“Goliath!” The Taipan Riders leader waved at the now docile creature. It stopped in its tracks beside her. “I’m sure you don’t want to fight my little pet. Just send me a portion of your company shares. Make me a part of your little crew, and I’ll make sure you have an army at your disposal.”

The creature was large—deformed but humanoid in nature. It had visible limbs and a face that looked like it had been partially melted off, and considering its receptiveness to voice commands, it seemed to possess some form of intelligence. Its naked body was covered in bright, multi-colored tubes and torn cables. Almost like it had just escaped from some sort of laboratory of unethical practices.

“What have you done to it?” the Creator asked.

“Drugs!” she answered back. A mischievous grin formed. “What do you think these were from? Candy? It was from lots and lots of drugs! Oh, it was so fun feeding my sweetie pie!”

What a lunatic.

“Nobody else has the fuckin’ guts to do it! They got stupid rules to follow, you know?” She laughed. “My head researcher was miffed about the whole thing, sayin’ shit like, ‘Oh, but the code of ethics!’ Who the fuck cares?! Why’d you come to a gang if you had ethics involved?! I obviously killed him.”

Rules to follow… Those familiar words… Damn it! Why was he comparing his own words to hers? They were clearly in different context; she was nothing like him. He’d done his research far more efficiently, and it was better.

He wasn’t anything like her.

“So? Down for the deal?” the leader said. She started almost sensually rubbing the creature’s arms. “C’mon! Just fifty-one percent. That’s it. Better than being smashed into pulp by my little sweetie pie, eh?”

“And why would I do that?” Fifty-one percent was basically the entire company. She was asking for the whole damn thing.

“Okay. Don’t say I didn’t try.” She shrugged him off before shooting two times into the air. “Taipan Riders! We’re murderin’ today!” And with a third shot, her army of goons readied themselves at the forefront…

But one grunt stood, quivering. Far in the back. He seemed frightened.

“B-boss, I don’t know if I can do this.” The tip of his blade trembled just the same. His legs wobbled, and his head shook with every word spoken. “H-he’s the Creator! W-we can’t—”

“What?!” the leader yelled. She sounded intensely agitated. Without warning, she pulled up her gun and shot the man straight in the chest. “What a fuckin’ waste.”

Waste…?

The grunt fell to his knees, holding his chest tightly as the blood spewed. His head rested to the side; his gaze fell to the Creator, and he started to mouth to him of all people…

“Help.”

On instinct alone, the Creator twitched. Just enough to stop himself. Then the leader shot twice more into the man.

The body laid unmoving on the ground, arm still bloodied and outstretched. The Creator didn’t know why, but something about it was unpleasant. He’d seen so many die before him. Why was this in particular any different?

“Why?”

“Why not?” the leader remarked. “They’re nobodies. They should be thankful I’m even cuttin’ them a deal. I’m not payin’ for someone who doesn’t work for it.”

Nobodies… He’d once said that very word to describe his own experimental test subjects. They had been people just like these grunts—drug addicts, psych ward patients, orphans, all those low lives of society. He’d once thought they were just nobodies too—useless if not given purpose, useful when used for his research…

Did he still think that?

“Plus,” the leader continued, “it’s a waste of resources if they’re not pullin’ their weight—why the hell am I tellin’ you this? You’ve done the same shit, Mr. Creator!”

He had, hadn’t he? Back in the old days. Was he like this before too? When he’d been… colder, when he’d lacked the empathy and remorse to care. He wondered—

“Do you feel remorse for all that you’ve done?”

“Remorse? Remorse my ass!” she cried out. “What kind of elitist bullshit is that? You guys do the same fuckin’ thing, but you ask me if I feel remorse? Hell fuckin’ no! My family’s eating good ‘cause of this!”

Family… Mother. She’d always brought up the fact that his test subjects were human, innocent. That they had families of their own. She’d yelled that he was destroying peoples’ lives even though they were all but unwanted. They were worthless. They were nobodies like…

Like her son…

Mrs. Morgan’s son. The skinplate. The one these people had killed, scrapped for parts. If they had done that to Bread… The Creator felt an intense anguish suddenly wash over him. He immediately knew what it was.

Empathy.

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To have become so weak that he could empathize. He’d made sure not to feel such emotions because it would hinder him from his goals. It would weaken him. He’d done it for so long, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like. But now, he was doing it voluntarily—to finally understand Mother. But was this enough to be worthy of her praise? To have her finally acknowledge him as her son?

He wasn’t entirely sure.

And why Bread? Why had Bread of all people made him feel this way? They weren’t blood-related. The boy was a stranger—not even human. An NPC, AI. Why would he of all people…

The sound of gunshots released him from his nightmares.

“No more talk!” the leader yelled, her smoking gun in hand. All her grunts lined up and readied themselves. “You won’t distract us any longer! We fight until death do us part!”

They cheered at their leader’s words, raising all sorts of weapons into the air—heat sabers and electric batons to simple-looking rifles and mid-ranged throwing discs. Most likely all stolen goods. Some had knives and spiked baseball bats with what looked to be homemade modifications, and a number of them had crudely fitted combat cybernetics that were just barely long enough to cover their elbows.

His thoughts would have to wait. Right now, he had to focus on the battlefield. With the crude level of technology and lack of sophistication these grunts had, he wondered why they were so certain of their success. Where did all that confidence come from? What were they even fighting for? Of course, he already knew the answer to that—

Money. Just like any other.

The Creator sighed. There was no point to this. They wouldn’t even stand a chance. But as they charged in, it didn’t seem like he had all that much of a choice in the matter. He only promised himself that he wouldn’t kill; it’d only get messier if he did.

“System: initiate Raijin Blood.” He smashed his fists together to wake up his dormant body. Glowing, red-hot ichor started coursing through his modified veins, steaming up from the surface of his skin in wisps of gray. His heart started to beat like drums…

The giant Goliath was first to arrive. The creature rushed in, wires still dragging across the surface of the parking lot.

The Creator slammed his feet into the ground below, cracking the asphalt underneath. Then he cemented his legs and got into a proper stance to take the weight of the heavy beast. And with open arms, he took the full brunt of the force.

The impact fractured the earth below, but his legs held firm. Then, with a powerful shove, he redirected the creature away. It crashed into a neighboring building and slumped to the ground.

“No, sweetie!” the leader yelled. She rushed towards the fallen figure.

For a creature that size, Goliath seemed quite fragile. But this was just the beginning. There were still a few dozen goons left remaining.

The first one ran in with a heat sword in her hand. She swung wide into the Creator’s shoulders, but it bounced off, instead burning his suit in the process.

“Damn it.” He quickly knocked her out. “That was limited edition.”

Another one dashed in with brass knuckles—a weapon outdated by a century.

The Creator pulled back his cyber-enhanced fist, shaking his head at his opponent’s unfortunate weapon choice. He then landed a solid punch square in the attacker’s jaw. The grunt went shooting through the air in a beautiful parabolic arc.

Next, a group of individuals circled around him like hungry vultures. They held long, carbon fiber spears sparking at the ends with fizzling, hot electricity. It reminded him of the historical attack patterns of the phalanx. Except this one wasn’t as coordinated.

As they pressed closer, the Creator could feel the pressure they were trying to emanate, but to his highly modified skin, their spears were toothpicks. They prodded and poked at his sides, but most of the shock just flickered out, dissipating into flashes of miniature fireworks.

He slapped a spear out of one’s hands and swung it around in a perfect, circular motion. The group was effortlessly swatted away and dispersed like a bunch of electrocuted flies. Most fell to the ground, spasming out of control.

The final stragglers pulled out their guns and discs. They dashed in all sides, taking turns hiding behind cover. Stray bullets bounced through the battlefield with no discretion for friend or foe, and the shots rang out in tiny tintinnabulations. Some even ricocheted off scattered tin cans around the block. The few that landed, immediately rebounded. None of it could pierce through his reinforced skin.

A few grenades were also thrown in his direction, but he swiftly caught them out of the air and threw them back. Explosions of that caliber would only further break down the foundations of the apartment complex.

Mrs. Morgan suddenly poked her head out of her apartment. “Are you alright, dear? Is it over yet—”

A bullet lodged itself into her door, barely missing her vitals.

“Oh my. What was that?”

“No! Back you go!” He rushed over and shoved her inside. Then he slammed the door closed. “Apologies for the rough handling, but please stay inside!”

A rumbling noise entered his ears from his left.

“Yeah, you got this sweetie!” It was the leader. “Throw that at him! Right there!” She instructed the now revitalized Goliath towards his direction.

The creature had grabbed a sizable chunk of concrete wreckage from the building it had initially crashed into. The rubble was larger than Goliath. It heaved the piece up above its shoulders and locked eyes with him. Then it hurled the block of concrete over.

He couldn’t dodge it. Apartment 109 was behind him. He had to block it. Somehow. Could he do it? No, he had to. There was no other option. He slammed his arms together and put up a solid guard. Then he placed one leg in front of the other, and pushed both feet deep into the earth below. The ground crumbled away from his strength.

And then he braced for impact.

The enormous rock landed heavy on his arms. It was massive, but nothing he couldn’t hold back. He clenched his teeth and held firm. Nothing was getting past him. Not even the debris. And the pressure eventually started to ebb.

Then there was a roar—a ferocious battle cry. Another strong force slammed into the other end of the concrete boulder. It pushed him back even further, breaking apart the ground like mush. With every roar, he felt bursts of strength blasting him back closer and closer to the door. His legs started to slip, and the asphalt felt more like sand.

But he held on. And the rubble finally started to crack.

A line stretched down the middle, forming a rift. Then it split in half, revealing an angry but fatigued Goliath behind. It glared back with murderous intent, but it didn’t move. No, it couldn’t. He could tell. The shortness of breath and its trembling legs…

It was over. They were both exhausted.

“What are you idiots doing? Fight!” the leader yelled. She tried to rile up her fallen grunts. “Don’t give him any rest!”

The Creator shook his head. What was her plan? To use him as a hostage? Azan wouldn’t bat an eye. None of this would work; it wouldn’t go her way.

“You,” he called out. His breathing was ragged but manageable. He’d be fully recovered in a few minutes. “Do you truly believe you could win?”

“I always get what I want.” The leader stomped over, seemingly having realized his fatigue. She pulled out another gun from inside her vest and aimed it at his head. “Or I’ll die fuckin’ trying.”

Then she pulled the trigger.