I watch, wary, as he waves around the gun. “I’m sick of people telling me what to fucking do!”
Yeah, he’s nuts.
Meet Donovan Ringhand. Born and raised in Atlanta, Georgia and fellow student at Riverside Conant.
He’s the quiet kid in the back nobody pays attention to. Standard isolationist at lunch. On his phone during class. Self-induced social pariah after trying and failing to ask a girl out in the middle of the hallway with everyone watching. Occasionally a bullying target, despite his height. Standing at an impressive six foot one, wearing his typical jeans and primary color t-shirt, and currently holding my school hostage.
Well, not the whole school. Let it be known that while Donovan is probably going to shoot up the place with that handy Beretta M9 he has clutched in his hand, at least he’s a selective school shooter. Donovan doesn’t have the confidence in himself to try a full attack.
He doesn’t even have confidence in himself now. I can see it in the way he stands. Shoulders hunched. Eyes darting anywhere but the teacher. Finger inside the trigger guard already, which if you know anything about firearms is just asking for an accident. Hands shaking as he holds the pistol.
I wonder if that will count for anything in court? ‘Yes, your honor. When given the chance, my client, Mr. Ringhand, only held his homeroom class hostage, and not the cafeteria.’
I ain’t no lawyer, but somehow I doubt that will matter.
I slowly get up and start walking along the wall. I’m already near the corner, and it is remarkably easy to get out of his line of sight without attracting attention.
I relax a little once the wall hides me. I think I can do this. I might die, but that’s alright. Death is the only universal constant, so why not go down fighting?
The classroom’s layout is a weird L shape, and a bookshelf protrudes out of the wall. It doesn’t have anything good in it, if you’re curious. Just the standard line up of To Kill a Mockingbird, 1984, and other classics. After a few dozen feet there is the door he is currently guarding. The only exit.
Just kidding. I walk as quickly as I dare past some windows, already open. The Georgia breeze at my back. I could slip out onto the roof and run. He wouldn’t notice a thing. Unlike the rest of my classmates, I’ve had a lot of practice finding my way back to the ground. Properly taking a fall was one of the first things I learned, and dodging teachers is basically second nature to me by now. Donovan isn’t nearly as observant.
That would be no fun though. I’ve never ambushed a school shooter before.
I barely whisper under my breath. “Hello, Death.”
It’s tradition.
He’s finally found something to say again. “You didn’t care! Nobody ever cared about me!”
Is it weird I’m daydreaming while my life is in danger? Yes, but weird is a word to describe something outside the context of societal social norms, or, in the case of a person, someone of strange or extraordinary character.
Adrenaline pumps through me and I smile at the comfortable feeling. “It’s me, Clara.” I’ve never cared about sociological platitudes.
What? I read.
“And you! You… you… you bullied me!” A public speaker, Berettas do not make. He didn’t practice before he jumped in? Always practice what you can before a stunt. That’s rule number one. Surely he didn’t happen to bring a gun to school and decide to use it now on a whim.
Scratch that. This is Donovan we’re talking about.
My footsteps are soft on the carpet, and I avoid that creaky spot in the floorboards. “Will you take me this time?”
There are ten of us in here besides the moron. Nine students including me, and homeroom teacher Mr. Davidson. Normally I wouldn’t care at all. I’ve already encouraged each of them to live, and they rejected me. If you want to be boring for the rest of your life, fine. I won’t give a crap about you.
But I have to care. This is an opportunity too good to pass up, and nothing less than a flawless victory is acceptable.
“You guys keep pushing me down! Well now imma start pushing back! How do you like that?!”
The wall ends and I turn the corner. “Or will you let me go.”
I am hiding behind the side of the bookshelf now. Just call me Solid Snake. The Metal Gear Solid theme song plays in the back of my head, and my fingers twitch for my phone, but no, this is a stealth mission. Playing music is not stealthy, and my phone is custom made to fill rooms with the sound of high quality headbangers.
Some of the other students have noticed me, and they are all smart enough to look away as soon as they do. Thank god.
I finish my kind-of-but-not-really prayer, careful not to tip off Donovan. “To tempt you again.”
Mantra complete. Stretching my limbs in preparation, I double-check the position of everyone and calculate how fast I am going to have to be to reach him before he reacts. It’s going to be close.
Then I see the teacher, and my stomach lurches.
Mr. Davidson is staring right at me, eyes wide.
I resist the urge to facepalm. You are going to give me away, idiot! I know we’ve had our differences, but get your head in the game old man!
Wait. I can use this actually.
Donovan continues his rant, picking up steam. Blah blah blah you hate me blah blah blah. I’m running out of time, but an idea sparks. Donovan’s guilt is only directed towards Mr. Davidson, not any of the other students, so I point at my teacher and discreetly sign in ASL. Keeping my hands from peeking out from behind the bookshelf, I sign, ‘Distraction three seconds’.
He shakes his head in denial, and hate flares in my chest. Fine! I’ll do it myself!
“Hey! What are you looking at?!”
Donovan starts to turn to where Mr. Davidson is looking. That’s still me, by the way.
Hiding might as well be suicide, and the teacher is somehow even more stupid than Donovan. Out of options, I jump out of cover.
“Clara! No!” Moron number two’s yelling prompts Donovan to raise his gun. Fuck!
Adrenaline slows everything down. There are only a few dozen feet between me and him, but I was standing still. Pushing off the ground, I close the distance. I’m a very good sprinter, if I do say so myself. That’s not the issue though. I’m still subject to the laws of physics. I’ve had no time to accelerate, and Mr. Davidson has kindly warned my target of my approach.
Thanks a lot. If I survive this, I am going to dump you in a lake with only a life jacket and leave you to swim to shore. See how you like being left with no help.
I pick up speed. The floor creaks. Stealth mission failed. Halfway there.
Donovan finally sees me, and I practically hear the alert sound effect. He’s not that unobservant. His arm swivels around. “Hey!”
I tackle him, and our bodies smash together as we are driven to the floor, wrestling for the gun.
BANG! That’s a gunshot, in case you’ve never heard one before.
I rip the gun away from his trembling grip and flip it around in my hands. This shouldn’t be too hard, right?
My classmates are all screaming their heads off. The high pitch almost distracts me, but I’m focused. I’m always focused.
“Wha-” BANG! Yep. Point and shoot.
My classmates are still screaming, even though the threat was literally removed in front of them, and Mr. Davidson is yelling my name. Too late moron number one, recently promoted from number two. Donovan has a hole in his head now. That counts as self-defense, no matter what state you are in. Not that it would stop me.
That was amazing! I didn’t even need to engineer the situation or preparation time! It just happened!
I drop the gun, careful to not point it at anyone. I won.
Another death denied. I breathe a sigh in relief, only to wince, a sharp pain in my chest demanding my attention. I look down.
Oh.
That’s a hole.
That’s a bullet hole.
In me.
My vision swims at the sight. A wave of exhaustion swells within me and I collapse on the floor. My shirt blossoms with red. It looks so pretty.
“Clara! No! Stay with me!” Mr. Davidson is here now. I hate him so much. “Somebody call an ambulance!” Would you stop yelling?
I watch as the red darkens over my heart. Then my vision darkens too. A pair of wrinkled hands presses against the wound. It won’t matter. “Clara! Don’t die on me! Hang in there!”
His voice is so grating. He can’t even let me sleep in peace. The classroom falls away and I try to speak. “F-”
“Clara! Don’t talk! We’re getting you help!”
Shut up. This is all your fault, and I’m trying to give my last words here. I suck in a breath and pain lances through me again. It’s fine. In the words of Doctor Strange, pain’s an old friend. “F-”
“Clara?!”
I glare at him with all the hate and disgust I can muster. “Fuck you Mr. Davidson.”
Confusion overrides his panic. “What?”
Forget it. This guy’s too dense.
Warmth spreads. The hole is the center of the universe. All I can see. All I can feel. I cough and taste something warm and metallic. Mr. Davidson jerks back for some reason. My lips curl. Coward.
My vision flickers, and I stop resisting the pull.
I die.
----
I’ve had so many close calls I thought I was invincible. Turns out I was just lucky, until I wasn’t.
Ironic.
Someone else’s fear of death led to mine. Of all the ways I thought I would go, I was certain it would at least be my fault.
Guess the answer was yes.
Fair.
I’ve tempted it more times than I can count.
----
Black. Nothing but nothing.
Is nothing something?
One of those philosophical questions that don’t actually matter but are fun to think about. My answer is no. Everything that exists doesn’t exist everywhere. It has an absence, and nothing is simply the absence of anything. Not just one thing.
So is this what death is like? Endless void style huh?
Boring. I chuckle, and then my amusement is immediately shoved aside for terror.
Boring.
This is bad. Oh this is bad.
The longest I can remember going without stimulation was five days, and it was five days of hell. I frantically twist my head from left to right. Nononononononono.
I need to find something to do before I go insane. I can’t do nothing forever! I’m Clara Ginge! I ain’t Buddha!
No offense if you’re Buddhist or anything. I took one look at meditation and ran the other way. I’m all for new experiences, but sitting down that long is absurd. I’ll take the path to excitement over the path to enlightenment any day, because I know who I am already. Thank you very much.
I’m still panicking when I realize my eyes are closed. Idiot. I rub the rheum out of my eyes, and the pitch black recedes to only moderately dark. Yes! No insanity for me!
My eyes adjust while I sit up. I comb through my hair with my hands. Several knots in it come undone as I straighten it out. I need to find a brush, ASAP. Good thing I cut it short. Nothing like snagging it on a fence, losing your normally impeccable balance, and dangling there to convince you to change hairstyles.
Empty room. Wooden floorboards. White or gray paint on the walls, I can’t tell in this lighting. Window to my right. Door to my left. Ceiling has a single lightbulb.
Empty as in no furniture, not just no people. I check my shirt. No hole, and the picture of baby Groot yelling ‘I am Groot!’ is clean of any blood. Alright then. I guess death lets you take your clothes. The afterlife is already shaping up to be nice. Rolling myself to a crouch, I stand and peer out the window.
A beautiful city skyline greets me.
The sight of buildings dotted with lights contrasted with the night sky takes my breath away. Constant turning off and on all across the city gives the appearance of twinkling stars. The angle is absolutely perfect. Like a painter purposefully positioned the stars of the sky and the stars of the people to juxtapose together. The realness of the image only adds to the sense of awe. It’s probably a metaphor or something.
I stare for longer than I should.
Past the buildings is a gorgeous expanse of water, waves washing against the sand in synchronized patterns. The coastline juts out into the bay to the left and more houses block my view, but to the right it continues in a straight line with a large expanse of beach for tourists to sunbathe, until a warehouse a few blocks down interrupts my line of sight. Nearly no boat traffic though. Hmm.
I tap my cheek. Strange. For a location on the ocean like this, you would expect more coastal action.
A few cars crisscross through the streets below me, and some Asian kids are smoking as they walk down the sidewalk. That probably isn’t nicotine. Not with the way they swagger and act like they own the street. One kid gets another in a headlock, and the rest circle around to cheer him on. Some of their jeans have bulges, and not the fun kind.
Gang members, or a college fraternity. Every city has them. With guns, a gang seems more likely.
They’re being open about it too, which implies confidence in their ability to hold territory from both other gangs, and the authorities. I haven’t been to a city like this in a while.
I draw my phone from its holster and take a selfie, making sure to not block the shot. From this height I think I’m on the second or third floor. Probably an apartment complex.
Hell has either put a lot of money into their construction budget, or I’m somewhere else. Not a fire in sight. I place my phone back and sniff experimentally. No sulfur or brimstone either. I know the smell, and no, it doesn’t smell like rotten eggs.
It smells a lot worse. If anything, rotten eggs smell like a knock off of brimstone, not the other way around. I grimace at the memory. It really clears out the sinuses. Not an experience I would go through again.
Somewhere else then. Not heaven, of course. No gangs in heaven. At least I hope there are no gangs in heaven. Not Earth either. I’m not that lucky, and death is final.
Another world.
Only one thing to do in that case.
I tear my eyes away from the window and walk to the door. It creaks as I close it behind me. Clara the Explorer is on the job. I wish I had a backpack, or a map.
No carpet in the hallway, just more wooden floorboards. The paint is the same too.
Recently built? I scan the walls. Some of the paint is peeling off. No. The landlord doesn’t care and is being stingy. Both the paint and a few long gouges in the floor support my analysis, and I make a mental note.
To my left are more doors until the hallway reaches a dead end, each labeled with a three digit number in the two hundreds. Most of them are closed, but I can hear the faintest sound of someone talking a few doors down. Definitely an apartment complex, and on the second floor.
To my right are a few more doors and a stairwell leading both up and down. I take a picture of the room number behind me. 205. No one is using it, so I’ll call it home for now and see about actually renting it later. It’s just one big room, which is about as cheap as you can get.
I pat myself down and am relieved to feel my wallet in my pocket. Yes, I found shorts with pockets in the women’s section. Why women’s fashion designers are so against pockets, I will never understand. I bet they have pockets in their clothes.
As for money, my card won’t work. My bank account doesn’t even exist here. I have a few rolls of twenties and some hundred dollar bills though, so I’ll be fine. Assuming the currency is the same.
You know. For bribes. You never know when you’ll need someone to look the other way. Sometimes you gotta do something exciting, and exciting has this unfortunate habit of being illegal.
Enough money to buy me some time.
I hum a ditty, yes I use that word, quietly and confidence buoys my mood. I have money, a home, and a can do attitude. I died, but that’s ok. Adventure awaits. Life is great.
Naturally, that’s when Murphy hits me over the head.
I’m climbing down the stairs when they appear, and my above average sense of balance is the only thing that stops me from tumbling down. I shriek in surprise. Catching myself on a railing that probably won’t support my whole weight, I close my eyes, but they don’t disappear.
Everybody in five hundred feet heard that, but I’ve got another, more immediate problem.
The words.
Have you ever had a song stuck in your head? Like, really stuck in there? Where nothing you can do will drive it out?
Every beat and note progression seared into your mind like a brand. You try to push it out with another song, but it stands firm.
Your head bobs up and down to the rhythm.
Your steps unconsciously align with the enunciation of the lyrics, and you mutter them under your breath when you aren’t paying attention.
The song becomes your buffer. Interposing itself between you and reality. You can still function, but it's distracting. Thoughts derail, and having a conversation is tainted by the melody.
Eventually it passes, but if you think about it, it persists. The only way to remove it is to ignore it, and it is difficult to not think about something on purpose.
Purple elephant.
I bet you just thought of a purple elephant right? In fact, you’re still thinking about it. The SCP Foundation would call it a memetic effect. An idea that spreads from person to person through communication, and occupies your thoughts until something pushes it out. Every time someone takes in information from anywhere, that happens, but by calling attention to thinking about it the idea becomes much harder to move on from.
This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.
How about this?
You are now manually breathing.
Now you are noticing each inhale and exhale. Breathing should be automatic, but automatic is just that, automatic. Your decision to notice your breath has told your body you want manual control. The only way you can give control back is by not thinking about it. This is a memetic hazard. A memetic effect that has a significant effect on functionality.
If you don’t think this really matters, consider a memetic hazard that does more than being annoying. An idea that hurts when you think about it, or unnaturally changes how you think, or prevents you from thinking well. Much worse than controlling your breathing.
You are now aware of your tongue.
Ha! You thought I was done.
Ok. I’ll stop now.
The words were like a song stuck in your head, but without music. Always there, but only in the mind. They hovered on the edge of my thoughts. I couldn’t let them go. A song can fade…
I knew the words would not. Never. Maybe not even in death, if my current situation was anything to go by.
As you might have guessed, they were also a memetic hazard. Not just an effect. I could feel the desire to activate them. To use them. To speak them.
I could still think clearly, they didn’t interrupt that at least, but imagine someone constantly ringing your doorbell. You could still write an essay through the noise, you could tune it out, but it’s going to be harder than if you just answer the door.
They said this.
Path to _______ while being hella cool.
Yeah. Just… yeah.
I rub my nose in confusion as I resume climbing down the stairs. Who the heck says hella nowadays? Shouldn’t there be a comma after the blank? What do you mean by Path?
I’m not asking the obvious question, where did the words come from, because the answer is equally obvious.
Someone is messing with me. Someone with magic, or maybe I have an implant. The words aren't actually there. I can see them with my eyes closed or open. They don’t even block anything in my vision, which makes no sense because I can see them clearly.
I take a deep breath to reduce my frustration, and then have to pause on the stairs, again, when I feel my body change with no warning whatsoever. Hey! Do you mi-
Holy crap this is incredible!
I keep myself in good shape. With the kind of stunts I tend to pull off, I have to. Gymnastics training and a personalized exercise regimen give me the athletic figure my classmates can only dream of.
Instead of bulk, I went for maximum flexibility and enough strength to lift myself easily. I’m not interested in showing off how much I can lift. I want to run, jump, cartwheel, flip, and climb my way through any obstacle, at any time.
No one cares if you can lift three hundred pounds and be a manly man afterwards. I can, and have, done a triple backflip off a fire escape, stuck the landing on the hood of a Toyota Corolla, and done another backflip to land on the ground. All in one smooth motion.
It wasn’t my car, and I had to bribe the owner. I smile fondly at the memory of the argument and test out my new body as I go down. Good times.
So you could say my fitness abilities are, were, a bit higher than your average obese American. This? This is on another level altogether.
Every minute ache and cramp in my muscles, gone. My joints bend like they’ve been treated with frictionless oil. My heart thumps slowly, exhaustion and panic forgotten. The ever-present fog clouding my thoughts vanishes, my mind sharpening like a razor. Thoughts put themselves together like a master jigsaw puzzle solver. My weight decreases, and my limbs feel like I could parkour up the sides of this building with no handholds and no issues. The chill in the air that used to be giving me goosebumps is no longer noticeable.
Hold on. Does that mean I can wear shorts in the winter? It better.
Every aspect of my body has been optimized and enhanced, and I’m certain I’m only noticing half of what is actually happening. I just got hit with the juice to end all juices.
A laugh escapes my lips and only the thought of attracting unwanted attention stops me from doubling over in hysterics. Forget steroids, what is this stuff?!
More interference from whoever stuck the words in my head, I bet. They aren’t messing around. Maybe I should buy them something nice?
Focus, Clara. This doesn’t matter. Not right now. Find out where you are first, then yell at the magic text message and do some backflips.
I climb down the stairs and see the exit, marked by one of those obnoxious ‘Exit’ signs with the red font. I always thought those looked ugly. I understand practicality and the importance of fire safety, but they look so boring. I am about to exit the exit when a flash of red catches my eye.
A fire extinguisher hangs in the hallway. Safety labels and usage instruction stickers are on the canister, but I ignore them. I know them all by heart anyway.
Mine.
I unhook the fire extinguisher and give it a few test swings. Heavy. Probably never been used before. Then I switch my grip and act like I am using it for its intended purpose. I can work with this.
I haven’t actually taken any combat classes or even been in a fight, but braining someone with a metal stick can’t be too hard. I’m basically Clara 2.0 right now.
Donovan doesn’t count. I died. Not exactly much of a confidence boost.
I smile ear to ear. I’m Clara 2.0 right now. There are so many new experiences I want to try. Like leaping buildings, or hopping from tree to tree like a monkey, or swimming in a thunderstorm. I can hardly wait!
Feeling like a kid in a candy store, I step out onto the sidewalk, snap a picture of the building’s address, and take in the street. The kids from earlier are long gone by now. The street itself is unlit, and the buildings all look like they’ve seen better days, paint peeling and roofs obviously in need of replacement. The sidewalk is filled with cracks and some sections are straight up missing.
This is a bad neighborhood then. The kind the police don’t bother patrolling as much because no tourist would ever walk here. Gang protection rackets. The occasional shootout. Etcetera etcetera.
I pick a random direction and walk. Abandoned building here. Abandoned building there. Another pack of kids. Same swagger as before, but different group.
I squint. Asians. Ok. Once is happenstance, and twice may be coincidence, but this is a pattern. Even with two data points. The chance of two groups being all Asian and in the same territory, while being enemies, and not attacking each other is essentially zero. Therefore, this is an Asian gang ruled neighborhood. A big gang, and here I am a white girl walking alone in the middle of the night. My excessive tanning will not fool anyone.
I’m not worried. I’m pretty sure I have superpowers.
My new and improved dexterity lets me roll the can between the tips of each finger as I hold my hands out in a t-pose. Then I let it fall, roll it down my leg, hook it with the side of my foot, and flick it back into my hand. Nice.
Worst case is guns, but it’s harder to aim in the dark, and a little risk is what I’m looking for. What I’m always looking for.
A splash of red graffiti decorates the wall of another apartment complex across the street. I try to read the atrocious handwriting. If you can call spraypainting handwriting. Add vision to the list of enhancements.
Who needs binoculars? Not Clara Ginge.
Azn Bad Boyz
Oh, it’s a gang tag.
…seriously?
Misspelling a word doesn’t make it cool! It lets everyone know you skipped kindergarten! I shake my head. What a disgrace.
Once, I wanted to know what the name of the Japanese crime syndicates, the yakuza, really meant. So I did some digging, and what I found made me laugh out loud and wake my parents. The word means ‘good for nothing’, named after a worthless hand in a Japanese card game similar to blackjack.
Now there is a good name! Simple. Direct. Somewhat humorous and ironic. Doesn’t sound stupid. Preferably one word. It checks all the boxes.
Azn Bad Boyz is just asking to be made fun of. First of all, it’s in English. An Asian gang name is in English. Right away they’re basically giving up their right to be taken seriously if they’re planning on being racist, and the name literally has the word ‘Asian’ in it.
Then, as if it wasn’t bad enough, it’s in broken English. Is there a point to having z’s instead of s’s? Cultural context? Personal history?
Somehow I doubt it.
Something about that phrase is familiar to me though. I keep my eyes on the group of gang members as I walk and think. Do they know their leaders failed high school spelling? Maybe I should go ask.
Later.
Have I read something about it before? I couldn’t have, right? There is no way I died only to end up in the same world again. That would be way too boring.
I stop walking and rest against a wall, another gang tag a few feet away. I read it over and over. That phrase. I’ve definitely seen it before, which means I’ve read about this gang before.
I don’t think I ever did much research on gangs. Provoking criminals is the kind of trouble that sticks with you and strikes when you least expect it. Usually with bullets. I didn’t want future stunts interrupted because some biker recognized me. Gangs are interesting, sure, but I either read research for my next plan or fiction books.
I freeze.
Fiction.
Quivering in excitement, I jump up and down and laugh. I’m in a fictional world. I start to shake even more. I just obtained superpowers. I’m in a fictional world with superpowers. There is absolutely no chance no one else has superpowers too.
I sit down cross legged against the wall and press both of my pointer fingers to my forehead. Think. Which one? Most of what I read is either in the sci-fi or superhero genre, and this ain’t Star Trek or-
I hear a buzzing, slowly drowning out the ambient sounds of the neighborhood. That does not sound normal. I take a chance and look up.
Bugs fill the sky. Mosquitos, wasps, bees, fireflies, butterflies, normal flies, and who knows what else rush across the street. All heading in the same direction.
On the ground, spiders, ants, crickets, and a few centipedes also crawl the same way. A black tide briefly flooding the street.
No way.
I get up and use every ounce of my newfound speed to sprint, following the trail. Vaulting over a dumpster lining the wall of an alleyway, I hear screams and grin as I run. It is!
The alleyway opens up in front of me so I press myself against the wall, remembering the battle. It was pretty brutal. Poison isn’t a nice way to fight, but it was all she had.
FOOOMSHHHHHHHHH.
FOOOMSHHHHHHHHH.
Streaks of fire wash the sky and the temperature rises. Insects of all kinds fall out of the air, still on fire and looking like miniature shooting stars as they burn to ash. Countless more replace them and the buzzing is all I can hear. After a moment, I take a peek around the corner.
BOOM!
Flame explodes down the street, and I get my first look at the pyrokinetic.
A bare chested Asian man grows bigger and bigger. Fire coils around him to no effect, sometimes tracing the dragon tattoos that cover his skin. He snarls and bugs curl up and die from his heat alone. Others are confused, suffocating but still obeying orders. The smoke billowing around his figure makes him look like a heavy metal singer who spent all their money on stage smoke.
BOOM!
A second explosion erupts from him and sets a nearby gang member on fire. Adding to the already chaotic amount of noise, he screams and stops, drops, and rolls. Third degree burns or death. I know it when I see it. No amount of fire extinguisher will heal what has been already burned, and I wouldn’t waste it on him anyway.
The rest of the gang members flee, or are on the ground in pain. I notice their weapons strewn across the pavement. Most are screaming, but some are unconscious. Dragon guy isn’t helping.
What little is left of the supervillain’s clothes falls away in rags. He stomps out of the smoke with eye searing amounts of fire held in each hand. I lay myself on the ground to stay under his eye level as he searches for the bug controller. On his head is a metal dragon mask with eyes glaring in rage. The reflection of silvery scales glint and more inch up his body, almost up to his spine now.
He roars and it echoes across the neighborhood. Not like an animal, but like my former mentor Adrian Mell did when he couldn’t open a jar of olives. Anger and frustration.
Adrian did everything loud, didn’t he?
A mini-swarm gathers and Lung lashes out with blazing heat. They burn. Lung waits but no more seems to be coming. She’s rethinking her strategy.
There’s a lull in the fighting for a moment, so I pull myself back into cover. I giggle softly, then stop. He’ll get super hearing soon.
This is perfect.
The ocean with no ships. The words. The body tune up. The gang tag. The bugs. The dragon man.
They all point to the same thing.
The ocean with no ships? Brockton Bay. Leviathan completely wrecked the shipping industry and this city used to thrive on it.
The words? The body tune up? My powers. I dunno where they come from. This isn’t a shard because I didn’t have a trigger event or drink anything nasty. Not important right now.
Azn Bad Boyz? Shorten to ABB. The Asian parahuman gang. One of three that fight over the Bay, assuming you don’t count the Protectorate and the PRT as a gang.
Their gimmick is only having two or three members, but who they do have are powerhouses.
Oni Lee, a teleporting kamikaze who leaves clones. His mind is gone from too many teleports because his shard deconstructs and reconstructs him like a Star Trek teleporter and misses a few details each time. He follows orders really well though.
Bakuda, who held her school hostage just like Donovan and has about the same amount of emotional intelligence. She’s building a big bomb, bigger than any other bomb, ever™.
And Lung, the dragon man, who wins as long as he isn’t losing. Stalemates just mean more time to ramp up, so you either kill him through the regeneration or run. Mostly run.
The bugs? Taylor Hebert. Skitter. Weaver. Khepri. Our resident protagonist destined to save the world, because what would a superhero story be without that? Bug control over a multiple block radius, but inexperienced and seeking escape from her bullies.
Conclusion?
I’m in Worm.
FOOOMSHHHHHHHHH.
BOOM!
Another stream of fire and explosion snap me out of my euphoria. Lung screams as I set myself upright. Get it together. Worm might be a story, but right now it’s very real. Focus.
I skim through what I remember from the plot of one of my most favorite web serials. I swear I must have reread it over five times.
Lung wants to kill ‘children’ and can’t keep his voice down. Taylor hears and is obligated to attack. Swarm meets fire. Should have used more poison. Things are going well for Taylor until…
The street is almost silent. Most of the bugs are dead and Lung is only coating himself with fire to burn any stragglers off. Right. Super secret super hearing gives her away. I’m going to put that on the wiki when I get the chance.
Do I interfere? Fighting Lung head on is by far the most dangerous thing you can do in Brockton Bay. At least until Leviathan drops by.
…ha!
I hold in my giddiness and tap the phone attached to my holster with practiced movements. Sounds exciting. Sounds thrilling! Allowing the words to be in the center of my mind, I pull up a song. If this does what I think it does…
Path to beating Lung, while being hella cool.
Then I’m in for a treat.
Oh, hey! Mysterious benefactor added a comma.
Knowledge flows into my movements. It doesn’t take me over, but guides me. Like a partner on the dance floor. I glide out of the alley with a grace I’ve never felt before. Not even after months of self-taught dance practice. Every placement of my feet is sure. I will not, cannot, misstep. The floor might as well be frictionless at my command.
I spin the fire extinguisher like a basketball on my finger and Lung’s head snaps to me. Distraction successful. No burns for Taylor today.
My right thumb presses play as the rest of me performs, the fire extinguisher flowing around my body in ways that are technically physically viable, but would never happen without assistance. Blackway and Black Caviar’s voices ring out into the air and my path adjusts to their tune. ♪ What’s up danger. ♪
“There you are!”
Here I am.
I incline my head to him and end the show. My excitement is tempered with concentration. Always be thinking. Always be ready. Your demise is only an inch away. “Hello, Death.”
The rap picks up. ♪ What’s up danger. ♪ Every time I use it, I thank myself for spending that much money on my phone’s speakers. There are few songs that I resonate with, and this is one of them. Three guesses why.
He raises his hand, now more of a claw. Fire licks against his scales. I tense, preparing to dodge at just the right time. When the words say to move.
Lowering myself almost parallel to the ground, I dash to meet him, eyes on that mask. Laughter will come later. There is only me, and the stunt.
The payoff will be worth it. It always is.
“It’s me, Clara.”