We, devoted members of the Bio-Novas, hold sacred the belief that the human form is not bound by nature's limitations but rather a canvas upon which we may sculpt and shape to achieve our greatest potential. Through our unwavering dedication to the pursuit of advancement, we shall transcend the confines of mortality and usher in a new era of evolution.

We reject complacency and stagnation, instead embracing the boundless possibilities that lie within the realm of science and bending. We are the architects of our own destiny, masters of our own evolution. With each experiment, each breakthrough, we inch ever closer to the realization of our ultimate vision: a world where disease and disability are but relics of the past, where every individual possesses the physical and mental prowess to conquer any obstacle.

We shall tread boldly into the unknown, unafraid to challenge the status quo and defy convention in our pursuit of excellence. Above all, we pledge our unwavering loyalty to the cause of human enhancement, swearing to devote our lives to the Purpose. Through our actions, we shall leave an indelible mark upon the annals of history, shaping the course of evolution for generations to come. So let it be written, so let it be done.

~Credo of the Bio-Novas

Amon:

Slap. Thud. Thud. Crack. Thud.

As the sound of meat striking on meat repeats throughout the room, my face beaten and swollen beyond recognition, the cries of my brother reduced to but a wet gurgle, I find a surge of clarity. Lying on the wood cabin floor, my limbs mangled and too broken for much good, instead I find my mind racing through thoughts. Through memories.

Flipping like a scrapbook through memories that surface, like viewing one of those City films, only judging them by their baser emotions evoked, I find pain and fear—so much pain and fear. My mind is too disorganized, so I instead use my surge of clarity to focus on a specific memory before moving on to the next.

Bending, training, more bending. Pain, fear, and more pain. I find repetitive memories of our late-night ‘hunts’ coming forth to my mind. The wandering thoughts of the few better memories I have of my mother or brother flash before retreating to more memories of training and bending—that and, of course, my father’s voice.

CRACK. I hear something else in my brother’s body finally break from father's repeated blows. My face turning, I vaguely make out the whimpering mess that is my brother Tarrlok and see more blood weakly spit from what I think is his mouth. Too disfigured to tell, all I know is blood is now spreading in a pool only a few feet from my own face.

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As I take in more of what looks like my brother's beaten body, my mind racing faster and faster through my memories of pain and fear, I find a spark of something new. As I feel it spreading, this new feeling, through my beaten limbs, I slowly come to realize what this spark is. Hatred. Pure hatred. For my father, my life, my own lack of choices, I find myself lost to the white-hot possession that is rage. My bending acting up before even realizing it myself, like perfect muscle memory, I feel my broken bones shift. First my arms, then my legs start to grind; I’m almost surprised the pain feels so dulled, as if it is happening to someone else as I feel them shift back into near-perfect alignment.

Flesh next, I think, just a hair after a new wave of rage surges forth, bending blood and chi throughout my flesh, knitting up my lacerations. Hesitation, hesitation was banished by my hatred, I quickly realize before succumbing back to rage. Looking down, I’ve braced my hands against the wooden floor. Heaving my right foot up, I push off the ground.

Knowing my father likely has not noticed me, focusing on beating the now possibly dead corpse of Tarrlok, I feel my flesh finish knitting and my bones settling for what is to come.

With a snarl of rage, I move forward and simply grab and yank. Hearing a ripping sound followed by a loud crack, I fling away whatever is in my hand so I can continue. My father, screaming in pain and staggering to the side, now one arm fewer, takes another blow of mine to the body. As I follow his form, ragdolling against the wooden wall, I rain further blows upon him. Curling up with his remaining limbs left, I continue to press my strength and anger. My blows and strikes start to break and then shatter his remaining limbs. A Herculean blow breaks through his weak, raised arm, continuing downward to lodge itself into his torso.

Ignoring his cries and screams, relishing in the pain, I keep my onslaught going. Feeble attempts to block my blood-fueled rampage start to whither, then drop as I continue to rain down my fury.

CRACK. SLUSH. CRUNCH. THUD.

As his legs try feebly to push his now broken body away, moving along the wall into a corner, I simply follow.

SMACK. “All I ever did,” I scream, “I did to make you proud!” CRACK. “Tell me!” THUNK. “Tell me how proud you are!” THUD. THUD. “Tell me!”

My movements were a blur of motion, my strikes raining down upon Father with relentless ferocity. It was a symphony of violence, a dance of death played out in our decrepit cabin.

As time starts to pass and I continue to strike, punch, scream, and stomp what was once the flesh of my father, quickly noting my body is almost completely healed, I feel the rage start to dim. With it, my mind feels more normal and the blood pumping in my ears begins to reside. Slowly, I come to realize I am punching the now unrecognizable corpse that was once my father.

SCUECH

Pulped meat splattered across the broken wooden floor. I pull my fists back and stop my onslaught. As I stand, I telekinetically feel Tarrlok. Confirming his broken ribs had pierced his lungs, drowning him to death. Painful anguish crosses my mind as I file it away amongst other memories. More pain and bending. I breathe deep breaths, filling my lungs with chi and centering my emotions, then turning, I walk out the cabin door.