The Cure began slowly, cautiously unfurling its tendrils across the world. Man was uncertain at hearing of the Cure, but all who tried it found themselves cured. Almost too perfect, thought the Natural Orders as they watched Disease retreat into its lair. The Cure smiled, stretching its tendrils further, enveloping more of Man in its embrace…as a growth formed on its back.

Grass and leaves crunched under leather boots as Gene moved through the open greenery of the park, deftly weaving through people running to places of safety.

“What NuBorne could have come here, infiltrated, and gotten a steady supply of STMCLL in a Green Zone?” Gene muttered aloud, before stopping in his tracks. The crowd had dispersed, and the smell of death and rust filled the air.

Step. Step. Step.

There wasn’t much time, it grew ever closer, so he hurried to climb one of the matured trees in the area, swinging up onto a branch. Opening his bag, he wrapped his fingers around familiar cold metal, clicking back the safety and cocking the gun. A Beretta 93R. It was an old model, but given Gene’s obsessive maintenance of it, and the brand new chrome plating, it looked comparable to newer handheld firearms he saw at the shop. Now wasn’t the time for his thoughts to go to the mechanics and comparing guns, for that thing was now entirely in view.

“Hideous bastard…”

A hulking figure that once resembled a man lurched forward, hesitating for a few moments as bulging eyes that nearly fell from its skull swung about, connected by nerves and skin desperately fusing to them as if it would keep them still. Tumor-like growths bubbled from several places on the body, rippling and undulating with attempted life as additional arms and legs jutted from the back and head like a demented art piece. Flesh-covered eyes blinked under sheer layers of skin, blinking faster and faster as if to propel themselves forwards as groans emit from what was left of a visible voice box. It was pale, unnaturally so, whiter than the paper-white buildings behind it, its veins were a mottled gray like mold on bread, pumping nothing but STMCLL and deteriorating blood cells to a heart that laid exposed from its chest. Each beat of its enlarged heart spurt out small fountains of blood, like a deranged fireworks show, growing in size and frequency as it spotted Gene in the tree.

“Look…..” It rattled, lungs pierced on its own ribs as it wheezed out further: “Perfect…”

“Look…” He mimicked, pointing the gun so that the Searcher would catch a glimpse of its hideous form, “Motherfucker.”

A shot rang out, cutting through the crisp air, before tearing through death-tainted flesh like a sharpened blade through rotted meat, staining the freshness of the air around them with more decay and rust as coagulated blood splattered to the ground like jelly. The Siridean stumbled backwards, its heart spurting out a high-pressured stream of blood at Gene, who leapt down from the tree, rolling as he felt the crimson rain soak his hair and clothes. It dripped down into his eyes, forcing him to blink harshly, wiping his eyes with his remaining clean sleeve.

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

“Perfect…must be…not me…” It cried out, frantically tearing the bullet from its skull, grotesque fingers digging into squelching flesh and brain matter until the soft clink of metal relieved it of its terror. It turned its many eyes to the bullet, watching as yellowish liquid and soft pink chunks of its brain wetly hit the ground alongside it, before looking at its reflection in the chrome once more, horrified by what it saw.. “You…”

“No, that’s not me. That’s you. Look at yourself..” Gene muttered, getting to his feet, firing another shot.

“Fuck.”

He watched as the bullet flew past the Siridean, rolling his eyes before lunging at the flesh form, wrangling his arms around it, craning its neck forcefully to look further at itself. It howled like a horrified child having a night terror, wildly throwing its head back and forth, wailing and screaming for “mercy” as it kept trying to free itself.

Gene scoffed, finding himself fed up with the tantrum the creature had thrown, and indulged himself in the satisfying crack of the metal butt of his gun whipping across the exposed skull resounding; this was almost the end of the creature, he knew it. He had gotten into its head, stunned it, broken its ‘Core’.

Schkt-

He heard metal dragging through flesh, looking down to find the forceps of his gun buried in the creature’s brain. Surprised at the amount of force he exerted, Gene groaned, not wanting to deal with retrieving the weapon, so he merely clenched his fist and bashed the gun further into its brain, hissing, “Not so perfect now, huh? Go on, say it.”

“I will never be perfect!” It bellowed, tears streaming down its pallid face. The creature had long since been grabbing at Gene, finally succeeding in grabbing, pulling and tugging at the man, who merely sighed with annoyance as he felt a frigid fist pummel his stomach. It hurt, and he felt lunch nearly come up, but–

“This is why I have to fight the Sirideans, not the soldiers stationed at The Wall. Sure, it’s also self-important beliefs, ego and whatever, but above all? I can handle these blows.”

–And he reached his hand in for his gun, feeling for the trigger amidst gray matter and tendrils getting under his nails. Long had his disgust for this visceral act gone, leaving behind only a neutral sense of acceptance; for it had to be done.

Click.

Another shot resounded, muffled by the interiors of the body it was fired in, and the Siridean slumped over. The sound of tearing, like seams in a shirt, was proof enough for Gene that the brain stem had been torn into tiny bits and ribbons, and no longer would the being before him mutate and grow.

“Got you,” He muttered, pulling his gun from the defunct brain, leaping back down to the ground.

But. Everything else could wait, for his priority was the gun in his hand – eyes widening then sharpening with irritation as Gene saw the chrome plating’s shine dulled by blood and matter splattered across it. Furiously, he opened his bag and fetched his gun maintenance kit, wiping off the chunks clinging to the barrel and forceps before polishing it, lubing it, checking it, and reattaching it to his holster, all whilst murmuring fervently, crooning to the gun: “BulletFlay oil…good, good, that’ll keep the corrosion off. Next…just a good amount of RattlMet…can’t have it jamming up on me ever…oh sweet Beretta, are you alright?”

Once his gun was safely “laid to rest”, he began glancing at his nails, with meat and ichor caked thickly under them, he looked around, checking for anyone who decided to return to the scene. After confirming no one was there, he sucked out the gore from under his fingers, grumbling to himself with distaste. The spongy texture of gray matter mixed with the angel hair-like thinness was nothing short of unpleasantness, finding his appetite sorely spoiled; and yet, he still found his stomach strangely grumbling. As he turned back towards his house, he hummed with a detached air:

“I wonder what I should make for dinner. Another mouth to feed.”

As Man relished in the embrace of the Cure, several more growths joined the first, rippling and bubbling with glee and anticipation as to what was to come, something neither Cure nor Man knew; but something the Natural Orders had feared from the beginning.