A Sticky Situation

Speaking of sexy heroines… The first time I had gone to visit the local PRT Headquarters had been… messy…

It had started fine. I broke away from the crowd of sightseers, flashed my card at the cute secretary on duty and asked to see one of the local heroines for a routine inspection. Preferably Miss Militia if she was available. She blushed slightly at the implied nature of my visit but typed my request into her work station without delay.

Klaxons began roaring through the lobby a second after I had been sprayed down with a pale goopy syrup that instantly began to fizzle all over me, expanding and hardening into a cloud of rubbery foam. I couldn’t move in the stuff but I could breathe in it like it wasn’t even there.

Shit! I must have triggered the PRT’s lauded Master/Stranger Protocols; contingencies set in place to catch parahumans with powers that controlled people’s actions or how others perceived them!

Powers just like mine! Just because people thought that I had a license to fuck, didn’t mean that I was part of an agency that actually existed! Oh man, I was so boned! If I was lucky, they’d make me an “offer I couldn’t refuse” and recruit me into the Wards so they could keep a close eye on me (like forums on PHO speculated had been the case with the edgy ex-vigilante Shadow Stalker).

If I was unlucky, they might decide not to take any chances with my power-set and throw me in The Birdcage with all of the other captured Super Villains like the cop-killer; Acidbath, and Brockton Bay’s former crime lord; Marquis. Memories of news segments of the ongoing Canary case sprung to mind; from topping the charts to a possible life sentence for one count of “**** with a Master parahuman ability”!

So after a few minutes of terrifying yet uneventful solitude and my prison began rapidly dissolving around me, I was surprised to be greeted, not by a squad of soldiers or automated drones poised to subdue me, but a single guard busy spraying me down with a solvent that liquefied the remaining foam on contact.

From behind me a deep baritone voice, “Mr. Anderson.”

I turned around slowly, reflexively wiping the runny solution from my face to see the familiar blue and silver power armor of Brockton Bay’s Protectorate leader; Armsmaster, looming over me with his signature Tinker-teched halberd in hand and his bearded jaw set in a grim line.

“...yes?”

“...I apologize for any discomfort you might have experienced just now.” he offered brusquely. “We had yet to receive your personnel file prior to your arrival and that discrepancy tagged you as a potential infiltrator by our systems until it could be rectified.”

Wait. What?

“But my information is in your systems now?” I asked cautiously. Did my powers do that too? Could I effect electronic databases as well as people? But then why did it give an alert in the first place? Was there a brief delay involved with my abilities? Did I need to think about who or what I wanted my powers to work on first?

Either that or there was a helpful AI or omniscient Precog working to ensure that my “legal” right and responsibility to have sex with whoever I want, however I wanted, was unimpeded, and they filled in the relevant information for their systems in less than a minute while making it all seem legit…

Pff! Yeah right. Containment foam must not be as side effect free as they say if I’m thinking up crazy theories like that.

He nodded stiffly. “Yes. An associate of mine offered her assistance in correcting the matter. If you should return for the purpose of mandated fornication, your presence is unlikely to cause another disturbance.”

“Ah. Well, tell her thanks, I guess…” He nodded again and went back to silently staring at me through his mirrored visor. God, this guy was awkwardly intense with the brooding no-nonsense hardass routine he had going on.

“You requested a meeting with Miss Militia.” he spoke at last. “Do you wish to reschedule for another day or would you prefer to continue as you are?”

I looked him straight in the visor, still slick with chemical sludge, and said, “We’ll do it in a shower. Kill two birds with one stone.” No way was I willing to accept going through all of that, only to walk away without firing my cannon’s payload into the sexy gunslinger.

Armsmaster regarded me for a moment then nodded his head approvingly. “Efficient.” Then lead me away, passing on my request through a microphone in his helmet.