[h3][center]Pre-Fab[/center][/h3] [h3][center]Protectorate headquarters – Tinker workshop[/center][/h3] With the flick of a switch, the workshop began to wake up. Lights illuminated a once spacious room that was now jam packed with several large machines, computers and work tables and a few seconds later the quiet hum of machinery replaced the silence with white noise. Brian shuffled into the room with a cup of coffee in his hand, setting it down on a work station covered with scattered papers, intricate metal tools and half completed bits of tinkering before collapsing onto a stool. He picked up a remote from amidst the mess and pointed it at one machine in particular before pushing a button, the large, squat device noisily coming to life. One after another, it began to churn out block after block of dull black metal, depositing each into a container on a shelf within the machine; this was the material that was used to create pretty much everything he made as a Tinker. A metal that, for some reason, had a kind of memory that could hold onto blueprints and a limited ability to move when exposed to a certain signal, while at the same time being durable enough for use as a building material and light enough not to be cumbersome; a truly miraculous material that, so far, only he had been able to produce. The fabricator that created it was by far the most important thing he had been able to build so far, but it was noisy, slow, large and prone to breaking down; he wanted to improve on it, he had filled a notebook with ideas on how to do so, but to do so would mean taking it apart and rebuilding it from the ground up. Doing that would mean that he wouldn’t be able to rebuild his armour or weapons after he next dismantled them, as he wouldn’t have the material to do so, which in turn meant he wouldn’t be able to go on patrols until he was finished with the fabricator again. The PRT wouldn’t allow that. They wanted him to stay useful, which meant dealing with what he had. Fixing it when it broke and improving what he could. Once the container was filled up enough, he would carry it over to one of the other machines and place the metal inside, before setting the machine to create the various pieces of armour that made up his general combat suit. The constructor could only manage one thing at a time and could only hold so much material at once, meaning he had to make everything one at a time; it was also in need of an overhaul. The PRT wouldn’t allow that. Same reasons. All in all, the process took about six to eight hours just to make one full suit of armour, depending on how much of the material he was able to save from his previous suit. That suit would be used on his next patrol or the next time he responded to an incident, after which he would need to dismantle it, collect the pieces, and then begin the process all over again. More incidents meant more times he had to use his armour, more times he had to rebuild it, which added to his workload, so he usually kept a few spare suits around in case he didn’t have the time to finish his work. It was either that or go into battle without it; not that that didn’t still happen sometimes. That was just for the simple stuff of course. The armour pieces were made entirely of his special material and didn’t require manual work to integrate it with electronic or mechanical pieces like some of his gear did. His helmet, for example, needed to be made by hand; slowly and carefully placing the blocks that would make up the helmet around the visor that formed its centrepiece so that it would be aligned correctly and build properly. Any mistake could mean damaging the visor or his own skull when the helmet formed itself around his head. His weapons, turrets and drones were the same, albeit without the threat of crushing his skull. The more equipment he used in a fight the more work he had to put in preparing for the next one. In a way he was lucky that he was assigned to a smallish city like Manchester instead of a place like Boston or Chicago; there was less Cape activity here, meaning fewer fights and less work for him. A smaller city also meant a smaller Protectorate team and he was similarly lucky to be the only Tinker for the time being. It allowed him to dominate the workshop with his cumbersome, oversized and noisy machines without having to be a bother to anyone. Finishing the last of his coffee Brian looked over at the clock and made a note of the time; seven hours until he was scheduled to start his patrol, which should give him enough time to finish his suit, visor and weapons for tonight. He might even be able to create a drone or two if he worked quickly enough; he was running low on those. ---- [h3][center]Pre-Fab[/center][/h3] [h3][center]Museum – Break-in in progress[/center][/h3] The silent alarm had been tripped and Pre-Fab had luckily been close enough to be on the scene in a matter of minutes. As he stepped through the front door of the museum, meeting up with the security guards inside, the blaring sirens made it clear that the non-silent alarms had also been triggered. “Can someone turn that thing off?” As a guard hurried away to the security room to do just that, Pre-Fab began walking deeper into the museum. He had arrived quickly enough that the culprit might still be inside and the security seemed more than happy to defer to the hero on the scene and allow him to proceed ahead of them. Fine by him; it was one less thing to worry about. The alarm finally cut out and the museum descended into a silence broken only by his heavy steps on the hardwood flooring. As he moved he reached down to his belt and pulled free two small spheres, maybe the size of a tennis ball each, and dropped them to the floor; upon touching the ground they each unfurled themselves, revealing long legs and a singular lens attached to a square body. They could be described as spider-like were it not for the fact they only had four legs. He gestured with a hand and the two drones skittered away into the dark corners of the exhibit, crawling up walls or into vents as they began searching the area for any signs of heat or movement. If anyone was here then they would find them and alert him. If not, then he had just wasted an hour’s worth or work. “This is Pre-Fab of the Manchester Protectorate!” If his clunky movements hadn’t already given him away, then his shout certainly had. “Make this easy on yourself and turn yourself in!” They never did, but now that they knew who they were dealing with they might be more inclined to reveal themselves, either to himself or to the drones currently searching for them. [@Eviledd1984]