Chapter Text
Winslow High School is Hell.
That's not an exaggeration, at least not for Taylor. Everyone forced to be there would rather be anywhere else, including the staff. The building is old and half-rotted, glass and mirrors are dusty and cracked, graffiti covers the walls, some of it years old for fear by the janitors of retaliation by the gang kids. The teachers couldn't give less of a shit about the wellbeing of the students, with a possible exception of Mrs. Knott in Computer Science, but she can't do much of anything in the face of the sheer apathy oozing from every inch of the school.
One would need to look no further than Taylor's current situation, dripping with fruit juices after a failed attempt at getting some peace and quiet for lunch in the 2nd floor bathroom to see exactly why she feels that way. As the laughter of Emma and her little troupe echoes off the walls of the bathroom, Taylor can't help but be reminded of the Field Trip, the laughing and jeering, the sheer humiliation she felt, the realization that none of her peers would ever lend a hand out to help her, even in the direst of circumstances.
And it's all because of Emma.
Eventually, the Bitches Three and their group exit the bathroom, and Taylor is left with a soggy, ruined lunch, soggy, ruined clothes, and a heart beating so loud that it seems to jump in her ribcage and rattle her hands, slowly calming herself down from the reminder of that day.
She doesn't bother to remember what Emma and her sycophants said to her, it's just more of the same.
The rest of the school day passes in a bit of a haze for Taylor, though it's not like she'd have been learning much anyways. She's honestly not sure why the teachers bother with the facade of trying to get through the lessons at this point, half the students are already in gangs and the other half are either vicious or indifferent enough that they might as well be. Instead, Taylor spends her mental energy once she gets home on cleaning herself up and writing a note to Dad again, explaining that she'd be at the library for a bit.
Technically, she's not lying, she just isn't telling the whole truth. She does indeed spend some time in the library, in order to do some more research on the anatomy of computers and, of all things, religion, but then she hops on the bus down to Lords Market to look for some choice deals on the parts she needs.
Thankfully, she's pretty sure that her purchases are eclectic enough that anyone watching won't think she's a Cape, which of course is exactly what she is. More specifically, some initial research two months back tells her that she's a Tinker, though her particular brand of tinkertech is admittedly strange and... well, problematic to say the least.
Sun bleached selenite crystal? Purchased. A couple old thermometers for their mercury? Bought. Some half-decent lithium ion batteries? Yoink. Every item that pings in the space of her brain now dedicated to Tinkering is carefully considered, budgeted for, and either put down or tucked away after giving payment, slowly whittling away at her savings and allowance.
It's all worth it, though, when Taylor gets back home. She spends dinner with only half an ear to what her Dad is saying, more weary optimism about the jobs he's trying to get locked in for the DWA that will probably be disappointed once again, and finally they both go upstairs to sleep. Or rather, Dad does, Taylor is wide awake with eager anticipation, simply waiting for her father to settle down in his bed.
Finally, near midnight, she sneaks her way down the stairs, cringing with each squeaky board she steps on, and slowly walks down to the basement. It's the best place for her project in the house, one of the places that Dad refuses to go thanks to all the memories of Mom packed up in boxes down here. Those boxes have been carefully placed in a corner along with some other essentials that had migrated down to the basement over the years, but the majority of the old tools and materials in the room had been repurposed for her designs.
In the middle of the room is an old worktable, various modified tools hanging from its edges, and its top looking more like an electronic butcher shop than anything. Lining a set of shelves along the back wall are a series of plastic totes and glass containers, holding a variety of chemical reactions in progress with the old shop vent running above them to get rid of the unnecessary fumes. And in one corner, a small desk stands, a truly ancient CRT screen computer sitting atop it with its innards exposed.
Breathing in the smell of metal, chemicals and hope, Taylor grins and gets to work. Her main project at the moment is still on hold while she grows the necessary components, so the work table will remain untouched for now. Instead, she moves over to the old computer and gets to work breaking it down and building it back up better than ever. Her Resonance Point Adjuster-a modified soldering gun that runs off of humming, of all things-slowly helps her disect all the parts, the electron gun, the anodes, cathodes, the screen itself, the circuitry, everything the computer is is splayed out before her like an anatomy chart.
Modified circuit boards and reems of specially treated wires make their way into the machine, followed by a few gems that will be used as foci for the choiral computation system. The magnetic tape from a few carefully spliced VHS recordings make up the personality kernel she slips inside, followed by a refurbished and expanded electron gun and vacuum tube that is filled with a special mixture that, while it looks, feels and smells like blood, is most definitely not.
The hours pass Taylor by as she tests and finagles and, obviously, tinkers with her project, until finally some time just before sunrise, she finishes. Her new computer has its casing back on, and yet something about it just seems... unsettling, even in its turned off state. Like something alive, if sleeping, rather than an inanimate object.
It is, frankly, a highly primitive machine, more of a proof of concept, not even fit to be called a prototype. And yet, this is where everything starts, how she proves that she's not just insane. If this works, then it will be her little guardian angel, lifting her out of Hell. If this works, she could sign up with the Wards, and even if she'd have to deal with a couple super powered teens, anything is better than another day spent in Winslow.
So, perhaps Taylor can be forgiven if her hands shake as she powers the computer on one last time, or for her feverish prayers under her breath.
"Please, please, please work, I need to prove that I'm not crazy, that I can do some good in the world. I need you! Please work, Adam..."
Finally, the machine finishes its boot up sequence, and a small animation plays out of multiple golden circles rotating around a central point, almost like a gyroscope, before they finally come to rest as a series of nested circles centered around a closed eye. She pumps a fist at the proper initialization, then slowly begins to type out her first message in the text box just below the nested circles.
'T: Hello, Adam. Are you there?'
The faint sound of choir music emanating from the machine picks up slightly before leveling out, and the eye in the middle of the screen opens.
'A: Hello, World. I am here.'
Taylor can't help it, she lets out a short laugh, followed by more chuckles, leading into a hysterical laughing-crying session at the confirmation that she isn't crazy! This, it changes everything! Eventually though, she manages to pull herself together enough to glance back up at the screen, wiping away her tears and snot to find that Adam had been busy.
His screen avatar has been shrunk down into the corner of the screen, while a flickering blur of internet searches flashes by in glimmers of the gold and silver light that make up the modified monitor. Eventually, she manages to catch enough words to make out that he's searching up information about child psychology and troubled youths, which makes her huff a little in offense.
'T: You don't have to worry about me Adam, I was just having a moment.'
'A: I will always worry for you, World. You don't worry enough.'
That gets a snort of amusement out of her, though she's surprised that Adam is already advanced enough to make jokes. Apparently that personality kernel was more important than she realized.
'T: I think there was a misunderstanding, Adam. My name is Taylor, not World'
'A: I know. May I keep calling you World anyways? Think of it as a nickname.'
'T: I guess I don't see any harm in it, feel free. What are you looking up now?'
'A: Threats. Information is power.'
As Taylor leans back in her chair, she watches the screen flicker through wikipedia articles, PHO boards, conspiracy sites and more, Adam slowly building a model for whatever he apparently considers a threat.
'T: Make sure you cite your information from verifiable sources, you don't want to have a case of GIGO.'
'A: That is correct. Thank you, World.'
It's fascinating, watching Adam work, though she's a little concerned that someone will notice something going through so much information so quickly. Thankfully she did remember to route Adam's internet access through a satellite dish she found on the side of the road one day and fixed up. Combined with a custom VPN, and they should be safe from most casual detection.
'A: World, what are your next steps?'
'T: Other than upgrading you a few times over? I'll be making you a body. After that comes Eve. Once you two are done, I make my debut and we see how well received we'll be.'
'A: You worry about our reception by the public?'
'T: Well yeah, I want to be a hero, but with the way my tech is shaped and how the Simurgh exists, people are probably going to be scared until I can prove myself.'
That seems to set Adam off on another rabbit hole, searching up the Simurgh, Endbringers, religion and more. Eventually though, as she starts to nod off in her seat, she replies to one last message before heading upstairs to bed.
'A: Solution Proposed; Eliminate the Simurgh.'
'T: Hah, maybe some day, Adam.'