Elina considered herself a reasonable person. She had problems, who didn’t, but when it came to a fight, she rarely charged headlong and always tried to prepare some sort of plan. Today, she had none of that. She ran toward the reeling, rotting flesh, unconcerned about the poisonous fumes capable of dissolving an Avenger alive. Her legs were leaving footprints on the rusted floor, beating up pieces of metal in the air, unafraid of a passing slam strong enough to reduce her to a bloody smear.
She gained a sort of connection to Eliza, understanding her a little bit at last. Challenging impossible odds, spitting at her own safety, and rushing forward with the sole goal of saving a life... It wasn’t her style. Given time, Elina would come up with a plan, assign roles to the teams, and prepare a safe approach. Only there wasn’t any time, and if she wants to scold Ratcatcher for being a stupid idiot and challenging Hustler alone, if she wants to kick Vasily in the nuts for risking his life to save her, she’d better adopt their strategy.
“Rowen!” she cried, looking through the cameras of the second group as they burst into the hall and Jumail speared a trio of shamblers, throwing them off his legs and shaking them to clean off the pus and rotting guts.
“You all owe me one!” Rowen responded, and the air around her turned murky as his telekinetic force formed a secondary skin around her, Carlos, and Augustus, redirecting the flow of poison. “So you better get our friends back, tigers!”
They barged into the mists, Carlos leading the way and Elina not far behind. The Chosen Prince tried to retreat; his mists licked at a wall, and it collapsed, opening a path. But he failed to gain any distance, and Lord Steward closed in, his bone drill disintegrating in the rising purple smoke. His Troll hand endured, and he grasped the enemy, drawing him near and kicking with both legs into the opponent’s forelegs, buckling the rotting form. The tyrant used his own fall to headbutt the wolfish head, melting the skin off it and liquidating the amber eye. The Chosen Prince’s torn side started closing, and tendrils erupted out of the president’s body, grabbing the wound’s edges and widening them, not allowing him to hide the prisoners.
He saw them. Lord Steward has lost his sight. Unknown variations of all manner of infections, viruses to start the rot, phages to destroy the viruses along with the skin that started adapting to them, maladies to further weaken the regenerating body before the process began anew, and God knows what else have assailed his head, shrinking it down, crystallizing it, and collapsing the ruined skull in on itself, rewriting the genetic code to turn parts of the flesh into spreading fungus. Green lines appeared on the president’s ruined head, running down his neck, trying to suffocate him and further the infection. The Chosen Prince pushed himself off his foe and fixed his eyes on the approaching Carlos. His free hand moved.
And a beam of light came from the sky, like a salvation from heaven. It struck the rotting face, burning away an eye and exposing the bone cheek. The Chosen Prince raised his hand to shield himself from the brilliant light, and the trainees jumped, giving no thought to the nature of their unexpected help. They truly embraced Ratcatcher’s idea. Here is an opportunity; here are people in need; no second guessing: go, go, go!
Carlos landed over the mutilated Eliza, wrapped one hand around her body, and screamed in pain as his right hand sank down to his elbow. The rotting flesh started dissolving his armor; it shifted and closed around his legs, trying to suck the teenager in and make him one with the Chosen Prince. And yet he pressed on, pulling the Ratcatcher free with a single hand, ignoring the pain.
Elina suffered less; her legs found footing on the moving bone, and only her arm got caught in the oscillated lung. And the agony overflowed her. The armor didn’t hold; it shed like the leaves of a tree. Rowen’s telekinetic bubble burst around the damaged area, and acid flowed down her arm, tearing off the skin and reducing her fingers to bone before she could create a single shockwave. Filth connected to her arteries. She could sense it. Her veins turned hot and joined the lung’s putrid flesh; the bones flowed, supporting the Chosen Prince’s growth. She groaned and wrapped an arm around the skinless Vasily.
Hurt. Dad, it hurts so much. Elina whimpered.
Submit to the perfect order. Give your flesh to me, servant. Elina heard a voice in her head through the feverish haze, threatening to render her unconscious. Cold and hot rolled over her body at the same time, but she did what she thought Vasily or Ratcatcher would do. She bit her tongue, tasting blood, and concentrated on rescuing her comrade.
He screamed. His lung was still pierced, and the scream came out a little louder than a whisper, but the pain the teenager was experiencing had to be unbearable. Elina hoped he would be unconscious and was horrified by the movement of the lidless eyes and the sheer ocean of agony in them. The teen thrashed, moaning, whimpering, and releasing his bowels, and Eliza had done the same, flapping around with her tail. And worst of all, they couldn’t get them out any gentler. They had to push, rubbing the metal arm against the exposed muscles and adding even more suffering.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
“Here goes nothing!” Elina and Carlos cried and pushed their friends closer with all their might.
Maybe the S-Class Abnormal hadn’t regained his strength yet. Perhaps he was distracted by the laser beam hitting his head or by Lord Steward’s brutal kicks to his legs. It could be that all his focus was on destroying the tendrils trying to reach his neck or holding back the Troll arm.
They never knew the reason, but Elina heard the cracking sound of the veins and arteries holding Vasily in place, some of them, the ones coming from the back of the trainee’s head, outright exploded, and she wasn’t sure it was her doing at all. It was as if someone else helped them, and the sound of hissing currents covering her visor with acrid blood was like the most beautiful music in the world. Second best to a faint heartbeat, her sensors caught in Vasily’s chest.
“Instructor!” Elina screamed. “Cut it! Cut us free!”
Augustus didn’t hesitate. He was already in the air, his sabers flashing. The first thing she felt was a chill — a passing chill that surprised her. How could there be a cold in this room? From where? Even the cooling systems of her armor warned about the unnatural heating resulting in her body sweating as a fever messed with her immune system. Next came the pain. They knew of it, and it still hurt like hell! Augustus sliced her trapped arm below the shoulder and cleaved through Carlos’ trapped limbs in one fell swoop.
They fell, still holding their comrades to their chests, screaming and crying from the pain, and witnessed a ray of light linking the monster’s face to the sky. The laser was coming from the heavy, dark clouds, hitting its mark with impeccable accuracy. But its intensity was too weak, and the Chosen Prince spasmed, turning away from Lord Steward, a new light shining in his ruined eye as his body repaired itself.
Jumail caught them. His legs closed around Augustus, Elina, and Carlos, and the Malformed sprang back, covering a great distance away from the Chosen Prince in a single leap, performing the main tactic of explorators. Can’t beat an enemy? Leave and live another day.
“You dare?” The sick ruler roared, trying to push the headless body away. “You dare take what I rightfully conquered…”
“At last.” A new head emerged from the stump in Lord Steward’s neck, an insectoid head, its antennae elegantly curved back, and clusters of dark eyes dotting the hardened chitin. Mandibles clicked, and Lord Steward spoke from two mouths, one natural and one at the back of his body. “Telekinetic kid! I am relying on you; make a wall now!”
“Wait, what…” Despite his confusion, Rowen acted on instinct. His protective cocoons washed away from the group, and he had erected an invisible wall separating the group from the fighting titans.
And Lord Steward unleashed his power. His torso was stripped of all fur; it fell off, and cancerous growths spread over the bronze Wolfkin’s flesh. As if by magic, the black veins disappeared, the bulbous pimples spat out pure water, and immediately turned into a smooth skin that turned into hardened chitin plates positioned so close to each other that it was impossible to push even a straw in-between the individual brown carapace armor. Four new arms sprouted from his sides, four arms ending in pincers and bladed fingers, and he let go of the Chosen Prince, uppercutting the bastard using his Troll arm so fast that the monster’s head vanished from view.
Along with everything near them and the distant tunnel leading deeper into the factory. Lord Steward held back; he had to; otherwise, they would all be dead, killed by a shockwave, but his blow was strong enough to create a tornado of air that sent everything upward: the floor, ruined pieces of his body, and the blueish giant. Wings unfolded from the president’s shoulder blades, immaculate membranes of a rainbow hue shining as bright as a star. Four great wings buzzed, and Lord Steward leapt after the enemy, spreading tendrils of flesh and devouring his own remains as well as the wreckage and even the torn pieces of his enemy.
They reached the clouds in less than a moment, and Lord Steward kicked, ramming two legs, ending up in gruesome stingers, into the Chosen Prince’s sternum. The resulting shockwave cleared the sky by banishing the clouds. It kept going on and on, hitting the ground and even shaking the factory. The opposite wall and everything disappeared, revealing a clear view of the desolate plains. Halls, rooms, factory equipment — there was nothing in sight but the field. Lord Steward’s punch had destroyed it all.
As Jumail carried them away, Elina turned back, holding Vasily close to her chest. It boggled the mind. In the time it took Jumail to cross a quarter of the hall, the situation turned upside down. She saw the plains covered by the destroyed line breakers and more wicked stuff. Some biomechanical horrors lived still, and rays of light pierced the sky, vaporizing everyone and even corpses with obscene precision. The rain of lasers surrounded the facility, spreading out in an even circle, killing the resurrected monsters before a single one could even take a step toward Stonehelm or the factory.
And there, kilometers away, he was. The Chosen Prince. Even if her zoom had failed to capture the monster, its presence, an arrogant and wrathful blot, was almost palpable. The kick had landed him a dozen kilometers away, sending a rumbling ripple through the ground and opening new rifts. The destructive rain was already upon him; lasers struck him through the still rising dust, shining so brightly that even the zoom of her helmet struggled to comprehend what was happening.
A green mushroom rose, reaching the skies; the explosion of disease so potent that it crumbled the very stones and created a grand chasm. Lord Steward plunged into this hell, already mutating into an oversized beast of pink flesh with long tentacles for the upper jaw, a bulbous head, two large arms, and a pair of leather wings.