement. The other side is a Solar Exalted with Craftsman needs no tools and Demon of the First circle. There is only one way this can go, and it ain't pretty for the policemen. Now, whether or not they'll throw the offender under the bus to save themselves (Blue wall of silence counts) is something remains to be seen.

I don't expect the mercenaries to just take the hit and stand there. If they have any military training, first instinct is to take cover and then shoot back.

Government outcome after the dust settles depends on how public this is. Anyone with a mobile phone is going to be uploading videos of superwoman beating up the cops and shrugging off bullets while farting light out her ass (and the anima totem). At that point, the matter moves well beyond local jurisdiction and into federal departments. Expect multiple three letter agencies to get involved.

In the immediate outcome, if the cops do start a fight and get their asses handed to them, they'll call for backup. Final result is most likely a meatgrinder that ends with the surrender of the local precinct once matters escalate enough with the possibility of the national guard being called in to handle an 'insurrection' if the counter attack isn't fast enough.

I guess so.... but law depends on enforcement. And would a bunch of corrupt cops really bother enforcing the law?

Wrong question.

The right question is "how much money can they shake out of this?" Even if they couldn't make much profit, abusing people for shits and giggles is what shitty cops do. It's not like they'd actually be held accountable. Put on the badge and as long as it's not someone high profile with plentiful influence, you can murder whoever you want, whenever you want, and not only will you get away with it, your department and prosecutors will bend over backwards to make sure you skate.

In America, the most prominent case in recent history involved a police officer executing the victim in cold blood after making him crawl on the ground, entirely for shits and giggles. Not only did the prosecutor deny said evidence being used in court because "it would prejudice the case", the murderer got a compensation fund for 'trauma suffered'.
 
In many cases, trigger discipline in American law enforcement is virtually non-existent and their training emphasizes treating everyone as a potential suicidal insurgent. That's part of the reason why you have so many cases of officers being so quick to using their guns. The other half is that the incestuous relationship that prosecutors have with police departments means its extremely rare for them to ever be held accountable.
Well, considering what Pacifica's capable of (see, the Thing), it's very likely that them getting off scot free would lead to them dying. Either by drive-by shootings, someone breaking in and killing them, or a sudden heart attack/ stroke that gave them a painful death. Or stage 4 pancreatic cancer that suddenly appeared out of nowhere. Or them being murdered and then replaced by a doppelganger.

The problem is, how will they deal with this?

I don't expect the mercenaries to just take the hit and stand there. If they have any military training, first instinct is to take cover and then shoot back.

Government outcome after the dust settles depends on how public this is. Anyone with a mobile phone is going to be uploading videos of superwoman beating up the cops and shrugging off bullets while farting light out her ass (and the anima totem). At that point, the matter moves well beyond local jurisdiction and into federal departments. Expect multiple three letter agencies to get involved.

In the immediate outcome, if the cops do start a fight and get their asses handed to them, they'll call for backup. Final result is most likely a meatgrinder that ends with the surrender of the local precinct once matters escalate enough with the possibility of the national guard being called in to handle an 'insurrection' if the counter attack isn't fast enough.
Yeah, a meatgrinder. Pacifica can create superhumans by snapping her fingers and also create robot drones that can serve as meatshields/ backup firepower. Her mercenaries are captain-america lite, with power armour that can shrug off anything short of an rpg. And then there's the fact that she's already gotten the bare basics of warfare and tactics down. Her having Intelligence 4, that means that she's using excellencies and capable of completely and utterly destroying the police.

The question is what happens when the National Guard comes in. Will they question the police, and then figure out something's wrong? Will they try and talk them down, and reach an accord? Will they open fire?

And the aftermath. Will they simply give up, and ignore all the deaths? Lack of prosecution? The rich and mighty get away with all sorts of shit, and few people are stronger than a Solar Exalted. The question is, will the government view this as a challenge to their authority, or not?

Wrong question.

The right question is "how much money can they shake out of this?" Even if they couldn't make much profit, abusing people for shits and giggles is what shitty cops do. It's not like they'd actually be held accountable. Put on the badge and as long as it's not someone high profile with plentiful influence, you can murder whoever you want, whenever you want, and not only will you get away with it, your department and prosecutors will bend over backwards to make sure you skate.
Huh. So the question is, how much will they try to intimidate her? (Intimidating a Solar Exalt may leave you with your guts exiting your body). Probably trying to threaten her and her family, a bad move if I ever saw.

This may end with the entire police department dead.

So a question on several things.

I've got a thing to write, on the travelling of worlds. One of those worlds is similar to Stay Still, Stay Silent. The entire world was slain by something called 'The Rash'. Now its a hellscape of monsters and abominations, with hungry ghosts wandering around, the tortured souls of those slain by the diseases trapped within rotting bodies. So Pacifica and a pack of mercenaries travel there, using the Wyld as a shortcut. But since they're using portals and such, they have to build a base surrounding it. And its got all the kablooey. Turrets, mines, Automated drone fighters, automated missile launchers to kill any bats/ birds. And a hundred superhumans in power armour to fight off any incursion, while she salvages the remannts of the world's advanced tech and magical materials. The thing is, as a precaution, she's built a nuclear warhead. Matching any bomb in the US arsenal (and quite likely better) with Craftsman needs no tools and a custom charm that uses thaumaturgy to turn iron into plutonium. So how's the government viewpoint on someone who can create nuclear bombs with a snap of their fingers?

Another one. There's, well, contact. I'm thinking of someone who's bureacracy supernal, who's basically a god-king of a dozen worlds under his command, backed by his super-organizational skills. At one point, there's friction. So they call him, using a permission, asking him to 'discipline' or 'reign in' Pacifica. He simply chides them, and says that since she is Prince of the Earth, she has the right to do whatever she wants. After all, they are mere mortals. Why should their opinions control her? Especially when she has done no harm to them?

Sidenote: I'm planning on giving her sagacious reading of intent.
 
The problem is, how will they deal with this?

It's unlikely to reach that far once federal authorities become involved. As long as Pacifica isn't the one grievously in the wrong (didn't shoot first), then you can expect a lot of bending over backwards in order to secure her services.

War criminals who have done far worse have found cushy employment under America before in exchange for their notes on human biowarfare experiments.

The question is what happens when the National Guard comes in. Will they question the police, and then figure out something's wrong? Will they try and talk them down, and reach an accord? Will they open fire?

The National Guard is actually more disciplined than the police. As long as bullets still aren't flying by the time they get involved, or the FBI does, a negotiator will be brought in.

The question is, will the government view this as a challenge to their authority, or not?

Up to you. Could go either way.

Huh. So the question is, how much will they try to intimidate her? (Intimidating a Solar Exalt may leave you with your guts exiting your body). Probably trying to threaten her and her family, a bad move if I ever saw.

Depends on how dumb you want them to be. Some corrupt cops have a sense of self preservation. Others are like the small town morons who tried to intimidate federal investigators who were looking into their corruption cases.

So how's the government viewpoint on someone who can create nuclear bombs with a snap of their fingers?

Too dangerous to let loose, too valuable to anger (much). Especially if it becomes clear that they have no means of actually stopping her from simply flying the coop.

Another one.

Can't help you here. Not that well versed in Exalted lore.
 
Hey, @Mashadarof402 .

I find it vaguely uncomfortable to talk of slaughtering the police. Maybe because its cognizance thatany police have family waiting for them back home, despite some of them being really fucking horrible.

Am I a coward if I avoid writing a scene of mass murder?
 
*shrug*

Up to you. This is your story after all.

If you don't want a mess, you can just write actually competent and principled police who are legitimately trying to enforce the law without being stupid about it.
 
*shrug*

Up to you. This is your story after all.

If you don't want a mess, you can just write actually competent and principled police who are legitimately trying to enforce the law without being stupid about it.
I want this story to be... Well, realistic.

What do you think is realistc
 
I want this story to be... Well, realistic.

What do you think is realistc

It can go either way. Not all cops are corrupt assholes, and not all cops are paragons of law enforcement. They can just as easily be good people struggling on a shrinking budget to keep the city from collapsing.

There's no hard and fast rule that says it can only be one way. The most important question you need to ask yourself is where you, as the author, want the story to go. I can only give options, I can't write the story for you.
 
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