tangentcain

[tangentcain]

The Resplendent Quetzal

It’s not terribly often that people find themselves in the company of a bipedal, sentient, talking quetzal.

Except, well, this is yet another Piltovian Harrowing.

Another Piltovian Harrowing featuring the good Professor Cain.

Once again, he is a guest of honor, due in no small part to his extravagant performances, elaborate costumes, and theatrical acting. The Harrowing is perhaps the holiday he takes the most delight in observing. Due to his nature, his physical appearance is conveniently protean, and much more accommodating to radical alterations for the sake of a little cosplay. The Professor also boasts remarkable craftsmanship in his creations, be they technological or theatrical. In his case, he combines the best of both worlds to produce truly dazzling personas.

In spite of indulging the privilege in becoming someone, something else for the duration of the festivities, every costume he flaunts about in affords onlookers some degree of insight into his, quite frankly, eccentric mindset. As of late, his disguises have featured more and more aesthetics of an ornithological persuasion, often boasting resplendent plumage, audacious choreography, and striking coloration. To commemorate the most recent Grand Prix, he appeared at the ceremonial airshow as a phoenix, having modified the wings on his back to cast mighty gales of flame with each beat.

Now he walks among the masked as a bird of paradise, the incident light striking his emerald carapace scattering into all the colors of the rainbow. Colorized filters placed over his eyes and chestpiece convert his piercing electric-blue gaze into a glow as golden as the sun. Accenting the greens are swathes of sanguine crimson and glacial white, thoughtfully applied to his bosom, beaked face, and limbs, for the sake of contrast. But perhaps the most impressive element of his costume is a collection of metal feathers and pinions, painstakingly crafted with seemingly-impossible precision, woven into his limbs and his wings, wired into his body to move and flutter at his command. To the uninitiated, it would seem as though some ancient god or goddess of the sun stepped right out of the mythologies of the south, and demanded to be recognized and lauded for its sheer incandescence.

Though, as the time comes to carve pumpkins, he finds himself stifled. He gazes round at the other revelers, hard at work on their respective gourds, inscribing their chosen visages into the fruits’ flesh. His complex facial mechanics form into a frown. Such paltry pumpkins would simply not do for the artistic envisioning he has in mind. He would need to secure for himself a most magnanimous, grandiose gourd, upon which to inscribe his magnum opus.

But where could he find a pumpkin of such prodigious size?

The uncountable synapses in that head of his begin firing, one after the other. He was an engineer. Solving problems, he did for a living. This was simply another in the pile.

Then, it comes to him.

Grimdark, a small settlement south of the bay, right on the border between Piltover and Zaun. A burg of considerable media attention as of late, having been the stage for a brief, but tense standoff between the two powers. One that ended, albeit less-than-amicably, in a treaty that sought to bring some warmth to the cold war that embroils them both. The two nations had come to an agreement of how best to exploit the region’s natural resources to the best interests on both sides, on one condition: that there was to be no armed Piltovian presence. The stipulations were weighted heavily in Zaun’s favor, owing to support they received from Noxus, and Demacia’s conspicuous absence from Piltover’s side.

Yet, it, like many other settlements that feel the influence of the Grey, Grimdark too has had a taste of Zaun’s science-gone-mad. Of particular interest to the men of science (a concession of credibility that Tangent does not suffer lightly) is the flora that manages to sprout there. Forced to imbibe all manner of extreme and outrageous botanical decoctions, the plants there have swollen to frankly-ridiculous proportions, never mind the slew of other traits that they have managed to have recklessly crammed into their DNA.

Yes, yes! It all comes together in his mind’s eye. He, a sort that suffers not the rigors of travel, would take a short aeronautical jaunt down to the border, appropriate one of these gourds, and that would be the canvas for his next grand work. Brilliant! Truly, his reputation as a genius is assuredly well-deserved!

But, alas, even this oh-so-meticulously-concocted scheme was plagued by but one itsy-bitsy detail.

Just beneath his carapace bristled the power to kill a hundred men, or perhaps one man a hundred times over.

His very existence has demanded a thorough investigation of his legal status as, among other things, a sentient being with inalienable human rights, a natural-born citizen of Piltover, a privately-owned aircraft, and, most recently, a deadly weapon with the power to sow destruction on a massive scale. The very design of his telekinetic blades meant that he, at all times, wielded a concealed weapon that he could manifest at will. The mere act of him setting foot within the borders of Grimdark would be met with outcry from Zaun’s political elite, the subsequent backlash undoubtedly escalating into an international incident the likes of which Piltover could not possibly be prepared for.

As he cruises, thousands of feet above the earth, he plays out the imminent scenario. The success (and legality) of his caper would depend on his discretion, and, to a non-zero degree, luck. As he draws close to his destination, his nerves tingle with giddiness, the impetus of his audacious act driven by the thrill of being noticed doing something outrageous while looking outrageous. No doubt he would look back on this in several months’ time with some degree of mortification, astonished how he had ever allowed himself to slip so far out of his established social norms.

But right now, he just doesn’t care. As he touches down, his feet digging into the loamy peat, a quiet titter escapes him, one that develops into full-blown merry giggling as he jaunts toward a nearby field, a noticeable spring in his step. He stops not too far ahead, taking great care to not overstep the boundaries outlined by the treaty. Technically, he couldn’t get in trouble if he never crossed the border, right? The treaty expressly forbids that.

But it doesn’t say he can’t lure something back over.

His luminescent eyes focus ahead, on one particularly swollen pumpkin, arguably twice his height and that same magnitude in girth. As he sights it, he feels an electric tingle well up in his bosom, sending a shudder up his spine and tickling his antennae. This was the one. As laid out in his grand plan, this veritable fruit was to be his. But how would he obtain it? Such a massive gourd must weigh at least a thousand pounds! His strength, both physical and psychokinetic, was prodigious, but even he had his limits.

Thankfully, he knows full well what grows here, and there is a very good reason that he jaunted out all this way, still made up and in costume.

He assumes a wide-footed stance, planting his feet firmly into the dirt. He spreads his arms wide, bristling his wired-in feathers in a flamboyant, cacophonous display of such outrageous implication that even the most mild-mannered would swoon. He raises his head, opening his beak, and issues out a delightfully-melodic crescendo of notes, a birdsong he had practiced solely for the purposes of the festivities. To look the part was one thing, to act it and sound it were necessary for the guise to be complete, and the good Professor was certainly, among other things, quite the talented thespian.

For a few tense moments, his avian serenade echoes across the plains, no doubt giving any nearby nocturnal denizens a startle. Tangent’s eyes stay transfixed on the his desired gourd, a brief jitter in their luminescence being his analogue for blinking.

Then, a sound. A creaking, cracking sound. Sudden and abrupt enough to send another electrical jolt through his bosom, to play along his spine. He watches, with almost child-like anticipation as, from beneath the pumpkin, gnarled fibrous tendrils, made of vines woven one round the other, thrust their way to the surface, bending back upon themselves and finding solid purchase within the earth. They push downward, in turn pushing the fruit upward, with a sort of glacial might that slowly, but surely, reveals the gourd’s true form -- a bizarre, mutated creature, seemingly still entirely plant in nature, but arguably possessing a posture of bipedal persuasion that, quite literally, stands to disquiet even the most traveled sorts.

As the pumpkin rises, he feels that same giddiness well up inside him again. He can hardly help but leap and prance in place, allowing himself a triumphant fit of giggling as he watches the next step in his grand scheme come to fruition.

“Yes, yes! That’s it!” he calls to the gourd, making grandiose upward-sweeping gestures with his plumage-adorned arms. “Off the vine! Off the vine! Come, my magnificently-mutated monstrosity, I have grand designs in store for you!” He leaps into the air, catching some air beneath his wings, and issues yet another birdcall at the abomination to get its attention. How such a thing is capable of perceiving sound is a mystery, even to the Grimdark botanists. The thing had no ears, no eyes, surely no brain within the seed-ridden mush that it contained. But it did have both arms and legs, both quite functional, which is exactly what this strange, bipedal quetzal desired. Standing fully erect, it turns to face the vainglorious birdbot, making a feeble, anemic swipe at him with its knotted arm-vines. 

“Come, come!” he calls again, rattling his feathers to entice it further. He flaps toward it, propelling himself backward and assailing it with a gust of wind. Finally, the beast takes the bait, and steps forward, its long, spindly legs giving it a lengthy stride as it attempts to swat the metal bird from the sky. For such a colossus to move so silently, save for the creaking and splintering heard from its limbs, was perhaps more disquieting than its looks. Large creatures usually roar or bellow. This one does not.

It does, however, exhibit a certain degree of persistence that the emerald avian finds a strange delight in. All along the road back to Bannerstone, the two engage in a hopelessly one-sided fight, the creature attempting to grasp and grope, the quetzal ducking just out of reach, only to respond with a tirade of laughter, bird songs, and the occasional peck or two.

In time, the merrymakers he left behind begin to stir, perturbed by the unusual cascade of noises that seem to be coming from beyond. Much to everyone’s surprise, and perhaps a little bit of terror (whether real or acted), the Professor swoops down along the main path back to the celebration, laughing and cheering all the way, bringing with him a gourd of such monumental proportions that it dares to challenge even Piltover’s prodigious harvest. He draws it closer still, right to where everyone can see it, and then promptly calls forth his blades, declawing the gourd with several swift slashes. As though severed from whatever bizarre energies forced it to be animate, the massive pumpkin falls to the ground, as benign as any other. He perches himself atop the thing in a manner not unlike his costumed likeness, and announces his arrival with an impromptu speech.

“Hark, revelers, merrymakers, and celebrants of all shapes and sizes, from all walks of life, all ‘round the world!” He spreads his arms out again, letting his resplendent plumage waft gently in the evening breeze. “Gaze upon me, and my prize! This veritable, gargantuan fruit, which nature herself was so good to provide for us tonight, is to be but a canvas for what will truly be a work of art to make even the stone-hearted weep!” He places his hands on his hips, leaning forward in a gesture of mock curiosity. “What is it, you ask? Why, my dear friends, look up!” 

He throws his arms skyward as those around him turn their heads toward the heavens. It was a clear, placid night, offering an unabated view into the ebony abyss and with it, countless pearlescent specks of stellar brilliance, only made to appear so timid due to vast cosmological distances. “On this night of glorious nights, we are so fortunate as to witness an untarnished view of the cosmos through which our world speeds.” He turns back to the crowd. “Gaze upon this act of impossible speed and dexterity as I transcribe the very heavens themselves into the fruits of the earth!” He lifts off the gourd, calling his blades to him again, allowing them to slowly orbit his being. “Ladies and gentlemen, what you are soon about to behold will be but a mirror visage of the wondrous stellar glyphs that hang above us!”

He silences the crowd’s awed gasps and shouts with a single tut, folding his arms behind his back, lacing his fingers together. “And, perhaps most magnificently, it shall be done without lifting even a single digit.”

There follows a surge of light from his eyes and chest, the cerulean power within overwhelming the cosmetics he has in place to change its color. The colossal gourd rises into the air, into the waiting embrace of six long, elegant blades, held aloft by forces unseen. In a final gesture of boisterous audacity, he turns to the crowd, and winks once.

An instant later, a cacophony of whooshing air, clanging steel, and rending gourd flesh erupts as not one, not two, but six oversized knives lay into the pumpkin, carving bits of flesh out, scooping guts aside as they painstakingly and meticulously inscribe upon the fruit his desired imagery. In the brief moments where the pumpkin stops before being furiously rotated again, onlookers can begin to make out the familiar dots that they see in their star charts, and the lines that connect them to form the asterisms that all have come to know.

As swiftly as he started, he bellows again, “Aaaaand... BEHOLD!” He yanks his blades back from his work, casually flicking the orange gore aside. Bringing his hands out from behind his back, he wills the pumpkin back down, gently this time, to the ground, taking care not to mar his hard work. As it lands, he snaps his fingers, conjuring a small ember of manafire that he casually tosses in to the gourd, allowing it to be illuminated like all the others. Satisfied with his work, he spins his blades around and skewers them into the earth, once again taking his rightful perch atop his masterpiece. He throws his arms out again, relishing every single eye watching him. “Our celestial neighborhood, made delightfully material.”

To call his work a “masterpiece” would, to many bearing witness to it, would be a cruel understatement. Not only has he accurately recreated the layouts of the stars above, but he has even, with subtle strokes of his blade, worked in the milky streams visibly only on the darkest, moonless nights.

His captive audience stands, agape, marveling at his creation. He has taken something so mundane, so utterly ordinary, and turned it into a work of art to rival the time-honored works of Demacian painters, whose compositions have been lauded for centuries. A tenuous silence hangs in the air, his onlookers perhaps struggling to find the right way to respond. Eventually, instinct (or perhaps social norms) take hold, and a smattering of applause begins to snowball into a thunderous roar, accompanied by cheering and whistling.

The queztal lets out a triumphant laugh, throwing his feathered arms into the air once more, and leaping forth from the gourd and landing into a dramatic, theatrical bow, the wind picking up at just the right moment to allow his iridescent cape to flutter behind him. “Thank you, thank you!” he calls, standing again and waving to his adoring public. “Your adulation brings light and warmth to this chilly autumn night!”

As he flicks his wrist, banishing his blades back to the aether, he closes his eyes, letting the rest of the world fall away, save for the sounds of applause as he takes a bow again. The craving for attention. The thrill of doing the outrageous, the barely-legal, the theatrical. The acknowledgement, in the form of cheering. For a single night, he was back on stage, all spotlights turned on him as he gallivants about as someone, something else. Professor Cain is not who he is tonight. Professor Cain plays by the rules. Professor Cain would fret about skirting the treaty, making off with someone else’s property, with disturbing the peace. Professor Cain is all of the things that the quetzal is not. With every extravagant portrayal of something outlandish, he hopes to weave traces of his act, no matter how minute, into the being that he is on any other day.

Because that’s what he needs.

Because that’s what will keep him human.

[tangentcain]

Could entropy be delayed?

Stalled?

...Reversed?

To lesser minds, these concepts would be dismissed as playing god. To minds who do not yet know what can be lost by the universe’s cruelest machinations.

By the tyranny of life, by the bondage into which mortality can cast the human soul, both the dead and the bereaved.

She, the Sheriff’s right hand and piece of soul, had been callously taken from the living, and the world was arguably a lesser place for it.

She, the Professor’s close friend and family by proxy, had been robbed of the right to live, and the world was arguably a lesser place for it.

He could not weep. He could not wail or cry or sob. His very nature forbids these things. It denies him that catharsis. Instead, his mind darkens, plunged into a caliginous cyclone that awakens trains of thought he does not dare entertain for fear of being branded seditious, deviant.

There are ways around entropy. Ways around the inevitable return to the earth. The human mind was too profound a creation to be shackled by chemical finitude. The human form is a marvelous machine of machines, starting with the simplest motions of atomic nuclei to the most immaculate complexities afforded by organic chemistry.

But even these could not stave off entropy for an eternity.

He would be branded a deviant. He would be discredited for every achievement he claimed over the span of his life. He would be called worse than their neighbors across the bay.

But he’d save everyone.

He would make them free.

[tangentcain]

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[ Knowing your partner well makes writing together a lot easier.

Tag this with the people you enjoy role playing with but want to get to know better. ]

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Source:

@sheriff-caitlyn

Name. | Noah

Age. | 25

Pronouns. | He

SEXUALITY. | Heterosexual

ZODIAC SIGN. | Scorpio

Taken or single. | Single

Three facts. | I fix computers for a living. I’ve taught myself astronomy since age five. I enjoy doing voice overs, narration, and character voices.

EXPERIENCE

Platforms you’ve used. | PC, Xbox 360, GameCube, N64, GB, GBA, DS, 3DS. Debating getting a PS4.

Best experience. | Teaching astronomy, one of my most loved fields of science.

MUSE PREFERENCE

Female or male or nonbinary. | Any. Tend to be better at male or genderless muses for obvious reasons.

Favourite face. | Varies with inspiration. Most times, it’s Tangent!

Least favourite face. | None.

Multi or single. | Both. Varies with development necessary for the story in question.

WRITING PREFERENCE

Fluff, angst or smut. | All, with a heavy leaning toward angst

Plots or memes. | Plots are awesome, but MEMES, JACK

Long or short replies. | I try to give every response a healthy amount of detail.

Best time to write. | Whenever I have time and energy. Full time job plus video games makes time scarce, and energy scarcer.

Other characters I have played: Almost entirely OCs. Notable exceptions include, but are not limited to: Graves, Viktor, Jayce, Tristana, Corki, Battlecast Cho’Gath

Characters I would LOVE to play: None come to mind. Most of my characters are OCs.

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// Consider yourself tagged.

Source: @ nithhaiahh, via @sheriff-caitlyn

[tangentcain]

His antennae flick at the mention of that ill-fated expedition. He had read the accounts left by the survivors. Interviewed those who could remember any details without relapsing into trauma-induced catatonia. The northern wastes, though civilization had managed to thrive in its own ways out there, were still home to forces and entities not at all understood... which only served to amplify the inherent danger outlined in the stories of the survivors.

He paces toward the sleeping machine’s head, drawing close and running his chrome hand across its carapace, as though beset by some sort of hextech empathy. Indeed, the creature was hardly alive in any discrete sense, yet the power that thrummed through its artificial veins certainly had the capacity to imbue life. The Professor had become a textbook example, a case study as it were, of the potential that hextech energies have in creating something compellingly familiar, but strikingly different. He was, at his core, a machine. Something created by man’s hand. And yet, he was filled with a presence that, were it absent, would leave his body an empty, inanimate shell. He was that energy. The body was merely a temporary residence for it, a concept he has only just begun to explore.

He turns round to face her, his hextech blues meeting hers. “You’re correct in that my technology is the basis for his. Yet, no source of instinct is present in him. The parts were assembled and the veins filled, but the closest it has to any sort of intelligence is a... sort of mechanical analogue to muscle memory. It knows to flap its wings to stay aloft, to tuck them in to dive, and to spread them to glide. The pilots have no more say in its movements than a rider does his horse’s. Yet, they’re necessary, to ensure this creature can carry out the motions it’s learned.” He takes a moment to scrutinize the Sheriff’s eyes, and the concern that they silently communicate. Somehow, his own gaze seems to soften. “...But, I understand where you’re coming from. The Freljord is, even after our observations, still as much of a mystery as it was before... if not more so, in light of the questions that our findings have raised. To have control of the Thunderbird wrestled from us would be disastrous, not even considering the potential loss of life involved.” He turns to face the creature, placing his palm flat against its hull. “...He’s a powerful being, Caitlyn. He has to be, for such a colossus to stay aloft. Though we’re at this point not expecting any sort of... emergent behavior, we’re not so fool as to discount the idea completely. Indeed, continued time in the Freljord may imbue instinct upon it. After all, the Cryophoenix herself is a material embodiment of the forces that permeate the lands. It’s not beyond the bounds of reason to imagine that this bird, a material being made animate by magic, could be susceptible to such things.”

He draws his hand back, striding back toward her. “We’re fortunate to live in a big world. There’re many places we can send him, all of which give us the opportunity to learn something new.” He holds up his hand, taking notice of the accretion of frost on his digits. “Whether he’ll carry the Freljord with him though,” he says, as he shakes the ice crystals away, “remains to be seen.”

tangentcain

[…] “It’s taken on a life all its own, you know,” he says, almost elated by the implications. “Like the domesticated beasts of far simpler times. Hardly self-aware, but… ineffably more than a collection of parts made to resemble a certain legendary bird.” He steps up beside her, his hands resting on his waist. “It’s curious, isn’t it? With the development of new ideas, we revisit the old to see how we might improve upon them with our new insights.” Before hexphones, there were wristwatches. Before then, pocket watches. Now there existed pocket watches that also doubled as phones.

He turns his gaze to Caitlyn, a benign, curious scrutiny with electric blue eyes. “This creature has been an unprecedented boon. I’m hardly one to indulge in ego-stroking, but… this may be one of our greatest creations yet.”

Tangent iss far, far taller than her, but to his credit he did not loom. He was merely… there. Familiarity had made him a comforting presence, and one of the few she could tolerate standing over her. And here he is now, practically bounding to her side to speak in pride of his pet project. 

Not just his project, certainly, but so much of what was and had been done was thanks in no small part to Professor Cain.

Caitlyn keeps her eyes on the Thunderbird, refusing to turn around. Mother had her work to keep her busy, after all. And after that awkward train ride, a little space between them was a welcome thing.

“You have much to be proud of,” she murmurs. Caitlyn studies the vast mechanical creation before her. “You’ve managed to turn a collection of parts - and a vastly-differing collection of ideas - into something marvellously whole. It seems…” She pauses, remembering the pilot’s gentle admonition, “He. He seems dormant without the pilots, or the power. But does that mean he has been shut down? Or is he just sleeping?” Blitzcrank had been the first, but he certainly wouldn’t be the last. Magic, even hextech, was a living force. Would it be long until the Thunderbird started developing aspects of personality, too?

… they’d sculpted it - him - after an ancient spirit. Was Piltover manufacturing new gods behind their closed borders, to replace the ones slain in Rune Wars past?

The sheriff takes a breath. No, not gods. Machines, magic, and men. Power and respect is given where it is due, but the Thunderbird was not a god.

“… Do you really think it a good idea to send it back to the Freljord? There’s the pilots to consider. Not to mention, we may stir up that old force that Ezreal ran into before.” The combined Piltovian-Noxian expedition had come back a man short… and the survivors hadn’t fared all that well, either, in the cold, and the fear. “I don’t mean to sound the old knells, Professor, but we could very well lose the Thunderbird in a storm. Or if some instincts are awoken, and it - he - decides he wishes to remain there…”

It was already covered in frost, after all.

[tangentcain]

Her hair was purple last week. Electric blue the week before that. Sunset orange before that. As Trisha traces out the creature’s next itinerary on a large topographic map unfurled upon the table in front of them, Tangent silently wonders just how much she spends on hair dye.

...Not that he has any room to object, with how often he changes the intricate markings “tattooed” across his body and face.

The bipedal aircraft (legal classifications are a strange thing) stands clothed in a thick, fur-lined overcoat, made of heavy black leather. Faint electroluminescent highlights, blue like his own hextech, glow dimly in the darkened room. The newest in a series of personal commissions from that one very talented tailor, he’s come to eschew the traditional hooded robes in favor of something modern, trendy, and indeed, utilitarian. His unusual anatomy (particularly his digitigrade legs) precludes any sort of garments beneath the coat, and his radiant chestpiece shines through.

Luminescent eyes dart across the topographic lines on the map laid out in front of them, until they catch a transient movement in their periphery. Lavender, white, and black.

He straightens out his posture, towering over most of the other staff in the room as he stands upright. As Trisha glances up at him to see what caused him to stop talking, her gaze is guided by his to her daughter, who had just entered the room. Breaking from the table, he paces over to her, regarding her with a nod and turning his attention past her to the berthed machination.

“It’s taken on a life all its own, you know,” he says, almost elated by the implications. “Like the domesticated beasts of far simpler times. Hardly self-aware, but... ineffably more than a collection of parts made to resemble a certain legendary bird.” He steps up beside her, his hands resting on his waist. “It’s curious, isn’t it? With the development of new ideas, we revisit the old to see how we might improve upon them with our new insights.” Before hexphones, there were wristwatches. Before then, pocket watches. Now there existed pocket watches that also doubled as phones.

He turns his gaze to Caitlyn, a benign, curious scrutiny with electric blue eyes. “This creature has been an unprecedented boon. I’m hardly one to indulge in ego-stroking, but... this may be one of our greatest creations yet.”

It has been in the hangar for months, and it is still coated in a thin layer of frost. Caitlyn brushes a gloved hand over the metal, and finds her palm coated in snowflakes.

“We tried scraping ‘er off,” one of the mechanics shrugs, “But it jes’ kept comin’ roight back.”

“Freljordian snows are nothing if not persistent,” Caitlyn murmurs, dusting off the frost. “And this vehicle is powered by hextech. It was bound to take on characteristics of its purpose.”

One of the pilots coughs. “We prefer not to think of him as a machine, sheriff, but as a creature.”

She arches a brow. “A creature… with pilots.”

“Hey, you said it yourself,” the pilot’s ear flicked in amusement, and she bared her fangs in a grin. “Hextech. He was designed to be a good, solid bird, and here he is.” The pilot pats the Thunderbird’s leg in something like maternal fondness.

Caitlyn purses her lips, not to laugh but rather to consider. For all that hextech was intensely studied, much of what it was remained mysterious, just beyond the reach of complete comprehension. A marvel of magic as much as science. 

She glances across the hangar to another aircraft. This one, much smaller, far more mobile, far better at conversation, cards, and appreciation of tea. He goes by the name Tangent Cain, and he is in conference with Caitlyn’s mother and the other pilot. Maps are involved. Urgent discussions, with much hand-waving on the part of the green-haired Westie.

[tangentcain]

[Professor, I apologise for the interruption. We have a week or so of marvellous weather ahead of us, according to the meteorologists. Clear cold skies with very little wind. That might be a good time to set a certain bird to flight, might it not? Professor Littleford seemed quite enamoured of the idea, but I thought I'd broach the topic to you as a query before she powered in and took charge herself. You know how she gets. - C]

They say never to operate a hexcar and text at the same time, but...

...What if you’re legally classified as an autonomous aircraft, the first of your kind, capable of speeds ten times that of Jayce’s newest performance hexcar?

The text comes to him at thousands of feet and hundreds of miles per hour. He may have long since left his acoustic trailings in the dust, but in this day and age, the only thing faster than the speed of light was good news.

Small control surfaces on his limbs extend outwards, causing his body to dig into the tenuous air he cruises through. Eventually his airspeed hits zero, and he just... hovers. Thousands of feet from terra firma.

Reading a text message inside his own mind.

The Professor truly lived a fascinating lifestyle.

As he processes the information conveyed by the Sheriff, he can’t help but allow himself the slightest of mechanical smiles. The Thunderbird had been his (and his mother’s) latest pride and joy. Not only was it a living proof-of-concept that his groundbreaking aviation technology could be scaled up to larger endeavors, the unprecedented windfall of climatological and meteorological data allowed by their forays into the Freljord have, already, in such a short time, drastically widened their understanding of the world they find themselves living on. Any opportunity to send the avian colossus skyward was prized and much sought-after, for they knew that, no matter where it went or what it did, they would learn something from it.

And that was what they did for a living, wasn’t it?

With an invisible command, he instructs his software to compose a reply:

[Beyond a shadow of a doubt. We finished routine maintenance last week. All we’ve been waiting for is a break in the weather, and I can tell you from first hand experience, our skies are immaculate.]

He then proceeds to attach a photo, taken from the cameras embedded within his optical receptors, to the text message. The entire expanse of the crater lay beneath him, with Piltover’s ivory towers but a distant speck on the horizon. Emerald land and sapphire skies, almost Elysian in nature. They had thrust themselves into a golden age, living in a land almost not unlike paradise.

He continues:

[I’ll send her a text to meet me there. You’re more than welcome to come along. I can stop by to pick you up, and then off we go to the train station.]

Flying would be the most expedient method of course, but the Thunderbird’s details were a feverishly-kept secret. Flashing a few government-issued credentials at the central station, though, would ensure the swiftest, most secure passage to Pentir North.

Without even waiting for a response, he turns about and sets a marker for Piltover City proper, a blip on his radar some dozens of miles away. To any mundane traveler, a trip to the capital from the boonies was an odyssey in itself, taking hours to days, depending on local infrastructure.

But those who fly are the freest of men.

[tangentcain]

Jenny Sparks and Thomas Duvalle preparing for a performance at the Wednesday Salon.

[tangentcain]

Tangent’s antennae bristle in shock as he lays eyes on the Enforcer. Were he an organic creature, he might have found himself beset with nausea, but seeing this makes even his trace roil in ways he finds unpleasant. He steps forward, out of the darkness of the door threshold, making his presence known with the sound of his voice.

“...Vi. It’s me, Tangent. Dr. Hokotate summoned me here. He was... frantic. About your condition.” He steps up to Vi, glancing down at her. “...And I see why. I don’t expect a comprehensive explanation, but... what in the worlds has happened?”

A Yordle experimental surgeon by the name of Dr Hocotate rushed into Tangent's office, breathing heavily, "Proffessor, there is an emergency! It's Vivian! She needs your help! She doesn't want anyone seeing her like she is, but I think you can save her! Quickly, we need to get to her house before she gets any worse!"

Tangent’s antennae perk at the abrupt noise. He had previously been indulged in the paperwork sitting on his desk when the tiny doctor had come storming in. He… could’ve sworn he mentioned to his secretary that he didn’t want to be disturbed. But, judging from the yordle’s frantic expression, and given that it seemed to concern the Enforcer, it… very much seemed like an emergency.

He looks up from his work, his expression a little circumspect. “…Doctor? Please, calm yourself. What’s the matter? What’s happened to the Enforcer?”

[tangentcain]

Artwork credited to wacalac on deviantART

Tangent has more or less Azir’s body proportions, and an astonishing ability to impersonate voices, so... why the hell not?

Custom-made bodyplates replace his existing ones, transforming him into a mechanical version of the mighty Shuriman emperor. Eureka and Asimov are his loyal, unwavering soldiers.

He originally thought about making his soldiers from his nanomachines, but ultimately decided against it.

[tangentcain]

Better that she wasn’t moved, he figures. If her conditions was truly was grave as he says, perhaps it’s best that it wasn’t exacerbated by trying to bring her here.

Taking one look at the parking lot, he turns back to the good doctor. “...I’ll let that slide for now. Best that you get it moved before the authorities arrive.” His mechanical wings deploy from his back, and the rising whine of his SERAPH drive can be heard. “...Move swiftly, but legally,” he responds. “I will see you there.” With that, he takes one leap toward the sky, and blasts off at what can only be described as meteoric speeds.

A Yordle experimental surgeon by the name of Dr Hocotate rushed into Tangent's office, breathing heavily, "Proffessor, there is an emergency! It's Vivian! She needs your help! She doesn't want anyone seeing her like she is, but I think you can save her! Quickly, we need to get to her house before she gets any worse!"

Tangent’s antennae perk at the abrupt noise. He had previously been indulged in the paperwork sitting on his desk when the tiny doctor had come storming in. He… could’ve sworn he mentioned to his secretary that he didn’t want to be disturbed. But, judging from the yordle’s frantic expression, and given that it seemed to concern the Enforcer, it… very much seemed like an emergency.

He looks up from his work, his expression a little circumspect. “…Doctor? Please, calm yourself. What’s the matter? What’s happened to the Enforcer?”

[tangentcain]

AO-1729: “Quicksilver Sash”

Item #: AO-1729 Object Class: Beta Containment Procedures: AO-1729 is to be kept in its provided storage trunk, located in storage locker B-234 in the Eastern Low Containment Wing. AO-1729′s effects have been deemed not to be deleterious in short-term exposures, but research into this object is still ongoing. Until AO-1729 has been ruled completely safe to handle, it is not yet authorized for use in personal testing sessions. Researchers wishing to use AO-1729 for testing purposes must receive written authorization from both Professor Cain and Professor Littleford.

Description: AO-1729 is a fabric sash, woven from fine silk, approximately 116 centimeters in length. The sash possesses an iridescent silver color, and appears to have a significantly reflective surface. AO-1729 has been noted to be very soft by personnel who have handled it, with many commenting on the perceived quality of its craftsmanship.

Materials testing has revealed that the fabric that comprises AO-1729 exhibits extraordinary properties not possessed by common silk. For all intents and purposes, AO-1729 appears to be indestructible -- it resists attempts to cut or tear it, and it does not burn when exposed to an open flame. Water is repelled from its surface, and even after total submersion, it is completely dry when retrieved. Its surface cannot be stained by any known substance, with the sash retaining its normal silver sheen after exposure.

Personnel who have handled AO-1729 note a sensation of “feeling safe” while they do so. Testing has revealed a significant decline in stress responses from subjects subjected to stressors while holding AO-1729, with some test subjects appearing to be more willing to challenge them while AO-1729 is in their possession. 

The effects can be seen even while holding AO-1729, but their magnitude becomes significantly more pronounced when it is worn around the torso. Furthermore, when AO-1729 is worn in this way, a new set of properties can be seen. When AO-1729 is worn across one shoulder by a humanoid entity, it projects a powerful arcanic warding field, which appears to reduce the potency of any potentially-harmful arcane incidents that would befall its wearer. AO-1729 also appears to “connect” its enchantments to the wearer’s own arcanic field, in a very similar (but by a very different and as-of-yet-understood mechanism) way that hextech does. In this way, the wearer can consciously activate a more focused, amplified version of this warding effect, allowing it to very briefly negate any and all deleterious arcane effects. The length of protection has been tested extensively, and appears to be very inconsistent, depending largely on the arcane proficiency held by AO-1729′s wearer.

As mentioned above, testing into AO-1729 is ongoing. This article represents only what has been confirmed through exhaustive testing. As new discoveries with this object are made, expect this article to be updated with newly-confirmed findings.

[tangentcain]

He stands, listening to the yordle ramble, in apparent defiance of the urgency he just proclaimed to the Professor. He has so, so many questions, but the imminence of impending catastrophe precludes any sort of answers.

Stepping out from behind the desk, he glances down at the doctor. “...Right. Well, you’ve put me in quite a spot, I hope you realize. Please, take me to her. I’ll... see what I can do.”

In the few seconds that his response occupied, his mind begins to race, kickstarted into calculations by the potential consequences of failure. Already, potential solutions begin to fall into place, but these are only theoretical. Granted, seeing the Enforcer’s condition will do little to strengthen any sort of speculation he has, but any additional information would only serve to improve her chances of survival.

A Yordle experimental surgeon by the name of Dr Hocotate rushed into Tangent's office, breathing heavily, "Proffessor, there is an emergency! It's Vivian! She needs your help! She doesn't want anyone seeing her like she is, but I think you can save her! Quickly, we need to get to her house before she gets any worse!"

Tangent’s antennae perk at the abrupt noise. He had previously been indulged in the paperwork sitting on his desk when the tiny doctor had come storming in. He… could’ve sworn he mentioned to his secretary that he didn’t want to be disturbed. But, judging from the yordle’s frantic expression, and given that it seemed to concern the Enforcer, it… very much seemed like an emergency.

He looks up from his work, his expression a little circumspect. “…Doctor? Please, calm yourself. What’s the matter? What’s happened to the Enforcer?”

[tangentcain]

Shameless Self-Promotion

//I don’t usually do this, but anyone who’s been interested in my writing should check out a new blog I just created for non-League stuff. I have a bunch of other worlds and writing ideas that I want to share with you guys, so head on over to darkspartan796 and check them out. There’s nothing there yet, but stay tuned, because there probably will be soon!

[tangentcain]

A Yordle experimental surgeon by the name of Dr Hocotate rushed into Tangent's office, breathing heavily, "Proffessor, there is an emergency! It's Vivian! She needs your help! She doesn't want anyone seeing her like she is, but I think you can save her! Quickly, we need to get to her house before she gets any worse!"

Tangent’s antennae perk at the abrupt noise. He had previously been indulged in the paperwork sitting on his desk when the tiny doctor had come storming in. He... could’ve sworn he mentioned to his secretary that he didn’t want to be disturbed. But, judging from the yordle’s frantic expression, and given that it seemed to concern the Enforcer, it... very much seemed like an emergency.

He looks up from his work, his expression a little circumspect. “...Doctor? Please, calm yourself. What’s the matter? What’s happened to the Enforcer?”

[tangentcain]

//Sorry for being inactive. A host of different things have conspired against my time, energy, and muse. But a few of the biggest stressors in my life look like they’re on the way out the door, so I plan on resuming updating this space. I thank you all for being so patient, and hope to write with you again soon!

[tangentcain]

His antennae twitch as the girl frantically rattles off her explanation. While it sounds absolutely absurd, truth be told, he’s heard far stranger things being true. His expression remains impassive and unreadable while she speaks, and he waits until she’s finished to offer any sort of response.

He takes a step back, offering toward one of the couches. “...Please. Have a seat. I’m not going to turn you in to the authorities or call the police. You can stay here, but... you must be discreet. Jinx is still a wanted criminal in Piltover, and you being discovered here would bring about... complications.”

He paces around to the chair near the fireplace, sitting down across from Zap and leaning forward, steepling his fingers. “...You say multiple other fragments like you exist. Do you remember... anything at all about what could’ve happened to cause this? Are there any gaps in your memory?”

A Shocking Encounter

The thing that wasn’t Jinx yelped as she found herself airborne, and her breath was knocked out of her as she hit the ground again. Clearly the Professor had found some new things he could do since she had left to go the the Institute and help the Boss. She took a moment to catch her breath as he threatened to call the authorities, “Hold on! I really need your help, and I’m not actually sure how I could convince you I’m not doing something terrible right now. If you don’t believe me all the way, could you at least let me run? I’m kinda havin a stressful day here, and cappin it off by havin Hat Lady put a bullet in my head wouldn’t really help that.” The thing that looked like Jinx gave a nervous and slightly fearful smile as she hoped beyond hope that the mechanical person Jinx had considered a friend on her good days would help her look alike now.

[tangentcain]

Today’s Problems, Tomorrow’s Insights

Papers litter the table, along with pens, pencils, empty plastic bottles, and the occasional coffee mug. The far side of the table is littered with crumpled wrappers and empty boxes. Take-away, from some place in Little Ionia. The sun’s blazing orange glow casts long, sharp shadows through the vaulting windows of the Academy’s conference room. Most of the chairs are neatly pushed in beneath the table’s surface. Everyone’s gone home for the evening.

Or, rather, almost everyone. The room is host to three figures, evidently still unsatisfied with the progress of today’s work, even if they’ve already made leaps and bounds.

Jayce gnaws habitually on the button on top of his pen, staring down at several sheets of hastily-done calculations. The margins are littered with doodles of chemical and molecular structures. He had been in charge of evaluating the quality of the iron brought in by the colossal mechanized bird that toured the Freljord in the previous weeks. One of Piltover’s largest industrialists and tech magnates in addition to the Defender of Tomorrow, Jayce had several metallurgical refineries in Piltover’s outlying regions that the prized ore had been funneled to, with the intent of sampling its extraordinary properties.

And extraordinary, they had been. Lighter, stronger, and harder than any sort of iron Piltover had beneath its soil. Stock for alloys of exquisite quality, to be used in a number of applications, ranging from industry to their budding new ventures into aviation. As finite as their supplies were, they intended to procure more. The Lokfarians could always use more food and luxury odds and ends, both of which the City in Progress now had in generous supply.

Trisha and Tangent are huddled over a collection of papers dominated largely by several of the robot’s intricate, detailed sketches. Having taken the initiative in research in clean, renewable sources of energy, Tangent had turned to harnessing the omnipresent forces of nature.

The wind, and the sun that drives them. Geothermal power. Wind power generation had always been something of a novelty -- an ambitious idea lacking the materials science to support the structural demands such generators had. Wind turbines had to be as efficient as possible to minimize the loss of energy in the conversion process from mechanical work to electricity, and something with as many moving parts as a turbine’s gearbox had to be built to last. Up until now, the materials just weren’t strong enough.

The geothermal project had stagnated months ago due to state funding falling short in the aftermath of Jinx’s terror attacks and the tsunami. Though, with Piltover’s coffers overflowing, Parliament was all too enthusiastic in pushing forward the funding needed for this curious venture. Breakthroughs in metallurgy allowed by Jayce’s work with the Lokfarian iron would lend itself well to the hardware of the facility, particularly in heat-resistant ductwork and precision instrumentation. Fine examples of horizontal integration and convergent technology.

Though, the point of Tangent’s greatest curiosity was in harnessing the sun. For as long as civilization has reigned, that fiery ball of plasma has hung in the sky, tirelessly bathing their world in light in warmth. There were no indications that it would be going away any time soon, so... why not take advantage of it?

This, however, would be an incredible challenge to overcome. The sun’s heat could be focused onto a working fluid, which could be used to drive turbines which turned generators. A different mechanism, but the end result is the same in many forms of power generation, from geothermal, to coal and natural gas. But the sun’s energy was inherent. It needed no coaxing-out to appear, and left nothing noxious in the air simply by warming the world. Tangent had also recently discovered that some materials produce a voltage when struck by sunlight. If the middleman of turbines and generators could be cut out, then perhaps efficiency could be improved... but first the materials would have to be refined. It would be an uphill battle, but one that he no doubt feels will be immensely rewarding to conquer, for a number of reasons.

And these were only today’s issues that the think tank had taken to tackling. Doubtless that they will be back here tomorrow, with renewed vigor, faced with a new set of problems to tackle, armed with a collective insight accumulated over generations of scientific pursuit.

For this was the City of Progress, and progress never sleeps.