This is a story I wrote … Christ?! Two years ago, I think. I wrote most of it, left it for a month, and then finished it. Then I spent the next few nights editing it like a madman to present to my schools Writing Club. They liked it quite a bit.
I finally built up the gall to post it on the interwebs. I considered writing some more for it, but didn't feel motivated. I do enjoy writing, and if enough people ask, I'll try writing some more.
The buzzing blue light of a colossal neon sign cast an unsteady light down on the dark alleyway. Despite the light, the trash cluttered side-street was still dark enough to conceal the figure that lay amongst the refuse. It was a young woman, pale skinned, wearing a filthy sleeveless vest, and padded pants.
She lay there, amongst the trash, exhausted. She breathed in the fetid smell of the garbage and the packed street some ways off. Her eyes drooped, and try as she might, she could not stave off sleep. For hours she slept, a murky dreamless sleep.
This welcome rest was interrupted by a rough shaking, then the smell. Like rooting fish, it was so foul her eyes shot open. In front of her was a young man in his early twenties, wearing a tattered jacket. He was missing teeth, but the most notable quality of his appearance was the tattoos. Two thick, dark lines of ink trailed down from his eyes like black tears. She rouses to her feet, and so did the man, who looked behind him. A little way down the ally were three more men. They all wore similar bland jackets with bright signage stitched on after-the-fact, and all had nearly identical tattoos.
She looked quickly between them, and an unpleasant realization dawned on her.
Go-Gangers, members of one of the numerous street gangs that made these crowded slums their home, and their hunting ground. By the looks, they were all low ranked.
The one closest smiled a crooked, gap toothed smile, and beckoned his comrades' closer. They moved forward, and formed a semi-circle around her. One pulled a knife, and said in a heavily accented mess of almost-English "What should we do with this one?" He said, "The same thing we did to the last one" came the reply. They all laughed, and one to her left tried to grab her arm. She tries to step away, but there is no escape. There is a force welling inside her, like an oncoming storm. There is no stopping this.
A red symbol appears in the corner of her vision. DEFENSIVE OVERRIDE ENGAGED it chirps into her mind. She feels a rush, like freefall, but only for a moment. She blinks, and her world shifts. Augmented neurons light up like fireworks, painting her vision with HUD markers: every twitch, expression and mark analyzed, summarized, and there for her to see in bright annotated overlays.
The signal is not just for her eyes. Within her body, a hundred processes go into overdrive. A supercharge nervous system carries orders of action. Hyper oxygenated blood carries a parade of stimulants to finely enhanced muscle. This was her world now, a chemical romance of aggressive biological modification and twisted nature, all powered on half-voluntary triggers. The poor bastard grabbing at her may as well be moving through molasses.
She grabbed his arm and wrenched it out of its socket. Before the shock could even register, she had pulled him into the air by his ruined arm, and smashed him into the hard the hard concrete on his head, while his neck responding with a sick snap.
She straitened, and looked at the three remainder. The one with the knife tried to move into range, while the other two stumbled back in panic. To her, it was all in slow-motion, and she closed the distance in a blink. He slashed the knife forward but hit only air, while she took hold of his thin wrist. She flexed lightly and his wrist shattered. He screamed, and dropped the knife from his ruined hand.
With her free hand, she drew back and punched the disarmed ganger in his throat. Under the crushing force of superhuman muscle, and reinforced bone, his windpipe crumpled and his head twisted into an unnatural position. As the body slumped to the floor, she grabbed the knife and looked up to see one of the remaining fumbling with something in his jacket.
With shaky hands, he pulled out an old .22 automatic. It was a crude, boxy gun, a mass produced, dime-a-dozen, clunky but solid contraption. He took aim and fired off a shot. It hit her in the thigh, but barely broke the skin. The shear density of the muscle stopped the bullet dead.
Before he could fire again, she closed the gap and forced the gun away with a flick of the wrist. She took the knife and stabbed the shooter in the throat. On reflex, she aimed for, the jugular vein, and sunk the knife deep. With the knife still buried in his throat, she kicked his knee inwards, and grabbed onto his head. With a firm grip, she pulled the pulled the knife out the side of his neck. Red, warm blood now poured out over her hand and all over her legs.
The last one had turned to run by then, making a frantic dash out of the alley.
She picked up the gun from the blood-spattered ground, and let off a quick burst. The fleeing man caught two rounds to the back, and one to the head. He was dead instantly, colliding with a trash can as he fell to the pavement.
With the threat gone, the chemical mess of her blood stream calmed. She stood there for a minute or more, letting the rush die-off. At last the thundering in her chest subsided, and she gazed, still hazy, at the scene before her: four dead gangers laying in the alleyway. She let the gun fall from her hand, and the last stubborn dregs of battle borne fury quieted.
A rumble in the sky brought her attention upward, to the great storm clouds hanging over the expansive city.
It started as a drizzle, then it came down in massive stinging sheets. As the down pour began, she set about picking through the dead men's belongings, hoping to replace her now blood-soaked cloths.
She found what she was looking for. The jacket and pants were just a bit big for her, but they had been for their owner to. She crouched in the alley, next to the corpse, and began pulling the gaudy gang markings on the cloths. The sound and tactile sensation of pulling the stitched patched off was calming, in a way.
By the time she had finished she was soaked completely to the bone, with matted wet hair stuck flat on her head. A light shake through some of the water off, but so much as coming down that is was next to pointless. It was cold enough that she could see her own breath, but she hardly even noticed.
She undressed and threw on the jacket and pants. They stuck to her skin from the rain, despite being so baggy.
Before she left, she looked back at the scene one last time. She noted how the rain had washed away the blood, which now pooled on and around the garbage. The filth mixing with the filth. She turned, and began the long trek to familiar, but no less dangerous streets.
*wipes assorted blood and viscera off hands and onto pants*
I really enjoyed writing that, and editing it to fit more into a fanfiction format. I feel like to for-word is a bit depressive. If this some-how draws a lot of attention, I'll try writing some more. I've been wanting to anyway.
Advise and criticism are always appreciated. Please tell your friends!