#35
Discord - 1.03
Superheroes are bullshit.
That's the obvious conclusion. Here I am, the product of hundreds of thousands of euros and the best bioscience that you'll find outside a top of the line Pharma corp, and I'm being outrun by an orange malchick with bright green hair. There's something off about the way he moves, and not just in how he's keeping pace with someone three times his size. It's like he just skims the ground, touching it with a lot less force than you'd need to keep that sort of pace.
I used to think of myself as fast. Other Beasties might be able to tank more hits than me, or hit a little harder, but that's not what Khanivore was built for. I'm a slice-and-dicer, cutting away at the enemy with talons and tail-spikes while keeping just out of their reach the whole way, but whatever this kid's on is enough to let him run rings around me.
Actually, just what is he on? No biotech I know would let someone move like that, and certainly nothing with that much human DNA. It's 2011, there's no way anyone would be able to grow something even remotely like this 'Newter' and definitely nothing like that flying cock who jumped me yesterday. Of course, it could be some other bollocks. They've got superheroes here, actual spandex wearing idiots like from old films. Maybe he was cursed by a witch, or bitten by a radioactive orangutan and the fucking road runner.
Whatever the result, I can tell he's not even breaking a sweat as we power across the rooftops of Philadelphia. The city mostly seems to have shut for the night, with the streets beneath us now almost entirely empty. The only sounds that I can hear are the sounds of my feet scrabbling against the rooftops as we sprint on, or as I sprint at least. We're moving parallel to the city centre, passing along rows of brick buildings like you'd see in any decent-sized metropolis. I made my living in places like this, the slums abandoned by the inner-city, where all a woman needed to survive was her wits, two talented bioengineers and a Beastie. It's not quite at the same level as the outskirts of fair Birmingham, but it's fast on the way.
Or maybe it's not. Maybe this world will be different. Maybe they've got some sunny fucking optimism that'll keep all this afloat. Isn't that what superheroes are all about?
The orange git's stopped now, he's dropped into an alleyway. I leap in after him, not having anything better to do, descending the wall by splitting my tail and driving it in and out of the wall like I'm climbing down some stairs. It's a trick I like to pull in the arena, makes me look in-control and plays well to the cameras. Fuck, maybe I've already got what it takes for this powers malarkey. Only difference is the superheroes have made the whole world their arena.
"That was awesome! It's like running alongside a freight train!"
The kid's slowed to a walk now, strolling down the alley with his hand behind his head like he hasn't got a care in the world. I'd say he hasn't even broken a sweat except he seems to be the greasiest fucker I've ever seen.
"Trouble is, Faultline would be cross if we ran all the way back, and crossing the boss ain't wise."
I just grunt as I pad alongside him on all fours. Let him find whatever meaning in it he wants. We pass through a few alleys that are pretty much the same as every alley I've seen so far. This is certainly some way to see America for the first time. Actually, where even is Philadelphia? I'm a bit chilly, so probably not the South, but that doesn't exactly narrow it down. I guess it doesn't really matter.
Newter stops at the end of our little alleyway, climbing halfway up the wall in the blink of an eye before peering out into the street. It's a smart move, anyone watching the road would be looking at ground level first. I can't let myself get suckered into thinking he's just an idiot. Last time I read someone wrong it ended up with my brains decorating the floor.
"Alright, coast looks clear. That's our hideout up ahead."
That had better be a bloody lie. There's a pub on the other side of the road, and calling it a pub is me being generous. A run-down hole-in-the-wall type joint, with green paint so faded it's more like polka dots. There's half a sign over the door, announcing proudly that 'Paddy's Pub' is open for business, and another sign on the door announcing that the building has been closed indefinitely for posing a risk to public health. It certainly isn't a club full of sweet devotchkas.
Some of my shock and anger at this betrayal musty have come across in a menacing growl as Newter gulps nervously, and his skin starts to look a little yellow.
"It's just a place to stay. We're not locals, we're just here for a job."
You live for now, little man. He gestures for me to wait here as he dashes across the street, again accelerating at a rate that simply shouldn't be physically possible. A few raps on the door leads to a brief exchange of words with a bulky figure, as Newter gestures wildly in my general direction. Eventually he steps inside, and gestures for me to follow. I cross the street in a few loping bounds, putting on my best turn of speed as I cross the open space, before slowing as I approach the door because, unlike some people, I have to obey the laws of physics. Getting in is a pain, as I have to squeeze myself through the narrow wooden door, but eventually I find myself in a really shitty pub.
In fairness, it does look like it's been closed for a while, but even without the wear and tear it would still have been a dump. I guess beggars, and giant monsters, can't be choosers. What really draws the eye about this place is the clientele, all three of them. There's Newter, still as offensively fluorescent as ever, hanging off the ceiling for some reason. The next fellow is big in every way, wearing a pair of trousers, a suit jacket and nothing else. I can just about see his organs through his translucent skin, and there are shell-like growths scattered about his body. He really drew the short straw, but he doesn't hold himself like he's hard done by. That's encouraging; if I'm going to work with these guys it'd be nice if they weren't a walking bag of issues.
Their leader is obvious, and not just because she's flanked by the other two. Every inch of her skin is covered and yet something about her just screams hardened badass. It's a look everyone tries to pull, but very few can master. It's certainly not something I was ever able to get right. Apparently, I just looked lifeless, which is admittedly accurate. This 'Faultline' is dressed in what can only be described as mercenary chic. She's wearing body armour, looks like older pattern Kevlar, and a heavy welding helmet over her face, but there's scraps of cloth interwoven with the plates and running down her legs into some sort of dress-like outfit. It looks like it should restrict her legs, but the sides are slit all the way down and she's wearing combat trousers underneath. She tilts her head slightly to one side as she looks me up and down and I catch a glimpse of a ponytail made of porcupine shards. I wonder if it's natural or part of her getup.
"I must admit," she speaks after a while in a surprisingly soft voice, "I didn't quite believe Newter when he said just how large you were."
I begin to chuckle, a frankly horrifying sound, before stopping as Faultline raised her hand.
"Please, our fourth member needs her sleep."
Fourth member? I lean back onto my hind legs, changing my centre of mass with my tail until I could look over the three mercs. Sure enough, there's a huddled figure at the end of the room. I can's make out much beneath the duvet, but she looked rather small. A child? I'm not about to wake up any kids, so I settle back onto all fours and nod at the mercenary leader.
"Thank you. I am Faultine, as I understand you know. Newter you have already met. This is Gregor the Snail."
Gregor's looking me up and down. I've been gawked at before, in both my first body and second, but this is something different. When I was piloting Sonnie, I got a lot of sad looks. People don't like to see a woman with scars, and I sometimes felt like they could tell it wasn't really me in there. Some people, people like Dicko, wouldn't look at my scars with pity, instead their eyes would travel downwards as they thought in vivid detail about the wounds that broke me, and how they could take advantage of that. People looked at Khanivore with either awe or envy. Awe from the cheering crowds, and envy for those who wanted our creation for their own ends.
Gregor's look is none of those things. It's cold, almost clinical, and I can tell he's trying to honestly assess my strength. I've seen that look on very rare occasions, in the eyes of the best Beasties, the ones that gave me the most trouble, or on the occasional bioengineer Wes brought home. He's categorising me, assessing the potential benefits against the threat I pose, and that is something I can respect.
"And our sleeping beauty in the back is Labyrinth." Faultline finishes.
"I know you're probably confused right now, and not just by us. Newter said you can't talk, is that correct?"
A nod. It's not like speech was on our list of priorities when we grew this body. I can't even appeal to hindsight for that; none of us could have guessed I'd end up living in it and we certainly couldn't have known I'd end up here.
"Very well, I shall do my best to explain. You're a Parahuman. It means you've undergone a traumatic event and emerged with superhuman abilities. Specifically, you're what's become known as a monstrous cape."
Gregor scoffs at that, and Newter offers an upside-down grin from his perch on the ceiling. Clearly that's a sticking point, and it's not hard to see why.
"Don't let the nickname fool you." Faultline continued, "You're as human as the rest of us. Your mutations don't change that, they can't change that."
Believe me, lady, if there's anyone who understands that it's me. It does make me think, however. Unlike Gregor and Newter, who simply don't make sense at all, I know exactly what has gone into my body. Whatever they're doing isn't the same as bioengineering. Maybe they are humans with freaky powers, but then what does that make me? I'm just bits of a human brain mingling with bioelectric substitutes in a body made from the DNA of fuck knows how many different creatures, none of which are human.
Faultline carries on talking well into the night, talking me through the United States, the PRT, Protectorate and anything else she thinks is relevant. Some of it is stuff I knew already, or had picked up from context, but a lot of the information is new. This world is a little more screwed than I first thought; fucking titans, mass murderers, mad scientists and some golden git goin' about doing whatever the fuck he damn well wants. At the end of it all, Faultline makes me an offer. She's planning a job, something that'll put her name on the map, and she wants to bring me in as an equal partner. A fifth of one-fifty kay sounds like a damn good deal to me, so I accept.
It's at this point that Faultline gives me a demonstration of trust. She takes off her helmet, exposing an attractive face that fixes me with a saurian grin. Funnily enough, the quill ponytail is a clip on. I should have picked up on that earlier, but I guess I've just decided to run with the weirdness. Tiredness begins to hit me, and as the other mercenaries slink off to their camp-cots I make my own way to the other end of the room.
All of a sudden, I am struck with the enormity of my cock-up. Not five miles from here is a lovely pile of matrasses and cushions, whereas all there is here is shitty bar furniture that isn't even padded and looks like it couldn't stand up to a stiff breeze. What kind of pub doesn't have any bloody sofas? Nothing for it, I just have to live with my errors. Khanivore's neck doesn't bend down like a human's and the tail makes sleeping on my back impossible. All I can do is lie flat on my front with my head stretched out in front of me. It's not elegant, and the length of my body puts my head right next to the sleeping darling, but I guess it'll have to fucking do.
In my sleep, I dream of my last moments on earth.
I see a pretty girl in a golden dress looking up at me with hungry eyes, a predator recognising her own kind. She's reaching out to touch me, but backs away as a second figure steps into view. It's then I realise that I'm not watching this from my body, but from Khanivore. That's me stepping into the trailer, that's me chatting up Dicko's bird like I'm some kind of fucking Casanova. I can't hear a word I'm saying, suspended as I am in the tank, but I can remember them clear enough. I'm bringing her close to the tank now, showing her my true self and feeding off her fear as she jumps back in shock.
I just want to reach through the glass and tell me to stop being such a fucking idiot. It's such a pointless way to die, and it's not like I'm getting anything out of the experience. There're barely any working nerves left in that body; I stepped in some broken glass on the way to the arena and didn't even notice until Ivrina spotted the trail of blood I'd left behind. I'm getting nothing from the sex, except for the idea of sex. I'm chasing ancient memories of old lovers and one-night stands, but there's just nothing there anymore. I'm in here, separated from both of them by a tank of amniotic fluid and a pane of glass.
The rest plays out much as I remember. An obvious deception, a gloating tyrant, and the hollow joys of revenge followed immediately by a sense of emptiness as I step over to look at what was once Sonnie. I'd call it the night of my death, but I died long before this. Back on the Estate.
This was the point where the flash of orange had whisked me away, where my thoughts had been interrupted by a Philadelphia shower. That doesn't happen this time. Instead I just stand there, the woman and the monster, wondering which of us is which.
I wake slowly, reacting to a slight irritation on the side of my face. The point between my exoskeleton and my skin has an annoying tendency to become irritated if left in the open for too long, particularly the area beneath my crest. It's just one in a long list of problems that I need to somehow solve in about a month, or I'll be right fucked. This isn't that tell-tale itch - not yet at least - instead its almost soothing. I risk a peek with my right eye, only to catch a little girl in the act of gently scratching and petting my skin.
She's young, almost too young to bear, and her long blond hair and honest smile speaks to me in whispers of childhood innocence. Some instinctive part of me wants to recoil from her touch, to slap her away and spring to my feet, but I refuse to act on those impulses. Those Estate cunts may have broken my body, but I'll be damned if I let them rule my mind as well. Honestly? Her scratching is actually quite pleasant, and I'm happy to just lay still for a few more minutes. Who knows when I'll next get the chance to relax?
The sound of sizzling brings me back to life as Gregor announces the arrival of breakfast. I begin to haul myself up, only to pause as I see the girl, Labyrinth I think, still looking at me with almost glassy eyes. I gently nudge her with my arm and lift her onto my back, before carrying her like a noble steed for the entire five metres between us and the bar. I'm honestly not sure why I did it, but it's all worth it to hear the faint sound of giggling from above my head.
Once Labyrinth dismounts, I pull myself up onto two feet, and accept a plate of bacon and eggs from Gregor. This is the first time I've eaten normal food as Khanivore, and the proportions seem off. On the other hand, it's the first time in years that I've had taste buds capable of noticing bacon, and this very quickly becomes the best breakfast this world has ever seen. Even if the bacon is only the streaky kind Americans apparently like.
Faultline leads Labyrinth off to the bathroom to wash and do her teeth, and Gregor leans in to me with a knowing smile on his face.
"Thank you. Elle hasn't been that lucid in quite some time."
A silent moment of understanding passes between the two of us, before he places an extra rasher of bacon on my plate. If I am stuck on this fucked-up planet, at least I won't have to go it alone