There was a simple truth that I may have overlooked when I made my choices. To be a genetic deviant was not simply to be a discount Wolverine, it was to be a living weapon. Combat, violence, all those things that I had previously only experienced vicariously... now, I was not merely playing Dark Souls or Elden Ring, but living it. I was more than what I used to be... even if some of my choices were likely not the best. Eh, it would hardly be the first time my brain poked me towards something probably suicidal under the guise of 'but what is it like?'
It was just that this was the first time, as I moved, jumping from tree to tree (all while thanking my lucky stars that they were close together), that I was actually acting on those thoughts. It was hard to say where it came from, as I moved, sliding down the tree, feet impacting the ground, as I kept moving. It was like a spring, bubbling up in my gut, worming its way up, warm and bubbling, almost fizzling. It wasn't fear, it wasn't apprehension. It wasn't, as I ducked, claws moving up to tear through flesh and bone, something I was overly familiar with, as I started to hum.
The closest was when Luke got a bunch of his friends, when we fought. I lost in the end, but it was fun! It was a grand time, to strive and to fight, to begin to let myself go, to not really think. To finally be... calm. Happy. To laugh, as fingers clawed my my flesh, as my furnace roared, lips cracking and those sweet gentle caresses tickling as I laughed, free and hard, as I fought and killed.
I could not really say what I was doing. There was no time to think. Action. Move, laugh, sing and live, fight and fight and simply be! Laugh and scream and sing and carve towards the foe! What matters life? What matters death? Laugh at both! Dance in their arms and tear out their guts! Nothing mattered but the dance, nothing but the song! Can't you hear it in the clash of flesh and steel, as the winds howl and thunder pounds, as the salt sprays iron and copper? Can't you feel it in the ice and flame?
Can't you feel the chains snapping, as you cease to live and simply ARE?
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Luke
Matt was not a Barbarian. He was not a Teramach. But then, as Luke felt his blood run cold, Matt had always teetered in the edge of needing some serious medication. It was something that he had forgotten about, as Matt had... well, isolated himself. But now? He was throwing himself into an oncoming horde of zombies like they were some of his friends, that stopped fighting Matt after he started to laugh. Not that annoying yapping. But belly shaking gales of hilarity as he grinned, as he kept coming, as he refused to go down.
Matt, when he was not a lazy asshole, was something akin to a monster. And now the world changed to not only allow his worst habits, but to actively encourage them. And now, his crazy older brother, with a smile on his face and glowing claws was laughing like a madman as he charged into the horde. The worst thing? He was winning. The crazy fucker was not even noticing the horde, as he kept moving, lashing out and moving, always forward, ripping and tearing as he laughed and laughed... and then he did the worst thing.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
They never told their parents. But... on the very last time that the gang moved to beat the crap out of Matt? They decided to... well, they were going to avoid hitting him in the head, but he would just laugh if they kept trying to punch him, so they thought, hey, why not use some baseball bats and hockey sticks? The thing is? Matt did not react rationally. No, after he started laughing, he went quiet, and started to sing. Because he was not afraid of death. They hit him with those sticks, and he kept moving, he kept coming, singing and laughing as the sticks and bat broke.
It was then that he had his reason for why he was afraid of his brother. There was something broken in his eyes then, and as that voice belted out a verse better than his usual attempts? He remembers what made Montana flinch and run when he cried out why Matt kept coming, why he wasn't stopping. What the fat fuck said with a grin on his face, blood trickling between his teeth from where he bit down. 'Because I know I will die. Why then should I fear it?'
It was not the words, cracked as they were that scared them. It was the honest curiosity, as if he could not even understand any other point of view. It was then that he realized something, why they could not use pride as a lever. Matt... honestly placed no value on his own life. It was something that chilled the blood, as he moved, idly kicking a scythe of wind to decapitate another zombie as he moved from side to side of the road, fists punching down to pulp another with an aerokinetic haymaker.
And now he fought like a demon unleashed, as if he was born to the battlefield, as fatty met fatty in a clash of lard and muscle, guts slamming into each other with a crack that was like unto two boulder sized whoopee cushions slamming into each other at speed. Hands moved, gripping at each other, holding the other in check as they strove like sumo wrestlers, legs digging into the asphalt. Twin roars as heads moved, one to bite and the other to headbutt (and how sad is it that he did not know which would try which?), teeth breaking on a skull harder than steel.
Blood poured from the injury on Matt's forehead, even as the zombies teeth falling and clattering to the ground, as Matt laughed, as he moved, leg moving to kick a knee, bone splintering and the rancid bulk of the zombie tipping as its weight could not be supported on one side. All of this while he was using the storm that thundered inside of him just to keep the dead from swarming the pair. Matt roared again, a bestial howl, as he moved, arms moving in to grab the zombies head, as he tore it off and waved it around, laughter on his lips and madness in his eyes.
And then the fat fuck turned around and loped off towards the compound!
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Matt
One of the worst bits of letting go was... well, not really being too aware of things, as I panted, sitting down behind the walls of the compound, furnace roaring as I flooded myself with positive energy. Because damn if I was not one big bruise right now. It was a deep ache, but nothing seemed to be broken, as I stretched and rolled my shoulders and neck. Things always got fuzzy when the laughter came and pain turned into tickles that caused fresh gales of laughter.
It was, as far as I could tell from what people said, like being drunk. As in, you end up with a splitting headache, are not sure what happened in the last little bit and are wondering how you got where you ended up. So, I scratched myself, as while the rush of positive energy pushed the teeth out, it turns out at least one zombie bit me in the ass as I charged. Which was... kinda embarrassing in a way? Well, nothing to do about it but to survive the night...
And to check out this little ding.
[Congratulations! Due to mythic resonance, you have unlocked the Retribution Will Follow mythos with the Resistance Is Futile advanced manifestation! As it turns out, you always had temper problems, and now your a berserker that laughs at death! You now owe 1,500 mythos points and 375 EXP. This debt will be deducted from any future rewards!]
Well, huh. What about that. Now, if that doesn't ring warning bells for my mental health, I don't know what does. So, I know what I must do. "So, a priest is like a therapist, right?" After all, it was always good when your related to one. Easier to set up a meeting for when there was no threat of probable zombie related death.