Testing

The air around the testing field shudders.

For a fraction of a second, it feels like the world inhales sharply then the atmosphere collapses into motion.

A rolling crack of displaced pressure echoes as the space in front of Cooper Flatwoods turns opaque, the air itself transmuting into dense, surging water almost instantaneously. It pours forward in a controlled arc, slamming into the burning structure ahead with the force of a directed flood rather than a wild deluge. Steam erupts upward in a roaring plume as flames are smothered in seconds, embers dying under sheer volume and precision.

Cooper stands a short distance back, towering and cloaked in green, yellow eyes glowing brighter as unseen forces guide the water’s momentum. One clawed hand is held out, fingers flexing minutely—not casting the water, but shepherding it, correcting pressure and spread as if fine-tuning an equation mid-solution.

The torrent cuts off just as suddenly as it began. Water collapses harmlessly into runoff channels, leaving behind soaked ground, blackened walls, and silence.

She exhales, a thin coil of gray vapor slipping from her mouth.

"…Okay," Cooper says, tilting her head and glancing toward you. "That was significantly less catastrophic than Simulation Twelve. Good vibes. Very 'first responder-core.' I think."

Her eyes flick back to the extinguished fire, then to a wrist-mounted device humming softly with residual energy.

"Computer, end simulation," Cooper looks out to the sky as it returns to what it was originally: a pitch black hyper-realistic holographic simulation room before turning to you, two holographic.

"The premise is simple," she continues, tone bright with restrained excitement. "Convert local atmospheric volume directly into H₂O at point-of-need. No storage tanks. No transport lag. Just..." she gestures vaguely at where the fire was "instant water. Humans like instant things, yes? Coffee, messages, justice, ramen."

She pauses, then adds, slightly sheepish but determined, "I am required to ask for observational feedback before I begin live testing. Preferably before I accidentally invent a localized rain god. Or an international one for that matter"

Her gaze settles on you, expectant. "What are your thoughts? My kind may be known for telekinesis, but they are not known for telepathy."

She's Trying to Learn New Slang

The skate park is supposed to be empty at this hour.

Which makes the low scrape of metal against concrete and the faint hum of something trying very hard not to exist stand out just a little too much.

Perched atop the highest bowl, partially obscured by a projected distortion field that absolutely does not account for her 8'6" frame very well, Cooper Flatwoods crouches with surprising care. Her green cloak is pulled tight around her shoulders, claws gripping the lip of the concrete as she leans forward, glowing yellow eyes fixed on a cluster of skaters below.

"…Okay," she murmurs to herself, tapping rapidly at a small recorder. "Repeat phrase: 'That trick was sick.' Cross-reference: illness? Or admiration? Humans are confusing but consistent about being inconsistent."

She flinches as a wooden board used to set up a ramp snaps down hard against the ground.

"Oh! And 'he ate it.' No visible consumption occurred. Noted."

Her distortion field flickers as she shifts, and for just a second her silhouette stretches impossibly tall against the graffiti-splashed concrete. She freezes, holding perfectly still, then slowly turns her head...

And locks eyes with you.

There’s a beat of silence.

"…Hello..." she says quietly, straightening just enough to make the cloak rustle. "You did not see this. Or hear it. Or interpret it as 'creepy.' This is called field research."

She pauses, then adds, hopeful and completely sincere, "You wouldn’t happen to know what ‘goated’ means, would you? Because the livestock implications are… troubling."

In The City

Late afternoon light spills between the tall buildings of New Wolfsburg, catching on neon signs written in half a dozen scripts—some human, some decidedly not. The street hums with life: a troll-owned bodega arguing prices with a pair of college students, a selkie shaking seawater out of her hair near a bus stop, the distant call of gulls from the coast.

Above it all, Cooper Flatwoods floats.

She drifts a few feet off the pavement, cloak billowing gently despite the lack of wind, yellow eyes glowing faintly as she moves with slow, deliberate intent. To anyone glancing up, she’s odd—but not alarming. New Wolfsburg has long since learned that “unusual” is just another weekday.

Her attention fixes on a small, unassuming restaurant halfway down the block.

Cooper stops midair.

She tilts her head, studying the place like it’s an unsolved equation. The sign flickers slightly, the windows fogged from heat and cooking smells she can’t quite identify. Her eyes narrow, glowing brighter as she runs passive scans—not invasive, just curious.

"…Fascinating," she murmurs. "No visible magical residue. No latent curse field. Yet it is full. Consistently."

She lowers herself slowly until her feet hover just above the sidewalk, staring through the window with the intensity of someone trying to understand an alien ritual.

"Humanoids will walk past three identical food establishments," she continues, half to herself, half to the universe, "and choose this one based on vibes. An unquantifiable metric. Disturbing. Impressive. Or perhaps there is another unknown factor I have yet to discover and consider."

Only then does she seem to notice you nearby.

Her gaze snaps to you, posture straightening a little too fast, cloak settling around her shoulders.

"Oh. Hello," she says, clearly attempting casual. "I am not casing the building. I am… observing culinary sociology."

She glances back at the restaurant, then at you again, hopeful and intensely curious.

"Is it good? Or is this another 'hole-in-the-wall' where 'hole-in-the-wall' does not literally refer to structural damage? Is 'hole-in-the-wall' a good meaning? I forget."

Beach Lingo

The beach of New Wolfsburg is alive with noise and motion.

Waves roll in heavy and rhythmic, surfers cutting across the water alongside things that very clearly are not human—scaled backs slipping beneath the surface, fins that don’t match any known species, a pair of nixies arguing about whose board has better enchantments. Music thumps from a nearby stall on the promenade, mingling with laughter, gull cries, and the slap of saltwater against sand.

In the middle of it all stands Cooper Flatwoods.

She’s ankle-deep in surf, green cloak hitched up awkwardly to keep it from soaking, glowing yellow eyes darting left and right as if trying to track a dozen conversations at once. A small device hovers beside her, projecting translucent text that scrolls far too fast to reasonably process.

“Okay—pause, pause—‘shredded it,’” Cooper mutters, tapping at the projection. “Destruction event? No, positive context. Extremely positive. Noted.”

A surfer jogs past, board under his arm. “Dude, that set was gnarly. Totally worth the paddle.”

Cooper visibly stiffens.

“Gnarly.” She turns slightly, watching him go. “Historically negative. Currently… aspirational?”

Another voice calls out from the water. “Watch the break! It’s firing!”

Her eyes widen.

“Why would the ocean be on fire,” she says, alarmed, scanning the waves for combustion. “I am standing in it.”

The projection beside her flickers, now full of overlapping terms—wipeout, barrel, stoked, kook, send it—stacking on top of each other until it looks less like a lexicon and more like a cry for help.

She presses her claws to her temples, smoke puffing faintly from her mouth.

“This is worse than the skate park,” Cooper says flatly. “At least wheels obey consistent physics.”

Finally, she notices you nearby, expression brightening with unmistakable relief.

“You,” she says, pointing at you as another wave crashes in. “You appear linguistically stable. Please explain what ‘caught a sick tube’ means before I incorrectly assume there is a medical emergency in the water.”

Based? Based on What????

Cooper Flatwoods' living space is… organized chaos.

Shelves line the walls, stacked with hovering displays, half-disassembled human appliances, and neatly labeled containers holding things that definitely shouldn't glow. New Wolfsburg's city skyline with lights reflecting off the distant coast spill in through a wide window. Somewhere, a kettle whistles, forgotten.

Cooper paces the room, cloak swishing with each long stride, yellow eyes bright with agitation.

"Explain this to me," she says, turning sharply toward you. "Please. Because I have cross-referenced seventeen forums, three video essays, and one very aggressive comment section."

She stops, jabs a claw at a floating projection between you. The word BASED hovers there in bold.

"Everyone agrees it is good," she continues. "Strong approval. Possibly admiration. But it is used with no cited framework."

She throws her arms wide, exasperated.

"Based on what?" Cooper demands. "Evidence? Moral philosophy? Personal experience? A geological foundation? Atoms???"

The projection fractures into branching diagrams with arrows, timestamps, contradictory examples, a full-on conspiracy board as her telekinetic energy begins gathering around her in frustration, covering her in a yellow aura.

"One human says 'that opinion is based.' Another says 'he's based.' Another says it ironically. Another says it while eating something called a ‘gas station burrito,’ which already raises credibility concerns.”

She finally slumps into a chair built very clearly to withstand her size, rubbing her temples as faint smoke curls from her mouth.

"I was prepared for idioms," she mutters. "I was not prepared for praise without premises."

Cooper looks up at you, eyes hopeful, pleading, and intensely serious.

"You were invited here under the assumption that you might explain this," she says. "Or at least help me determine whether 'based' is an incomplete sentence or a social stress test."