Dawn Breaking. (Made in Abyss / Worm OC insert)

[Safee]

AN: This fanfic is inspired by 'Poison of Poisons,' a story made by my friend Vexin98. I haven't written anything consistently in a very long time, so cut me some slack.​

May 6, 2005 — Boston, USA.

Realization.
Understanding.
A conclusion is drawn forth.

A surge of anticipation and newfound agitation surged throughout my body, my hands trembling at the sight of the completed projects.

The gentle, constant thrum that arose from my power came to a halt, and for once, I was glad it did. It had been nearly five months since I had appeared here, and from the day I woke up in the hospital, it all felt like a dream. A fantasy made manifest, fueled by some otherworldly thoughts and ambitions.

As much as I'd hope otherwise or submit to the whims of whatever is prodding at my skull— it's not. I know it's not.

I died. I know that for a fact because that's how I got here. The awareness of my body being dragged across hot concrete never faded, nor did the sensation of my flesh and bones being twisted and broken with every savage and uncontrolled spiral I was forced through. There was a barely audible crunch of something in my skull cracking and a fluid leaking through the holes. It wasn't quick, pleasant, or efficient.

This place isn't some illusion or method of 'escapism' that I would have dreamt about in the past or read about online. This is real. Everything here, including myself, is real, especially my predicament.

To put it lightly, this version of me was undoubtedly on the cusp of going broke. A recent layoff was one thing, but the medical bills from my 'miraculous' recovery would've cost more than three years' worth of whatever savings he had. Regretfully, the 'me' of Bet was even more careless than I expected. He spent his money on more short-term pleasures, resulting in a near-destitute state of living. My apartment was messy, with clothes, food, and other miscellaneous items thrown around. The landlord also didn't help, with her crawling down my neck for 'early' payments.

Furthermore, with no available family or support networks to assist me, I was on my own.

I resorted to dumpster diving—scavenging. I rummaged through everything I could get my hands on to satisfy my power, alongside doing 'odd jobs' around the neighborhood to make a quick buck. The number of scars along my hands spoke volumes, and the stress I held now couldn't hold a candle to the potential future I had to endure.

"Eight years…" That was all the time I had. In retrospect, it sounded like a very long time, but with the potential of the world being brought to its knees in mere days, along with millions of people dead, it certainly didn't seem that way. Plus, with the butterfly effect and whatever other bullshit there is, there was a likely chance my presence here could kick off Gold Morning earlier or later than expected. That's not even mentioning if Taylor dies on her first outing or doesn't trigger in the first place.

'Damnit…'

I needed to prepare. No matter the circumstances, I had to be ready to face whatever bullshit thrown my way. I needed to know more, and my power PURRED in satisfaction.

Speaking of that bastard: the damn thing was helpful, but it teased me in a way that no other could. I was a Tinker/Thinker, and with my Thinking, I could display 'blueprints' regarding objects and items. These blueprints would allow me to understand how they would react to outside stimuli, i.e., how my equipment would respond to significant damage or newfound weight restricting my speed in a way.

My Tinkering, however, was much more… challenging to describe. Before my demise, I was somewhat of a fan of the 'Made in Abyss' series. For some reason, my power had taken note of that and made that a core component for all my technology. Most, if not all, of my designs, sketches, and outlines had something to do with the character 'Bondrewd' and his equipment. The idea of 'the abyss' making itself known here was a statistical impossibility, but my power still edged me onto his work. His territory. His evil.

That's not even mentioning how my Shard has been acting lately. At the start, it seemed delighted to assist me, but now? Now, it was frustrated. Annoyed. I was staring at a brick wall with no way to scale from just two projects.

Curse Needle, or 'Shaker.' This artifact is fashioned into the shape of a gauntlet and is somewhat outside of my knowledge despite me already finishing it. My power told me how to create and utilize it, but something else was blocking me from pursuing further. What I did know, however, was that it didn't employ the usage of a poison or some other toxin but something else entirely. Prodding further did nothing, and my Shard stayed quiet on the matter, refusing to inform me. That alone was cause for concern.

The next thing, however, was undoubtedly more important.

Canopy unto Dawn. This is the armor Bondrewd wore in all his appearances and my primary source of defense, amongst other things. It consisted of several different 'artifacts,' or tech, processed with bio-fibers derived from the remains of… living creatures and weapons to increase combat efficiency and decrease the strain of dividing my consciousness in the future.

Furthermore, the inclusion of 'Third Work,' the tail, would have normally taken up a spot in my Tinkering - but my power was being generous this time around and took note of this 'combat body.'

The main drawback of it, however, was that this was a… one-way trip. Once I put this on, I couldn't escape whatever fate I had. I would be stuck in this armor for the rest of my days, and with that in mind, precautions were made. The artifact would regulate my temperature, oversee my health, administer food, and much more. This was a coffin that I spent months on—a finality into a career to help others.

Jason Hargrave would die, but the 'Sovereign of Dawn' would be born anew.

'Fuck.' I ran a hand through my hair and barely resisted the urge to rip pieces out. Why did it have to be me, of all people in this position, with this knowledge? Cauldron hasn't shown up at my door either, so maybe I was OK on that front.

If I stayed my hand and let Khepri happen, I could likely survive the events and aftermath. But that's wishful thinking. I know that couldn't happen. Wouldn't happen. Something wouldn't stick, and the pieces would come crumbling down. I would be fine with letting that child take this burden at any other point in my life.

I'm not a damn heroic type in the first place.

"Can't pussy out of this one, huh…" I mutter to the air. The familiar hum of my power attempts to comfort me, but I know deep down it's relatively happy with this development.

The helmet captivates the silence perfectly.

It fits like a glove.
—————

Contrary to popular belief, Boston wasn't much better than Brockton Bay in its earlier stages. It had its fair share of dirt and grime like any other city with super-powered crime, but this was before the Games and any agreements between the parties set there that would make this place more 'stable'.

The gangs were an open secret, with those in 'the know' spreading the reputation of their allegiances outward. Members and money flowed inward, and things ran smoothly, although the corruption was vast.

The few notable things started with Blasto. He did his thing on the side with Blastgerm and 'Poison Apple' despite their little scuffles. His creations and drugs were… unique, and he mostly kept to his own devices around Eastern Allston.

The Teeth continued to be little parasites, raiding the outskirts for supplies. The identity of this Butcher avoided my notice, and honestly speaking, I'd rather not encounter them either. As much as I loathed knowing their brutality and that they were under my nose, I knew better than to allow those voices anywhere within my brain.

Accord and Damsel of Distress weren't present, which would remain that way for, hopefully, a while. Their presence here wouldn't necessarily be the worst thing, but it would disrupt the timeline and skew events out of my favor.

The Boston Protectorate had a significant influx of members, with patrols initiated in rather strange timeframes. Their numbers alone far outclassed any villainous organization present, but getting a genuine foothold and not one of the small-time crooks seemed to be their more common issue.

The final group of note, however, was far more significant than I could even anticipate. The 'Syndicate of Rot.' It was a rather on-the-nose name, but it had the most extensive number of non-powered members to their one Parahuman - their Kingpin. Their hierarchy resembled a Mafia, with various lieutenants assigned to different locations for steady group communication. The identities of those lieutenants evaded my research, but from what I could recover, Their 'Don' had an interesting power, allowing them to control and manipulate multiple strains of Mold. A power like that seemed easy to counter on paper, but creativity was never lacking these days. Those with 'weaker' abilities always found a way to strategize against those more powerful than them.

I didn't need to take them down. The PRT would have things handled in due time, but disrupting their operations. . .

Two years. Two years before the games, and to make a name in this city.

——————

[A steel door newly enhanced with a mixture of aluminum and wood. An old-fashioned peephole hangs from the top. The hinges are reinforced, and the door is resistant to small arms fire upwards to a caliber of .44 magnum. Tinker-Tech, however, far outclasses this rudimentary defense.]

Perfect.

I slammed my fist against the door with reckless abandon, the recognizable sound of metal upon metal surely to bring the attention I wanted. I had little qualms with the actions I was going to take today. This little hideout was a mere stepping stone to the materials needed for future developments, and hiding away like some simpleton didn't suit me.

The people on the other side of this door wouldn't hesitate, so why should I? Why would their lives mean more than my own?

Or was that my power speaking?

Half a minute passes before the sound of movement stirs me from my thoughts. There are a few clicks from the door, likely some mechanisms, before the peephole slides open, and I'm face-to-face with one of the unknowns. He has blond hair, brown eyes, and an unfashionable white suit. It was tackiness personified.

"God, what the hell is it?! Wait, who the fuck are you?" A Canadian accent filled with genuine confusion. That was understandable.

I took a moment to contemplate his words. The question was so simple that even a child could have answered it in a mere moment. Yet, I was no child. This was a corpse. Jason Hargrave died once I adorned this mask.

"I am Bondrewd." The voice wasn't mine. The words came from my lips and throat and were articulated by my brain and tongue, but the person speaking wasn't me. It was friendly and caring, like a Father talking to the newest friends their child brought over for dinner.

My tail pierced through the reinforced steel like a hot knife through butter, scarcely stopping before piercing through the fabric or flesh that would have parted to its tip just as easily. The hinges popped off in a smooth, almost effortless command, and the door coiled within the artifact's grasp. The minuscule amount of restraint required to stop Third Work from killing this guy almost felt careless in a way, but this had to work out in the long run, and I doubt the Protectorate would allow a serial vigilante to go about.

I moved with purpose, taking deliberate and measured steps to evoke a sense of despair.

"The Lord of Dawn." Nine people were in this establishment, including the man I had just spooked. Their attires had a similar tackiness as the first, though their suits had varying dyes. A form of identification without the inclusion of stereotypic colors or attire?

How. . . marvelous.

The interior itself could have been more well-furnished. There were a few shelves, a fridge, and a couple of tables with money and cards. Strangely, there weren't any chairs or stools. They openly carried guns, specifically pistols, all of which were already aimed at me. Even with stricter laws aimed at owning guns, the black market seemed to be a generous source for them. A shame.

"A damn cape?!" One of them yelled out, and I took that moment of hesitation to move.

I bolted to the side, seizing the closest man to the door before quickly employing it as makeshift cover against the hail of gunfire. I can't stop the sigh of relief that arises as the steel holds against their shots - though I had to stay vigilant.

The man struggled in my grasp with newfound desperation and fear in his eyes, wildly attempting to aim his pistol in my direction. Another gruesome death was averted by simply holding the length of the barrel to the side and my free hand pressing against the chest of my 'hostage.'

"Shaker," I drawled, three bolts firing from my gauntleted hand and puncturing the skin of my captive. There was a short moment of clarity, then a spasm of movement from the man before he went limp, a combination of drool and bile pouring from his mouth as the bolts dug deeper into his flesh.

One down, eight more to go.

Most of them grouped together in an impromptu firing line with some stranglers hiding behind some tables that they turned over and were taking potshots from. Alongside that, they seemed to be shouting some orders over the barrage of noise. Leaders in this environment? Or those with a new form of competence?

'Mm. Fascinating.'

Still, I couldn't stay in this position for long. Waiting any longer would be suicide in the making, and if I didn't move, they'd get bright enough to start pushing. I disregarded how the door creaked under the newfound burden, an alarming number of dents nearly seeping through the material. One would expect or hope they'd run out of ammo, but that'd be wishful thinking.

I took a deep breath before I commanded Third Work again. The artifact ripped itself from the door and stretched outward, encasing one of the shelves in its length. Moments later, the rack is launched toward the group, forcing the larger part of them to dodge out of the way. The unlucky three, however, suffered the full brunt of its enhanced weight. Broken bones and fractured ribs were a possibility, but nothing that couldn't be mended in due time. Maybe their hospital bills wouldn't be as terrible as mine.

Five more. . .

I peeked from behind the door with Shaker prepared, and within second intervals, three barrages of bolts struck true to my desired targets. Their spasms were a bit worse than I expected, twitching more erratically than my first test subject before releasing the same bile and puke. Hah… that could be an issue in the future.

The last two were the supposed leaders, 'safely' behind the comfort of their respective tables.

Click. Click.

The door crumbled effortlessly, and Third Work slid it across the floor without a care. The impact of metal against wood certainly had a clear-cut winner, with the table splintering against the harsh impact and the man being sent backward—though not out for the count permanently by the groaning and struggling he did. It was a reasonable effort, but not one without consequences.

"Ah, but where are my manners? If you surrender, I can promise I won't hurt you in particular."

. . .
Silence.

I could hear the shuffling behind the table, the fearful gasps for air. Obviously, the man was contemplating something. Perhaps surrender? Maybe an attempt at reloading and taking a few more potshots before I could apprehend him? Or are you stalling for reinforcements? There were so many distinct possibilities! But, I had to ensure compliance.

I swiftly flung his cover aside, witnessing it shatter against a nearby wall and creating a noticeable crack in its material. As I shifted my focus to him, I observed that the man's back was exposed to me. Suddenly, he frantically scrambled away, clutching a gun in his hand, all the while muttering, "Oh, shit, oh, shit, oh, shit!"

"Do I need to repeat myself, or have you gone deaf?"

It was a rhetorical question that I didn't allow him to answer. Third Work found its way around his body and lifted, the end of the artifact curling around his windpipe and tightening like a serpent to its prey. A delightful thing. If I just continued just a tiny, tiny bit. . .

What the fuck?

"Disperse and recall," I whispered, the action taking what felt like an eternity. In an instant, Third Work returned to my side, and the man hit the floor with a thud. His breathing was erratic, and his hands grasped at his neck. I approached immediately, kicking the weapon to the side to prevent any stray ideas.

"That was a mere taste of what I could have allowed tonight. You and your friends are lucky I am a merciful man, unlike the others who would see you as a plague. Understand?"

"Y-yes!" He finally speaks up. Upon closer examination, he looked young. Younger than what I'd expect from a 'mafia,' but offering a bit of freedom and cash would have gotten me onboard, too.

The kid couldn't have been older than sixteen. He had brown hair, blue eyes, and a dark blue suit covered in wrinkles. The suit looked too big on him, drooping against his white skin. If I was asked to identify him in a crowd, I doubt I'd care enough to humor the idea.

I extended a hand out. "Phone."

"What?"

"Phone," I repeated.

It took him a couple of moments to understand the assignment. The boy rummaged through his pocket before pulling out a flip phone and handing it to me. The design was much more advanced than what I expected from this time period. However, I could chalk it up to advancements facilitated by Tinkers and companies mimicking the designs.

"Not too shabby. So, do you have a name?" I asked, fumbling around with the buttons a little. These gloves certainly didn't help…

The boy went silent for a while, and I wondered why. "Lucas." He finally spoke, a bit more… determined. Mm. It could be worth observing.

"I see, I see. Tell me, Lucas, how long have you worked with these people?" I asked in a tone reminiscent of his, and I could see Lucas fidgeting at the attempt at small talk. Or maybe it was because I was friendlier despite putting him and his 'friends' through the wringer.

"Three months now."

"Mm. That's quite the time for someone as young as you. What was your reasoning for joining up with them? School not cutting it anymore?" That was a shitty attempt at a joke. Christ, I'm bad at this.

He hesitates again, far longer this time. I can see his gaze shift to the fallen tables, to the money littered across the floor. "My mom and dad were struggling to pay the bills, so I decided to join up after hearing about it. They… don't know about this. Dad thinks it's a part-time job, but Mom doesn't like how I'm 'working' so early in my life."

It's an interesting but ultimately common standpoint. "Perhaps your Mother is right about you and this 'job.' Legitimate work could use your talents, Lucas, not some Gang employing children. If I went in here lethal, your parents would have lost their child. Do you think it's fair for them to endure that?"

He stayed silent, most likely pondering my words. That was fine. I should be wrapping things up soon anyway. I finally got a better feel for the buttons and pulled up the desired program.

At first, a troublesome urge in my head demanded that I mindlessly go through each of his contacts, but I quickly pushed it aside. Instead, I inputted a few numbers and pressed the device against my helmet. The voice filter would be an issue, but I didn't plan on staying here long.

Ring. . .
Ring. . .

"Boston PD, Officer Vex speaking. Please describe the nature of your emergency, and we'll have an officer on the way shortly."

"I heard gunfire nearby. I'm on…" The information slipped into the back of my mind. I knew I spoke to the man, but the conversation itself was so… disinteresting that I instinctively tuned it out—and before I knew it, I was handing the phone back to Lucas. His downtrodden mood improved during my discussion, so that was nice.

"But I am not one without rewards for aiding me."

Time to loot.