Fanfic #32 Tenjin by ReasonableDoubt (Worm Tinker OC)

This is a fanfic in worm with a male oc, but it doesn't just stick the mc with Taylor, it has its own story. The story hasn't fully unfolded, but it's interesting so far.

Synopsis: Charles had a great life, until he didn't. Now he's 'blessed' with a power that could be amazing. If he manages to get resources, and time, to work with.

Rated: M

words: 41k

https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/tenjin-worm-tinker-oc.930032/reader/

Here's the first chapter:

"Hey Charles," Brock said, in a false-friendly tone. "Tell us about that fancy school of yours."

It was getting easier to tune him out and keep working— this wasn't anything new. He overheard me talking to the computer teacher after class shortly after transferring in. Mrs. Knott wanted to know where I was in the curriculum, which turned into a conversation about how they taught CS at my previous school.

"Charles. Hey, Charles." Brock continued. "Charles, I need help here. Are you too much of an elitist asshole to help me out?"

"Careful Brock," I said. "Your vocabulary's showing."

He smiled, and I face-palmed. Should have kept ignoring him.

The guy on the other side of Brock made a comment, but I was able to focus on the work again. I almost had it. A battered phone sat to the side of my workstation. A few years old, but still better than any device on the market. I'd found it in one of the pawn shops over near Sawtelle, buried in a shopping card that overflowed with old phones and pagers. Nothing indicated that it came from an agent or a cape, but I knew. An… impression of the design and manufacture that hit me, as soon as I saw it.

"Nah, Charles ain't like that," Brock said. He was careful to speak loud enough to be heard by everyone but the teacher. "Charles wouldn't hurt anyone. He's a good asian. Does math and computers and shit. Probably watches cartoons. You know."

Just another aspect of my new life to get used to. I removed the back of the phone and attached a custom wire harness. Just a modified USB cable, but whatever got the job done. The first step had been getting the phone to take a charge. Easy. Less than a day, even with improvised tools. Getting around the security… that required more time. And a new operating system. From scratch.

My latest attempt finished… compiling, for lack of a better term. I transferred it from Winslow's old computer over to the phone, the wiring harness allowing me to access the storage directly. Initiated the boot sequence.

"Isn't that right," Brock was back to his false-friendly tone. "Charles. Buddy. Pal."

A mechanical dragon flickered on the phone's screen before giving way to scrolling system messages. Which halted, hard-frozen again. But that was the work. Every failed attempt, every error, taught me something.

The plastic chair Winslow used in their computer lab creaked as I leaned back. I kept one hand on the phone, playing back the latest boot attempt in my mind. My eyes traced a brown stain that ran across the ceiling tiles while worked. Directly above me a wad of purple gum appeared to have ossified. Lovely.

It was the work of moments to modify my OS again. Longer to compile, but it was still a minimal bit of code. Transfer back to the phone.

"Hey Charles," Brock leaned close, glancing at the terminal window on my computer. "You think your mom was fucking your dad for his money?"

He laughed, and I relaxed my jaw before my teeth started to hurt. I wanted— so badly — to do something. To hit him, to stand up and shout. To pull my arm back and slam my elbow into his face. But that's what he wanted. I'd be the one to get in trouble, lose what little time I had with a functioning computer.

"You think your mom regretted fucking her cousin for fun of it?" I replied, equally soft. "You know, when she had you?"

His smug smile faded and he stood, clenching his fists. I forced myself to stay seated. Any blows woulds be welcome. He'd get kicked from Intro Comp. After a moment I smiled up at him. Mouthed the words.

"Mr. Larson!" Ms. Knott appeared. "You've completed the assignment?"

Brock's fists made a popping noise, but he didn't hit me. "No."

"Then I suggest you get back to work," Ms. Knott said. "If you wish to remain in this class."

Ms. Knott walked away after making sure Brock got back to work. I switched to a different terminal window and put together a quick script. Winslow's computers, even the administrative machines, were all on the same network. I executed the script, and Brock's computer blue-screened. He slammed his hands on the desk, swearing.

I smiled, and then got back to work.

The phone booted up again. Dragon logo gave way to system logs, which scrolled by faster than most people could read. It froze earlier than last time. But that too, was OK. More information.

By the end of the week, I had it cracked. Nothing fancy, just a command prompt and input handler— input without a keyboard was deceptively hard. But now I had an OS running on bullshit-grade hardware. A computer of my own, one I could use whenever I wanted.

"Holeeeee shiiiiiiit," Greg said, leaning over my shoulder.

I sighed.

Ms Knott had moved Brock's seat, after he continued to have problems with his computer. Crashes at first, and then inappropriate web-sites opening countless windows. My new neighbor, Greg, was actually pretty cool. Or at least, friendly in a way I liked.

Greg also understood some of what was doing with the phone. Nothing… incriminating. He probably thought I was good at programming. A misconception I encouraged.

"Hey…" I pulled up another terminal window and nodded towards Brock. "Watch this."

While Greg laughed at Brock's latest troubles, I packed everything up. I could work back at the group home, or wherever I wanted really, so things would finally speed up. Bootstrapping a meaningful tech base without money was hard. I'd almost given up, which would have meant joining the Wards. The safe option, but way too much oversight. And no chance of starting my own business anytime soon.

"You are out of warnings." Mrs. Knott was staring down at Brock.

"It wasn't me!" Brock leapt to his feet, glaring at the teacher.

Mrs. Knott took a step back. "Get out of my classroom."

"Happy to, you butch bitch." Brock stuffed his notebook into his backpack.

Mrs Knott stared at him, face cold. Greg was shaking with laughter, which was kind of unfortunate. The situation wasn't really that funny. His laughter also pulled Brock's attention. He paused near us on his way out of class.

Brock narrowed his eyes at Greg, but addressed me instead. "I know it was you."

"No idea what you're talking about Brock." I smiled. "Buddy. Pal."

He smiled back. "Better watch yourself, chink."

"I'm half Japanese, dumbass." I couldn't help but correct. At least Greg had stopped laughing.

Greg stayed quiet until we walked to the cafeteria for lunch. While I was still worried about Brock's maybe-threat, Greg started complaining about Winslow's food. And then he was back to normal topics. Like how the Protectorate was really a force for evil.

"… reprogrammed Sphere because he was trying to make the world better, why would it leave the PRT and Protectorate alone?" Greg asked, triumphantly. "Q.E.D. PRT and Protectorate are not making the world better. Therefore—"

"Sounds legit." I cut him off before he could really get started.

A girl gaped at us before picking her tray up and leaving to find another table. Oh well, it wasn't like I could be more of a social pariah.

"Greg," I said, nodding towards the girl that had left. "Maybe tone it down?"

"What? Pretend everything's alright?" He shrugged. "Anyways, she's always annoyed. I tried talking to her before—"

"Sure Greg."

The rest of the day, I worked on the phone. My power worked in bursts, accumulated effort and iteration would reach a tipping point and then suck my mind down to a deeper level of understanding. Of Knowing. The hardware of the phone, and how to access it, becoming obvious in a way I couldn't even conceive of just a few hours before.

The final bell rang, and I joined the press of people eager to escape Winslow for the day. Normally, I'd go to the Library and use a computer if one was open. Study CS and EE texts if none were. But now I had a computer of my own, so just started walking back to the group home the city had put me in.

I was halfway there when Brock slammed into me.

"What the…" I climbed back to my feet.

Brock wasn't alone, and his friends were even bigger than he was.

"Hurry it up." One of them said.

"Aye." Brock grinned and settled into a boxing stance.

It wasn't pretty. His friends just pushed me back whenever I tried to make a run for it, and whenever I landed a punch of my own, Brock hit me back harder. It didn't take long until I was curled up on the ground. Arms trying to protect my head.

"You're just so fucking clever, eh?" Brock punched again. "Think you're better than me?"

"Dude," Someone else said. "Take his shit and let's go."

And they did.

I uncurled sometime after they left. Rolled onto my back and stared at the sky, taking stock. A few loose teeth, but nothing broken. All my stuff was gone, of course. Backpack. Books. Wallet, with complete life savings of three dollars. Bus pass.

Phone.

I wondered if there was anything to learn from this. But unlike with technology, nothing came to me. I sighed, climbed to my feet, and started walking to the group home.

The caseworker was waiting at the group home when I limped down the steps. A skinny man with curly brown hair and the unfortunate name of Cassidy Brown. PRT lawyers had come after my Dad, seized everything we had that could be seized. Everyone, myself included, were surprised when my mom took everything else and disappeared. Everyone had seemed somewhat confused as to what to do with me when no further relatives showed up.

Massachusetts Department of Children and Families had no such confusion. They worked through the checklist and away I went. Plucked out of a wonderful school with a tuition the state couldn't afford and whisked away to nearest municipality. Assigned to a group home and allocated a case worker.

Said case worker, Cassidy, frowned at me. Made appropriate noises of concern and pulled out a chair before talking with the people that ran the home. The chair hurt, but it was better than standing. I sat there and tried to think what to do next. Losing the phone was more painful than the beating.

A catchy theme-song, overloud, boomed out of the TV. The younger boys staying at the home were gathered around the old flat-screen. Watching some protectorate propaganda cartoon. Good times.

Cassidy returned and sat down opposite from me, Pulled out a file from his briefcase. "Do you want to go to the hospital or something?"

"Could I even pay for that?" I asked.

His head stayed in the same position as he looked up at me with his eyes. "We've talked about this Charles. The state covers medical. Basic medical."

"I'm fine," I said.

"Good. Perhaps you can tell me why you were fighting?" He continued to read the file as he talked.

I leaned back in the chair and winced as it pressed into my upper back. "Does it matter? Do I need to worry about incriminating myself?"

"I'm not your enemy Charles. I get that you don't want to be here. But try to understand that there are thousands of people that would be thankful for what you have."

I made a show of glancing at my bare feet, socks stained from the long walk back to the home. "What is it that I have?"

"A safe place to sleep, a system that cares about you. Your health, if you can stop getting into fights— "

"It was hardly a fight," I said. "Three of them jumped me."

"Your knuckles." He gestured towards my hands. "And can you honestly say did nothing to provoke them?"

I put my hands in my lap. "So I'm what, supposed to roll over and let them wail on me and take my stuff?"

He sighed and gave me a disappointed look. One of the workers of the facility called out that dinner was ready, and then turned off the TV when none of the younger kids moved. Samson, a boy one year behind me, moseyed out of the sleeping area and sat down at the table. All the other older boys were probably out on the town. The group home was pretty lax.

Cassidy looked back down at his case file. "These spots of conflict, this inability to cooperate with your classmates. The lack of respect you show your teachers— it doesn't look good."

"My grades are flawless." I countered.

"You had a privileged education until recently" He said, one eyebrow raised. "I'd be shocked if your grades weren't flawless."

He liked to talk about privilege. "As you say. Sir."

He stared at me again, waiting for me to say more. The tactic only worked a couple of times, but he still trotted it out.

"Right." He checked the file again. "See if you can't get get along with your peers a little better, hmm?"

I nodded

Everyone else was sitting down to eat. Instant rice, beans, and something that came out of a can today. All neatly fitted into separate compartments on those molded trays. It was, at least, somewhat nutritious.

"What is it that you want, Charles?" Cassidy asked.

"A home would be—" I started to say.

"Yes, of course." He cut me off. "But more… long term. Do you want to be a fireman? A construction worker? Do you wish to go to college?"

I wanted to change the world. Make something real, sell it to people. Get rich while making things better for everyone else at the same time. To win, and then to help others win. Show them all that it didn't need to be a zero-sum game.

"Yes sir. College is my goal," I said.

"Very good, ambitious!" Cassidy smiled. "Well, as discussed, your grades are good. You need to consider extra-curriculars though. Perhaps volunteering? Or have you considered running for student council?"

I conveyed what I thought about running for student council with a look. "Does Winslow even have a student council?"

He coughed. "Yes, well, you get the idea."

"Actually, do you know of any internships, or even part time jobs—" I started to ask.

The beep of his watch interrupted me. He looked down at it, as if in surprise, and started to pack up. "Looks like our time is up! I'll leave you with some pamphlets—" He stood, and snapped his old briefcase shut. "And I'll see you in two weeks!"

After he was gone I extracted myself from the chair and limped over to the kitchen for leftovers. One of the caretakers tsked when I told him about my shoes, and my buss pass, but scrounged up some footwear for me to choose from. Too tight or too loose. I chose loose.

I wasn't likely to find another piece of tech comparable to the phone Brock took. Or have the money to buy one if I did. And having tasted progress, how much everything seemed to move forward, I itched to start working again. And I had lost the hardware, but I still had all the knowledge it gave me.

One of the caretakers looked up in concern as I headed back up the stairs and out into the night, but he didn't stop me. Some of what Cassidy said was true, I really should be more thankful. The group home wasn't luxurious, but it was warm and safe, and they fed us.

Just… living wasn't a bad option. There was no need to hurry. So long as Brockton Bay didn't fall into the ocean, I could just work within the system. Get some volunteer hours in, maintain my GPA. Suck up to the teachers. Take my chances with a scholarship. Try to ignore my power until I had the freedom and the capital to do something with it.

I plodded through the night, back towards Winslow. Careful not to meet anyone's eyes.

One of the gangs would take me. But I wanted to make things better, not keep the current system going. And it was hard to know if a gang would let me do what I wanted, or just lock me down in a warehouse to make weapons. Or string me out on drugs like Squealer. Yeah, gangs were out.

And then there was the Wards. The best option on paper. Safe. Just had to do what they tell me to. But that'd be building the system up. Greg was crazy about the PRT and Protectorate being some big conspiracy, but he was right about them being ineffective.

I trudged past Winslow and continued further. North and east, for an hour or so. Losing the bus pass sucked. Tags of red and green grew more common the further I went, like spots of mold. A group of guys in windbreakers and track pants approached me, and I looked at them, uncaring.

They laughed, and I started walking again.

The pawn shop where I found the phone was in what would have been called 'Little Tokyo' in a nicer town. In Brockton Bay, it was the edge of where the police would respond to calls and where you were, oddly enough, better off calling the ABB. There was still a sort of community to the area though.

I pushed the door open and a perversely happy chime rang out. Floorboards creaked under my feet as I passed over-full shelves. Random junk filled the shop without any thought towards organization, from floor to ceiling. Towards the back, a case of scuffed security glass held the more valuable items. Jewelry, watches. A few newer smart-phones and cameras. Everything but the phones sheathed in a fine layer of dust.

And in the corner, plastic shopping carts filled with old electronics. CRTs, VCRs, broken computers, and dead phones. The plastic and silicon wreckage of two decades or more.

"The fuck happened to you?" The guy sitting at the register asked, feet up on the display case.

I shrugged. "High school?"

He laughed. "Quitting that shit was the best day of my life. Anyways, no one's brought anything by. So fuck off, please."

"Uh, not that." The pawn shop didn't have any obvious tags, and it wasn't like the sign was in green and red or anything. And the guy behind the counter wasn't wearing colors. "This place isn't… ABB is it?"

He gave me an unimpressed look. "We pay, like anyone else. I wouldn't say we are them though."

"OK." I pointed at some of the newer model phones in the case. "I can get those working again. Increase their resale value."

He raised an eyebrow. "I can get those working again too. Any jackass as can follow directions can get them 'working again'." He took his feet down from the top of the case and leaned towards me. "Look, you got money? You got something to sell? No? Then get out."

"Well, maybe you're too busy," I pressed. "I'm not even asking for money, just a few of your older phones and other parts. From the bins."

"Right." He glanced over to the shopping carts. "Look kid, maybe you should get out of here."

"They're not even worth anything to you." I tried again.

"That's not the point I'm trying to make." He said, sitting back down. "Now— "

"Please," I said. "I'll… dust? Stock shelves? Sweep, fix phones. Please."

"No." He said. "Now get out of here before I kick your ass."

I stared at him, but he just rolled his eyes and went back to his book. I walked over to the shopping carts and pawed through the older electronics. Stuff wasn't worth… anything really, but was still watched by at least three security cameras.

I ignored the cameras, and feet-on-the-counter dude's sigh. Plastic faded and brittle with age clattered as I fished through the bins. Eventually I found a newer model, likely tossed in with the discards because it was bricked or broken.

I put the phone down on the glass counter. "I can get this working."

"Are you really this dumb?" He asked, quietly.

"Please, lend me some tools, a computer with an internet connection, and a USB cable." I met his eyes. "And I'll get this phone working."

A door opened from behind the counter, and a middle-aged man shaped like a weeble-wobble came out in a cloud of smoke. The dude behind the counter sighed and rubbed his face. Gave me a look.

"Let him try," The man said, with a toad's smile.

"You really want to get involved in this shit?" The younger dude asked, but he wasn't talking to me.

"It's my shop." The older man snapped, before turning to me, his smile back. "Let's see what you can do."

"Thank you," I said.

The overweight man disappeared up some steps. The original guy sighed loudly and dog-marked his page in the book before standing up. He looked down at me and his shoulders slumped.

"Well, let's get you set up," He paused at the doorway to the back of the shop. "And don't say I didn't warn you."