Chapter 1: Pup 1:1

Ever since I could read with any level of comprehension, I would pour myself into the world of fiction, burning through books in a matter of days, hours even, if I could get away with locking myself in my room. It only seems natural in retrospect than, that my passing moments spent not reading would drift towards creating things to read. It's like a disease, or better yet, a cabal of succubi, the plot-bunnies. They crawl their way to my ears, whispering sweet tales of worlds unbuilt, of terrors unchallenged, and heros untested. All of which can come to fruition with but a few strokes of my quill. There is but one problem.

I do not consider myself a good writer.

Until I feel as though I am able to please the cabal, I temper my writing prowess within the playground of established works, hence, the fanfic before you, dear reader.

Despite its use as a writing exercise, I fully intend for this work to be enjoyable. Lord knows I enjoyed writing it. The cannon Wormverse, despite its considerable length leaves many of its characters out of the limelight. Dusting off the web serial left me wanting to know more of people like Lung, Bakuda, Canary. So I find myself baking bread with the crumbs left over from a giant's feast... while adding a little dough of my own.

I'll stop prattling. If you have yet to read Worm, by Wildbow, I highly suggest you do so now via Wordpress. It is very rare to find fiction that is free, long and good.

Pup 1.1

Within the dilapidated storehouse, scant sunlight struggled against dust covered windows, aided only by a few rays cast through pockmarks in a roof of cheap, rusted sheet-metal. It may have been a small clothing store in a past life. A number of decaying mannequins were strewn amongst slightly less decayed crates, most of which were smashed, shimmied, or cut open. Leaving all but the toughest of containers unmolested. Any abandoned venue was an open love letter to looters in Brockton Bay.

A long creak echoed. From my vintage point atop a side rail, two open stories above, I hardly made out the figures that dipped inside.

Two young men, if one could consider the short, scrawny things, as such, bore aluminum bats and shifty dispositions. They flanked a much larger man, well tanned, well muscled, and easily six foot five, probably taller. He held nothing in his hands, though the bulge and glint of metal in his hoodie's pocket marked him as a high-priority target.

Six-Five bellowed out, "Alright! Time to pay your rent!" I tightened my grip on the railing.

The task was spelled out simply: 'scare the shit outta them so they don't come back'. Waltzing down the steps to say hi wouldn't have much of an effect, with or without a costume. Most capes weren't immune to bullets, and I feared that the first reaction to seeing an unknown would be to test out my lead resistance. If I wanted a fair chance at preventing a brawl, I had to get rid of the gun or taser in Mr. Tall's pocket.

"'Wouldn't be surprised if the asshat's a no-show." One under-thug said.

They idled themselves with exchanges of crass humor and swung their bats at thrown blocks of cement. Six-Five stood near the entrance, he would glance this way or that, humming a slow tune that I didn't recognize. With my power, I could feasibly wrest the contents of his pocket away, but only if he was within a few meters of me. Much to my frustration, he didn't move any closer to the upper platform. Did mook 101 not teach students to check behind boxes and corners for hidden people?

"Thrity minutes past six, Darin. Let's bounce." The shorter of the two youths reached over to tap his fellow on the shoulder, only for Six-Five to shake his head, raising a hand for silence.

"Nah. We can't go back with nothing. There's a little thrift shop a few minutes down the road. That way." He pointed towards an exit on the opposite side of the building. "Break a few windows, nab a cash register, and leave 'em a note. The next time we come around, we charge double the normal rate."

"And if they don't pay after that?"

"Then we'll bug Skid-."

Releasing a grunt of frustration, I went limp. A two story drop should have been terrifying, or at least provoked a moment's pause before the plunge, but a part of me dismissed that notion as ridiculous. My power felt like a piece of me that was, has, and always will be there, rather than an awkward addition to an existing model. Acrobatic feats were trivial matters, and vast, empty spaces of air were just pathways I haven't built yet.

The material that I generated wasn't light, but it held a dull glow of green, it would come out with similar properties to plastic unless I focused on some other substance while it manifested. With but a thought, slab after slab of hard pseudo-mass formed a ramp under my feet, the heels of my steel-toed boots screeching on the way down. Floating atop a single platform was possible, but far less efficient. Whatever my body used for fuel rested in what I could only describe as a second stomach. The rate at which its contents shrank when I forced my creations to bear weight was much greater than controlling or even bringing them into the world.

I didn't think of rolling, not consciously; it was a more of a knee-jerk reaction. I dove forward in one fluid motion before hitting the concrete. The landing was unpleasant, but felt much better than breaking my legs.

I allowed my tails to drift on either side, covering them in enough pseudo-mass to illuminate my form. Full firefighter's garb, painted black to match my hair with yellow bunches of material near the ends of the jacket and pants, covering the damage done by cutting the original fabric to size.

Neither Six-Five, nor the baseball kids seemed impressed.

Darin, smirked, "You supposed to be a cat or something?"

"Nah, I think it's a raccon; bushy tails. You got our money?"

Six-Five held out his hand, at which I frowned before realizing that he couldn't see my face through the gas-mask's tinted screen. The helmeted section also covered my vulpine ears, which would undoubtedly make a serious threat harder to pull off.

I fished through my pockets, producing a single strip of paper. Wrapping a corner in pseudo-mass and hovering it over to him took a bit of concentration, but I managed to make the gesture appear smooth. It reached him without issue, meaning the trio was well within range.

"What am I looking at?"

"A tab for the exact amount that my employer and her associates have paid while under your 'protection', plus an extra fee to cover the free service some of your members have demanded."

"That's cute." Six-Five tore the paper in two and spit at one of its pieces, striking it before it fell. He probably practiced the maneuver. "Now go get Senna, and tell that bitch to bring four grand with her."

"You do know what's going on here, right?"

"I know what you're trying to do, and I'm givin' ya a chance to scram, or get us our money. I ain't afraid of no third-rate cape." He advanced a bit, puffing out his chest like some predatory animal warning others away from its turf. The other two took it as a cue to fan out to either side of me, loosely held bats raking across the floor.

To be honest, the intimidation tactic worked a bit. I was no Alexandria package, my bones snapped just like any other human being. Running, however was not an option. It wasn't a matter of finding someone else to work for. Senna pulled my soaking body from a dirty, alley. She fed and clothed me for a month, even paid to get me into an online high school class. If she asked me to do something far more dubious than the task at hand, I would have a hard time saying no.

"Can't do that, I'm afraid. You need pay the tab and... hold on." I produced another sheet of paper, bringing the tail to my right a bit closer so I could make out the handwriting. I cleared my throat.

"Suspend immediately, all gang operations on Wilson street and any location within a seven block perimeter of it. Your territory tags will be scrubbed clean and replaced with a single line of blue paint, marking said perimeter."

"Listen kid, I ain't playin' with ya." He drew his weapon, a handgun, as I suspected. The bit of pseudo mass still attached to the paper went up the man's nose before he could brandish it. Whatever Six-Five tried to say next was marred by a sputtering fit, I jolted forward and smacked the gun away from his hand, like they do in movies, and instantly regretted it. The gun was hard, my hand was soft.

Holding, my hand, I materialized a fuax octopus tentacle about twice my size to swipe at the gun before it left my range, sending it much further away. A satisfying clang reported that it got caught on the catwalk above.

Without missing a beat, both baseball kids set upon me. Darin's first swipe was aimed too low to duck, so I jumped over it. In a move that should have broken my spine, I twisted myself in midair to parry his companion's vertical swing with a length of hastily produced pseudo-mass.

As soon as my feet returned to the ground, I lowered my stance and barreled into him, shoulder first, before he could recover his grip. We both went to the ground, knocking over one of the mannequins in the process.

"Surrender!" I shouted.

He offered a headbutt in rebuttal. The groan that followed wasn't mine; my opponent curled into a ball, rolling onto his side. Did he expect a better result than that? A blow to the crotch with his knee or even an elbow to my somewhat exposed neck would have served him much better.

I heard Darin's bat before I felt it, a whistling that sent chills down my spine, there wasn't time to utter so much as a curse before it struck my arm. I'd fallen on my limbs from pretty fair distances while practicing. This felt ten times worse. There was no telltale snapping of bones or white poking out of my jacket, but it hurt like there should have been.

Roaring, and with tears clouding my vision, I rounded on him. Thinking only of throwing something back in retribution. What came out resembled nothing like plastic; a sphere materialized amid a terrible crackling, like a current running through ruined power outlets. Much brighter than my usual creations, it surged forward, flecks of material falling off on its path. The look of horror on Darin's face was well lit.

I tried to rein it in, but its forward momentum was far too great. Only Darin's swift reflexes saved him. He ducked, covering his head. The projectile slipped past my range, still holding enough energy to see it to the wall. And through it.

For a moment we both gazed upon my handiwork. A mannequin was in the way of the blast. It was missing a third of its chest, the hole dripping bits of plastic that obscured the view of the warehouse's new porthole a bit.

Darin dropped the bat.

"Good man," I said, trying for all the world to act like I threw the murder ball at him on purpose.

My uninjured hand went to my arm, searching for lumps where lumps should not be. It still stung, but the damage was likely not severe, it would definitely bruise though. I moved the limb experimentally, wincing as I drew it too far back. Wait.

The scene was down one very tall hunk of muscle. I cocked my head to the side. "Where's your friend?" Footsteps against metal answered before the two could spit out anything. I made to pull at my ears in distress, but only met the helmeted section of the gas-mask.

He was going for the gun.

I jumped upwards in an interception path, creating mats of pseudo-mass to support my ascent. I didn't notice Darin's friend, ever the overachiever, giving pursuit until his bat flew past my head, missing by mere inches. Seriously, this person deserved a medal for the sheer amount of no-quit he held.

Not glancing backwards, I collapsed the platform directly behind me. The shout and sicking crunch that followed confirmed that Determination would be a non-issue for the rest of the fight.

I caught a glimpse of Six-Five. He would reach the gun before me. A flurry of malformed pseudo-plastics, rubbers, and chaff pelted him, he raised both hands to shield his face. Another, more carefully aimed chunk knocked the gun further away. I grasped the railing, looking up just in time to see Six-Five, recovered bat in hand, winding up for the mother of all grand slams.

I cast out my injured arm and both tails at the offender, encasing the makeshift weapon in a coat of green which I willed to move in the opposite direction. Six-Five resisted, managing to inch the bat forward enough to glance across my gas-mask, though not with nearly enough force to do anything but make my ears ring. I "pushed" harder, eating at my energy reserves fast enough to make me dizzy. In a blur, the bar whizzed backward, Six-Five let go, but was too late to save his skull. It connected with a sound that was far too wet for my liking.

A jolt of panic ran down my spine, while it would send a clear message, the last thing I wanted to do was kill someone. "My god! Are you alright?" In the time that it took to materialize another platform to help me vault over the railing, Five-Six managed to take his hoodie off and press it to his leaking forehead.

"Fucking hell! Your dead, you little shit!" Good, words meant he wasn't too hurt.

Despite the threat, his injury prevented him from planting anything more then waning grip on my tail as I approached, the blood made it easy to slip away and wrap my extra appendages around my waist. I manifested a golf-ball-sized globe of not-glass and patted him down. A fire or some kind of contained gas would have been brighter, but unstable forms took more energy and concentration to maintain.

After I was satisfied that Six-Five didn't have any extra weapons on him, I pocketed the gun and resolved to fix him up. It was impossible to form my pseudo-mass directly on or in other living things, so I directed a stream of not-water from one fingertip, clearing most of the blood to reveal a much smaller gash than I expected. My ex-assailant groaned as I prodded at it, thankfully enough, the bone was where it was supposed to be. I pondered my options for a moment before settling on the instant adhesive Senna uses for her plastic models. Applying a double coating was probably unnecessary, and the material definitely wasn't meant for human skin, but I couldn't have anyone bleeding out on my watch. It would fade away. Eventually.

With a grunt of effort, I dragged Six-Five by his wrists, forming slanted sections of pseudo-mass over the stairs to make the trip smoother on him. "I have your gun, and one of your bats are still upstairs! Give up, now!"

Pattering feet. I made it down just in time to see the two reaching for the door. A crudely shaped spear of not-iron flung into the wall stopped them. "Hands up, please. And don't run, it's hard to aim these things past a certain point."

Determination turned and calmly raised his arms, while Darin was startled enough to fall on his bum. He stammered, "Don't hurt us man! Take my wallet, and shoes but don't hurt us!"

I ignored him, gesturing for Determination's to take Six-Five off my hands instead.

"Sen- uh. My employer doesn't want your stuff. Or blood. Look, I think I hurt him more than I should have, that stuff on his forehead will disappear in a few hours and I'm not sure if it can properly plug wounds."

Determination already favored one leg, bearing Six-Five's weight turned his gait into a hobble, but the only sign of discomfort he displayed was the way he tightened his features every other step.

For some reason, I couldn't help but feel like this incident would have to be repeated a few times before The Merchants decide to leave us alone.