Night
Introduction has been edited, 3/26/2019:
This story's tone is not intended to be humorous or in any way sexy, hence the horror/supernatural tags. While there will still be some humor thrown in at places, especially given the main character's situation, not to mention some sexy times (w00t!) once we get a little down the line, most of this story is intended to be quite terrifying, as a dystopian struggle for survival is intended to be.
There is much here to be disturbed by, but making a list would be far too time-consuming and redundant to the tone I wish to convey, so I shall suffice to say:
If it can be in an M-rated story, assume it will be here. This story is not for children.
I cannot stress this enough, I do NOT condone any of the despicable acts portrayed in this work of FICTION, and encourage all who read it to report any real-world instances of criminal depravity to the proper authorities. Consent is sexy, boys and girls; rape is not. Please be safe and responsible in all your social interactions.
Also, I disclaim any and all ownership in regards to Wildbow's Worm. Any characters or entities portrayed herein are not to be confused with their canon depictions, no matter the source material. This Fanfiction is not-for-profit and written on my own time for purely entertainment purposes.
Without further ado, dear readers, I give you the first chapter of Night.
Enjoy.
~Baked, 2019
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Night
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The smell of burning hair and flesh staining my nostrils. Ears ringing, the sight of Dad's head crushed against the roof of our overturned car, thick oily smoke tearing into my lungs. I may have been sobbing. Maybe I was screaming.
My skin blackens as the fire reaches me in earnest; my hair is seared away, the skin on my arms boiling as I try in vain to shield myself, keeping my eyes closed, screaming and sobbing and wishing someone will come and save me. But I'm burning, burning, burning.
It all vanishes in a flash and a freight train-like impact against my back-
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Musky smells and dirt. Bodily fluids. Anticipation. My body's hot, wanting, breasts heavy with milk and arousal. They approach once more, steps echoing through the dungeon to my pointed ears. Fewer this time. Disappointment. Not as many dicks cumming in me today…
Scrape of metal against stone. I mewl, hopeful for more pleasure, for the chance to service more cocks, but unable to move. So weak these days. Maybe they'll move me?
"Yeah. She's used up. Do it."
"Pity. She was a good milk cow…"
"Eh. We've got others." Steel against oiled leather, glint of silver in the dark.
I don't understand. I can still please them! I-
-the cold metal rips through my throat, stealing my breath and what few thoughts I have away, and everything starts getting dark and quiet-
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"GAH!" I bolt upright in the unnaturally comfortable Tinker-fabricated bed, gleaming purple irises in black sclera flicking about the dark bedroom. The scent of fire is faint in my nose, omnipresent in this place, along with the several-hours-old honey scent of my last rubbing session. I focus on my breathing, burying my face in my hands, shuddering at the vivid nightmares.
'Just another nightmare, Taylia,' I tell myself, wrapping my arms around my torso beneath my breasts, trying not to panic or break down in grievous sobbing. 'You're not Taylor, alone and dying in the car. You're not Shalia, a burned-out whore dying in the dark. You are Taylia, the Dark Terror of the Rubblebelt. You are Shadow Stalker, a vigilante who goes where no one else can. You're in Brockton Bay. Even though it's the hemorrhoid-ridden asshole of the world, you're alive.'
Panic successfully staved off for the moment, my eyes flick to the nightstand; 6:32 PM. May as well get up and begin my 'day'. There's a few places I haven't managed to map yet, and I could use more food. A trip to the market over in Clint Park was in order, then. At least no one bothered me on that side of the 'Belt, and maybe I'd be able to check in on Warp and Colin at the Lodge before taking a patrol through the Docks.
I stretch my arms over my head, pink lips opening in a mewling yawn as my muscles finish waking up, back popping and the pair of jugs on my front bouncing slightly, their weight needlessly reminding me of their presence.
Glaring at nothing, frustrated that very few places sell comfortable bras in my size, I slip out of bed, the distant sound of a gunshot echoing to my sensitive ears, coming from further east and south. Another evening, another night in the Rubblebelt.
Another day in this life, with the memories of two people who died horribly haunting my thoughts.
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1
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Rubble
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Were I of a disposition to break into the morass-like field of composing literature and write on my brief life, I would be lost as to where to begin telling the tale of how I came to be here, how I came to exist.
Should I make an epitaph for Taylor Hebert, loving daughter, who grew up in Hatter Village, a small community in the Bay's north (and less crime-ridden) sections? Perhaps I'd wax poetic on her nonexistent luck with making friends, or her admiration for her parents, a union man and brilliant professor at the local college; mayhap I'd touch on her dream of becoming a musician, or her distant, faded and crushed desire to become a hero.
In all honesty, it might be better (easier) to speak of her world, the place I find myself inhabiting: a world of hate and violence, where civilization was slowly breaking down; where she'd needed to learn how to use a taser and pepper-spray at only seven years old so she'd have a defense against possible rape or abduction, very real possibilities when living in Brockton Bay. A world where local governments organized militias to help bolster the garrisoned armed forces, whose numbers dwindled further each day from death and desertion, and the 'heroes' were baggy-eyed, grim knights that put their lives and bodies on the line to keep the Glorious Triad, the Archdemon's horrific creations, and the abominations made by It-That-Sleeps away from the sane folk.
Or I could go on about the so-called Glorious Triad, a coalition or monopoly of gangs, though the nomenclature depends on who you ask. The Teeth, Archer's Bridge Merchants, Azn Bad Boys, and some of the Empire 88's remnants; I could speak, at length, of the Wrath of Lung, who made the Rubblebelt after Fleur of the Brockton Bay Brigade was killed, along with her family, by Iron Rain.
Visualizing these things was easy when you remember seeing pictures, leaked online, of the former leader of the Brigade, stripped naked and mutilated, hung by her neck from a streetlight in front of her burning home, her children and husband hanging next to her. When you remember the piercing, earth-shaking roar of Lung as the Wrath began.
Someone reading such a nonexistent story, for I am no scribe, would think that this was the moment where everything went wrong with the world, where Iron Rain made the mistake of killing the closest thing the Dragon of Kyushu had to a… not friend, but confidant? Respected rival? The truth, unfortunately, was crushed into dust as Lung's unquenchable rage tore through the Empire, killing Allfather, Iron Rain, and the young Kaiser, along with Miss Militia, Rime, Velocity, and thousands of civilians, leaving behind the Rubblebelt, a swath of shattered roads, buildings, and slagged, rusting metal, running from the edge of the Bay all the way to Mumfort Square at the edge of the city's suburbs, where Kaiser made his last stand, the act dividing Brockton Bay into three sections.
Northside, containing Downtown and its surrounding communities, was protected by the PRT, led by Field Commander Emily "Darkspawn's Bane" Piggot and Armsmaster, the Brigade (who were really the PRT Reserves) and the city Militia. A land of sunshine, rainbows, happiness, and cheap antidepressants, most people who lived there were just trying to get on with their lives and preserve the society that all-but collapsed after Black Tuesday, even though the world was burning around them.
The Rubblebelt. Purgatory. Mist shrouded the deeper chasms, spikes of slowly corroding metal pierced leaning buildings, slagged asphalt poured into sewers, gas pipes and natural fissures spewing toxic clouds into the air; no one truly knew how many people died when it was made, but there was at least a murder a day within that deadly, two-mile-wide wasteland. Nearly impossible to navigate on foot, only drug addicts, rapists, the homeless, the mad, and patrolling Parahumans of both the PRT and Triad went there.
And then there was the Docks. Hell, some called it. Some of its residents would call it Paradise. No law but Lung, Skidmark and The Butcher, the leaders of the Triad. Abandon all hope, indeed, for to walk its streets at night is to invite death, getting robbed, or raped, if you're lucky.
If you're not lucky, you'd be held down, injected with Venus, and… well, that's it for you.
It was also the only way to get safe passage to Boston, which was just another hellhole, The Butcher's stomping grounds, without braving the countryside and risking the Archdemon's Blight, or flying.
It wasn't that moment, when Lung tore the city in half, where all the light left the world and turned it into a microcosm of all that was wrong with Earth.
No, it most certainly wasn't. That happened half a decade earlier, in New York City… but even though I'm not Taylor Hebert, I remember her pain, her feelings of loss and existential dread, seeing what horrors Black Tuesday brought into the world, where the world's finest and brightest stars, its best heroes…
If there was any consolation for what happened on that most horrific day, it was that the Siberian hadn't survived, either. Cold comfort in the face of what the nation's greatest city became, and still was: a deathtrap, filled with genetic mutants and horrors unspeakable, walled off in every direction by the government, land, sea and air, and constantly patrolled by the PRT, the Dragon Knights, and government-sanctioned heroes.
Honestly, it wouldn't be proper to speak of Taylor herself. Of how she wept when the university her mother worked at was attacked by the Teeth, her mother never coming home. Of her father's resultant wandering eye and alcoholism, which made fraught young teenager anxious beyond reckoning.
Or how she was relieved, in the end, that she'd never been violated or had drugs forced on her, that she was dying pure.
Well, it was still a frightening experience. Dying in a freeway pileup caused by one of Squealer's drug-fueled rampages, body ripped to shreds by the gas tanker behind her father's truck exploding… not exactly the most glorious of ends.
But then again, neither was the way Shalia of Quan met her end. Her story wasn't much longer than Taylor's, as she'd only been four years older than the fifteen-year-old human when her throat was slit by her owners.
At that point, though, Shalia had been all but dead for two years, having been used in every way imaginable by the very enemies she'd fought against. Unlike Taylor, her story is closer to my own heart, for I share her appearance and physiology: that of the Dark Elves, the nocturnal apex predators of the forests.
Her life hadn't started too horribly: she'd been born in the deep, dark forests of Quan, ancestral home of the Dark Elves. From the day she could stand Shalia was trained in the art of combat, as were all Dark Elf young; her childhood was tough, but Shalia was a bright girl, a prodigy of her people, and learned quickly so as to aid her kinsmen in battle against Vor, the kingdom of demons that sought to conquer the entire world. By the time she was fourteen, she'd learned all her teachers could impart, from armor creation and upkeep to magic to swordplay to CQC, and struck out on her own, desiring to end the wars that plagued the land.
For two years Shalia was successful in her mission, slaying any of the monsters bred by Vor she came across; when she was only fifteen she defeated an entire company of men and demons single-handedly, ahead of an allied army that had been intent on assisting her. Shalia, the Whirlwind of Hope they called her, and it seemed, for a few moments, that things might get better, that her people would not need fear death and enslavement again. That peace might be close…
And then Vor loosed a vast army upon Shalia, and the friends that she'd made while adventuring, and the allied army that followed in their wake. Amidst that plain of blood and death, watching all the bonds she'd made burn away in demon's flame, the Dark Elf champion tried to avenge their deaths, to win the day as she'd done so many times.
But Vor had its own champion, a greater demon of terrible power, who shattered her shield, snapped her sword, and, in front of her laughing and jeering enemies, tore away her armor and raped her over her precious friend's corpses, her virginal blood spilled uncaringly into the dark mire as the army that followed her withered and perished.
She'd wished for death, there in that blood-soaked hell, but it was only the beginning of Shalia's torment. Once the demon's champion was finished ravaging her, she was thrown to the enemy army as a plaything, with only the condition that she not be killed.
Seven thousand demons gang-raped her for six days and nights, drugging her with aphrodisiacs, humiliating her, parading Shalia before her captured comrades, forcing her to orgasm and beg for more sex in exchange for her allies' lives, only to watch, lost in tantric bliss and despair as Vor's champion bred her fertile body, the demons slaughtered the men and took the women as playthings; then she'd been brought to a camp for others of her kind, where Dark Elves were kept as breeding stock, for their bodies' inherent magic allowed them to have children with any other race.
They cut off her feet when she made one final attempt to flee, after birthing her captor's child, and made her breed with more monsters, creatures that laid eggs in her guts or filled her womb with supernatural magic that ensured she'd be a perfect incubator for their young.
After months of this, being raped and violated and used as an incubator and milk maid, Shalia steadily saw more and more women, some of whom she knew from her own tribe, being brought to the camp to be trained. By then, it was too late for her; the news that Vor had won, had succeeded in conquering all the lands, finally broke her resolve.
Shalia resigned herself to being a public toilet for demons and ruffians, and so it was, for the rest of her short life. She enjoyed her new job, and was good at it, so much that every man and demon that came to the camp was encouraged to fuck her loose, slutty pussy. Addicted, Shalia's awareness of the world dwindled until all that was left of the warrior Elf was her name; in her place was an absolute slut, who crawled around on her hands and knees, constantly begging for sex. Even her fellow Dark Elves, imprisoned and pressed into whoring with her, looked down on Shalia with scorn and disgust, and her owners laughed and made her drink their piss instead of water, and Shalia loved it all.
Two years of degradation, breeding and whoring later, she died to a knife in the dark; any Dark Elf had excellent natural regenerative abilities, but this was conditional on their keeping themselves fit and healthy. Without her feet, without any will of her own, and without a means of exercising beyond fucking as many males as possible, Shalia's physical abilities failed, and she died, alone in the dark.
But it wasn't the end. Not for either of them.
Even now, nearly four months after awakening in a Tinker-fabricated apartment building that was never occupied, alone, nude and no longer a flighty human teenager or of a mind to be an unthinking, shameful cum dumpster, I don't know how such a thing could come to pass, two minds joined as one in a new body, the body of a Dark Elf. I only have what I know for sure, and it is enough to go on.
I have Taylor's stubbornness and decisive nature, and her knowledge of this mad, dying world; were it not for Taylor, I wouldn't be able to read, let alone survive as long as I have. She wasn't very physically fit, but she was tall for a human, so I inherited her height along with her wide mouth and expressive eyes, and, while my hair was the same white-blonde of nearly all Dark Elves, it came down about my shoulders in a curtain of soft, gorgeous ringlets, much like Taylor's once did.
From Shalia I received all the knowledge she'd learned throughout her brief life, from her traditional Dark Elf training in combat and magic, as well as the experience she'd gained through countless fights… to the… ahem, less desirable memories of being a sex slave…
Combined, these two people as one made me, Taylia, supposedly the only Dark Elf on Earth, and, probably, one of the strongest 'Parahumans' to ever live.
With my Elven physiology, I was much faster than a human, strong enough to pick up a rusted Honda Civic and chuck it half a football field, I could see perfectly in the dark (though the sunlight hurt my eyes), and could both hear and smell everything in a one-hundred-and-fifty-yard radius if I focused; my combat instincts were refined to the point where not even a PRT Field Agent could take me in a straight fight, not even Oni Lee or Kemuri could sneak up on me. I'd made a collapsible longbow, magical arrows, rapier, claymore, kite shield, and a new set of armor in less than two months, all from memory.
Speaking of memories, Taylor's were a boon; she was possessed of the natural talent of selective eidetic memory, allowing her (and me, by esoteric extension) to remember and examine in detail any moment of her life beyond the age of two; with this, re-learning Shalia's Dark Elf training was ridiculously easy, a treasure worth a mountain of gold, especially in the dire and unusual situation I've found myself in.
She must have developed superpowers at some point, or I did before waking up here in my apartment; I say this because I found myself with a new quirk to my abilities: I could learn anything to proficiency just by reading about it, or observing the action personally. The memories I had of this world told me I was a Trump, or maybe Trump/Thinker, because of this talent, or power, or whatever. It's more of a curse than anything, really.
Mainly because, due to Shalia's memories, I have it in me to become nothing short of a goddess in the bedroom, or wherever I wish to ply such torrid talents; she was the perfect slut, a shameless meat toilet, would happily fuck anyone (or anything) in public, and I knew every minute detail of her whorish exploits. In fact, the first two months after waking up were, primarily, spent suppressing the nigh-crippling urge to find a male and mate with him; but suppress them I did, focusing on remembering her combat and magical training and experience in preparation for the outside world.
Unfortunately, I now have an encyclopedic knowledge of the pleasures of flesh, know exactly how to perform any sexual act one could imagine, no matter how lewd or shameful, and I am a virgin.
Yes, I, personally, have never felt the touch of a man; I am perfectly pure in my chastity, my hymen unbroken, my depths unexplored by the hands and appendages of others, and I, honestly, have no personal desire to experience sexual intercourse. The memories are bad enough, and, were I to engage in such activities, I seriously doubt I'd be able to keep myself from falling back into Shalia's wanton ways, from becoming a giggling, shameless, loose whore, spreading my legs to the entire world with a happy, lust-filled grin.
My Dark Elf body's natural sensitivity to its surroundings, evolved from millennia of living in a dark, hostile environment, doesn't help my self-imposed vow of chastity where others are concerned; 'sensitive' doesn't quite express just how sharp my senses are, from touch to smell to taste to hearing to sight, but it is a sufficient enough word for the occasions I find myself in.
Such as being out on my bi-nightly patrol of the Docks and coming across a whore or Venus-touched sucking off or fucking a John in Blood Lane or one of the other myriad ruins on the 'Belt, the scent of sexual fluids drawing me like a moth to flame and arousing me in seconds, the sound of rapid breathing and vapid, mewling voices, the wet slapping of thrusting, sweaty hips raising the heat in my body, vividly stark memories flicking across my mind, and if I see the action in question…
It actually somewhat tempers the heat of arousal flowing through every muscle and sinew, my analytical mind critiquing a whore's technique in minute detail, using Shalia's experiences as a template; not many of them are all that good at their jobs, and the ones that are usually need help with their appearance and/or sales pitch. As a matter of fact, only my self-imposed duty to be… not a heroine, but a hunter of despicable monsters, a dark avenger of the ruin Taylor's city has become… it is only that duty I have consigned myself to that keeps me from going up to those whores and giving them tips… or, god forbid, a demonstration.
The very idea is hideously repugnant and disgusting to the part of me that was Taylor, the side of my personality I do my best to uplift; truth be told, Shalia was always disgusted with her own actions, but it wasn't like she had a choice.
All of it was moot, anyway; I was neither Taylor nor Shalia, as my memories of both say that they died, totally and completely. I am not them. I am myself.
I am Taylia, a Dark Elf with the memories and abilities of two people who were dealt a shitty hand in life, who died ignoble deaths, who were given a second chance, through me, the redeemer of their broken destinies. But, at the end of the day I am my own person, neither Shalia nor Taylor, and though I am guided and influenced by these people's memories, I will walk my own path; I will not cower in the gleaming, sterile light of 'civilization', nor will I sink to the depths of depravity prevalent in the Docks.
I will be a Champion, as Shalia was before she fell. A Champion for Earth, a bright star in the gathering dark that chokes this world.
But why? Why Taylor and Shalia, two nobodies, rather than the billions who have already perished in the wake of the Triad, or the Blight, or It-That-Sleeps?
I may never find out. Maybe it is part of the Simurgh's Echo, or some game of It-That-Sleeps. Ultimately, it doesn't matter.
I have a chance to save the world, succeeding where Shalia failed, to do right by poor Taylor and her family. Like hell I'll waste it, this chance to make things right! I'll do my best to help clean up my poor, broken city, and, once Lung's head is on a spike, The Butcher sunk to the ocean floor, and Skidmark drawn and quartered in public, I'll form a party of other brave and daring souls and find the Archdemon, and slay the beast once and for all!
And maybe, just maybe, we'll be able to fell It-That-Sleeps, and free humanity from this rotting existence.
But that is long from now, and not what I must focus on.
The Bay must be first, or all else is lost.
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Cold water splashes against my face, the act of rubbing the cool liquid into my tired eyes waking me further, 'I have got to cut some time off my rubbing schedule! One hour, Taylia, not three! That's not responsible behavior!'
Sufficiently awakened and mentally chastened, my 'morning' business taken care of, I stare into the bathroom mirror.
Slight, almost invisible bags mar my glossy chocolate-brown skin beneath black sclera and lovely purple irises, light pink lips frowning; baring my teeth, with their longer-than-human canines, I find them white as ever. Opening my mouth, I stick out my dark, pink tongue, its pointed tip nearly reaching my cute, rounded chin, and check my throat for any inflammation or signs of Blight. Turning my white-maned head side to side, I check my knife-like ears, making sure both are clean and unblemished.
My appearance was the most jarring thing I encountered, two months ago; I looked nothing like either of the people I'd been. Shalia was of a lighter skin tone than me, and Taylor was human; that is, nothing like a Dark Elf.
Leaning away from the mirror, I raise a thin white brow and look down at my cleavage, boobs nearly pouring out of the only tank top I could find in this building that 'fit'. E-cups on a deceptively soft, six-one frame, my hourglass body clad only in that top and a pair of plain boyshorts that only half fit; hell, the tank top only covered me to about an inch over my belly button, which was nearly invisible against my toned abs, and the boyshorts didn't even reach my waist, only half covering my rounded butt. My thighs were thick, both with muscle and the thick layer of skin that hid said muscle, as were my calves, and my feet were strong yet petite. I had pretty feet, and a gorgeous body, both of which Taylor wished for ever and anon…
'And these fucking boulders keep getting the way of me seeing my pretty toes,' think I with pursed lips, poking the side of my right boob, eliciting a slight twitch of pleasure through the affected mass of mammary flesh; I sigh, exasperated, 'I can't believe I'm thinking this, but I think I'd prefer Taylor's body.' No matter how inefficient the human's body was, at least she could see her feet without crouching and crushing her boobs against her thighs.
Sighing again, because there was no use crying about it, I head into my main room/kitchen bar; opening the bedroom door on my right as I leave the bathroom, I glance at the linen closet/washer/dryer assembly, making sure the towels I used last 'night' will clean themselves in good order while I get ready for my 'day', no longer wondering at the excess that is Tinker-fabrication.
Every apartment was like this, here in the building I woke in three months and change ago, one of a dozen Tinker-fabricated apartment complexes, designed as shelters against the horrors that roam the world. Only four survived Lung's Wrath, but mine was the only one anyone could access, due to my finding of the master key-ring and leaving the building a little over a month ago, forced out by a desire for action, food that wasn't freeze dried or cup ramen, and exploring my surroundings.
The reason they couldn't be accessed was easy: each of the buildings were designed with "Manton-Effect Fields" in their walls, which nullify Parahuman abilities if they come under attack. Sure, they could be overwhelmed, and the ones that fell were overcome by Lung and Kaiser's thrashing, but by the time they got here, the former neighborhood of Mumfort Square, the fight was winding down.
Not that this area doesn't have its risks: aside from natural gas clouds hugging some of the trenches, forests of steadily rusting blades that could collapse at any moment, pitfalls into the unknown, falling rubble, roving Triad foragers (to supply Squealer and Voltron, their main Tinkers), and Bitch occasionally patrolling up this way with her Pack, there was one other reason no one came this way in either direction.
Me.
Off with the tank top and shorts, and on with the dark purple Kevlar body glove I usually wear while out; of course, I put a thick pad in the groin and carefully bind my breasts, so as to keep sensual stimulation to a minimum. I'll be jumping around a lot and-
"Oooh~!" I mewl involuntarily, face burning, as I pull the binding tight around my chest, the fabric of the pad rubbing against my nipples and slightly setting me off.
-there's only a few ways I can mitigate the hypersensitivity of my person. Not having my tits bouncing around with abandon or having my body glove soaked in juices are only two of the ways in which I can limit my arousal while on patrol.
Zipping up the back of the sleeveless body glove, which while skin-tight covers my skin to mid-thigh, I walk back out of my room; making for the kitchen with breakfast on my mind, I say aloud, "TV on, news."
The in-wall flatscreen flicks on and, as I collect a cup of instant ramen ('Only five left. Gotta go shopping soon, or have Warp do it for me…'), a newscaster's tinny, impersonal voice relates what's happened since I fell asleep earlier this morning.
"…along the Rubblebelt. The Barnes Militia, in an act of daring bravery, fired on the invaders, sending them fleeing back into their barbaric holes. The Barnes Militia was formed after its founder, Allen Barnes, had his daughter taken by the Triad, two years ago."
I pull the string on the cup, steam curling out of the holes I've poked in the paper top as hot water fills it, thinking with a snarl, 'So some people tried to come over, probably trying to escape hell, and the Militia shot at them. Man, your cruelty knows no bounds.'
"The newest villain in the 'Belt, Shadow Stalker-"
"FRIGGIN WHAT?!" Villain?! I'm not a villain!
"-is believed to be the cause of this latest attempts by the Triad to send more of their riffraff to invade and pollute our beautiful city. Shadow Stalker, as we have stated before, is a cold-hearted murderer, and has attacked both Militia and Triad personnel in the past. Current PRT Thinker analysis shows that the Triad is still trying to find Stalker, and has been regularly sending invaders through the 'Belt in an attempt to locate and recruit the rogue villain. PRT Commander Piggot declined to comment on rumors that PRT-sponsored Parahumans are working with Shadow Stalker while on patrol. Civilians are advised to stay indoors after curfew, and that Stalker is to be considered armed and extremely dangerous. In other news-"
Fucking… Stop a Militia bastard from raping some girl in an alleyway and the hypocrites demonize you. At least the PRT can be trusted not to reveal my location, but for how much longer? The pressure that'll be put on them from Northside's government…
I snarl, "TV, off!" focus on my ramen-
"Yah! Ow! Hot!"
-and then my healing magic, before making my way past the TV and the couch for where the window would be, if the thick metal blast shields that covered the red-brick building's exterior weren't lowered, and my personal armory.
A mannequin held my main costume: a cuirass that provided… decent coverage (and necessitated the body glove to hide my admittedly impressive cleavage), which protected my groin, stomach, spine and most of my breasts from damage; a gorget with a specially enchanted piece of fabric that covered my face up to the bridge of my nose and allowed me to breathe fresh air in the polluted 'Belt; clawed, elbow-length gauntlets; knee-high heeled boots… and by heeled, I mean armored pumps that protected my legs to just above the knee.
It was all black enameled with purple trim, no superfluous decorations, and, if it weren't for my body glove and cloak, would make me look like some kind of armored stripper.
On the bright side, I remind myself grumpily while attaching the gorget, the whole ensemble was specifically designed, from the smelting of the metal to cooling in water, as the perfect armor to fight monsters in; it was rust-proof, nearly bulletproof (anti-armor rounds would pierce it easily, but short of that…) waterproof, fireproof, and could only be damaged by the very strongest of foes. Of my potential enemies in the Docks, only The Butcher and Lung had the physical strength and ability to overcome my armor's durability, and, well, I'd probably not face either for some time yet. I hadn't really stirred up as much trouble as the newscaster said.
A few gangbangers, a tussle with Kemuri, Voltron and Oni Lee here and there, and stopping a Militia grunt from violating a girl who kept screaming 'No!'. That was the summation of what I'd done over the past month and two weeks, and those Northside pigeons make their people think me some monster.
Oh, that makes me so angry, so much I turn to the north of my apartment and scream, "I'm not Skidmark, you hypocritical assholes!" it's enough to bring a few tears to my eyes; I'm just trying to help out, the only way I can! And-and they warn their children away from me! My god, I'm so angry I just swore!
I shake myself out of the self-depreciating thoughts; distraction leads to mistakes, which leads to…
"AAAAAHHHH! NO! G-GET IT OUT! NGH~AHH! STOP!"
"AH, A VIRGIN ELF! PERFECT!"
…suffering.
Looking over my weapons, I select the rapier, a bandolier of throwing knives, my bow and silver arrows; I glance at the claymore before shaking my head. I've promised myself (and Colin) not to bring that out unless a confrontation with Lung, Skidmark or Butcher was inevitable; besides, 'I'm good enough with the rapier, especially after sparring with Colin at the Lodge.' As a matter of fact…
'Well, it doesn't look like I'll be able to go shopping tonight, unless I want to get shot at by the Militia…' tying my hair up into a bun, I pull the facemask on and put on the domino mask the PRT Tinker gave me, which emphasized the purple glow of my eyes and pinned my ears down to reduce wind resistance, nearly completing my transformation from Taylia to Shadow Stalker, 'Hopefully Dragon brought some supplies from Newhaven today, or maybe Warp will be there; I'll be able to bribe her into doing a food run for me… while taking out my frustrations on some Merchants.'
Happy with this itinerary for my evening, I open the cabinet over the fridge and take out a Tupperware container, removing two small baggies full of silver-white rocks. From the hall closet, next to my apartment's main door, I grab my belt with its long daggers and slip the baggies into a pouch.
Lastly, I take one of the hooded dark grey cloaks hanging in the closet and whirl it over my shoulders, hooking the hood to the gorget's facemask, along with looping some straps through my armor at the back and beltline, to keep the cloak from flying all over the place while moving.
I'm ready.
I take one last look around my apartment, slip out into the hallway, and lock the door before making for the roof access, fast as a cheetah, silent as a swooping owl.
Another night in Purgatory awaits.
.
1
.
Distant gunfire to my right, the sounds of an outdoor concert far away to my left… and the 'Belt in front of me.
To human eyes, it must look like quite the dark and forbidding place, all the myriad spikes of corroding steel glittering in the light of sporadic fires, searchlights on both sides of this wasted divide scanning the ruins for threats, and the occasional flash of gunfire, interspersed with poisonous fog and the deep shadows of night hugging the trenches that wind their way through the place, the bright lights of Downtown gleaming in Northside promising an empty existence in this struggling world, the red glow of Blood Lane and the Red Light District on the Dock's side a sinister backdrop to this ruin.
To me, the darkness is nonexistent, all the 'Belt lit up in my eyes as easily as daytime; I see people moving along the barricades in Northside, Militia men ensuring the perimeter stays secure. Some are family men, trying to keep their families safe; most, though… well, I'll be keeping well clear after that news report, just in case. I don't want to find out just how bulletproof my armor is.
In the Docks, figures move in the shadowed windows of cracked, partially ruined buildings, drug-addled eyes looking wildly into the dark 'Belt, dirty hands clutching equally dirty weapons. In an alleyway, a girl, who can't be older than 13, sucks off a man old enough to be her father, letting his ejaculate splatter across her face with a happy smile; her John tosses a ten on her cum-speckled visage, and she thanks him as he saunters uncaringly away. As she rises, licking up the man's seed greedily, I see a 'V' branded into her left buttock, and the scene makes more sense.
Not that it didn't already; I knew what that girl felt like, what living like that was like.
But there was no use dwelling on it. I turned my gaze east, marking my planned path through the ruins. One of Bitch's monster dogs howls in the distance, answered by other howls along the 'Belt. The time on my domino mask's HUD says 7:00PM.
I cast an invisibility spell, make sure the roof door is securely locked, dart across the roof to the east-northeast edge, and kick off hard.
'It's not flying,' I muse, humming to myself as I use the towers of metal and broken buildings as stepping stones, dodging searchlights and mortar fire, 'But I have to say, having a Brute/Mover rating is a good second.' That, and flying capes don't last long here, mostly due to Squealer's automated AA batteries. I only knew two, Sparta (Victoria) and Aegis (Carlos), and both knew better than to fly too high in the 'Belt.
A mortar round blasts a hole a few hundred feet to my right, hitting nothing but sending a few suicidal hobos running for a nearby basement; stupid Militia, wasting ammo on the 'Belt when there's a Triad sniper setting up in a window half a mile away.
If it wouldn't dispel my invisibility and leave me out in the open for both sides to shoot at, I'd stop and take him out; besides, the late November night was young, breezy and clear. If someone else doesn't get the greasy little fucker, I'll take him out after getting to cover.
Three leaps later, the Lodge appears in my vision; it used to be a parking garage and some sort of multi-story business complex. Now it was a shattered, apparently burned-out husk, the windows of the complex haloed with soot from the fire that gutted the place, the top two levels of the garage fallen and strewn about the landscape in equal measure, rusting cars littering the relatively intact layers.
I don't hesitate to kick off a bent steel girder and dart into the place at speed, moving swiftly behind a thick concrete pillar right as a cheer comes from the Docks side and bullets whine all over the 'Belt, a few taking chunks out of the concrete around me or dinging off cars.
'Just another night at the office,' I think in dark humor, dispelling my invisibility and nocking an arrow, looking for anyone stupid enough to stick their neck out – ah, and there's Mr. Sniper, aiming at one of the Militia guard towers.
My vision narrows down the shaft, I hold my breath, calculate the shot using the targeting reticle on the HUD, wait for the wind to calm… complete the draw…
Hiss!
The sniper falls back from the window, my arrow buried in his skull, dead before he hits the ground.
Feeling the ethereal 'ribbon' that connects my magic to each of the twenty-five arrows I made, I focus on the one I just shot, snap my fingers –
And the quiver on my hip jostles slightly, the arrow returned, clean and ready for another use.
I don't feel anything for killing the man, not after seeing what sick activities he and his brethren partake in. Turning one of the dials on my bow's grip with a soft click, the arms snap together silently; as I holster it, I say just loud enough to hear over the continuing sounds of strife and bullets whining around us, "Evening, Aegis."
A chuckle precludes the blood-red armored cape deactivating his active camo, appearing in midair two pillars away, visible mouth smirking beneath his matte black visor, "Nice shot, Stalker. What was that, three quarters of a mile, into a five MPH wind?"
Tall, muscular, observant, and well-mannered… let's just say that Carlos here pushes quite a few of my buttons; even so, I much prefer to have friends and allies than indulge in my… mental… well, mental and physical…
Know what? I don't want to fuck him. I mean, I do, but I need to have more control of myself, otherwise I might rip off his armor, slam his muscly, tall body to the ground and –
Face heating, I do my best to stay professional and ignore the fantasies, "More like a full mile, and the wind was mostly dead when I shot," I turn away from the Docks, slinking in his direction while continuing the commentary, "Between the humidity coming off the Bay and my skill, the air will practically caress my arrows. At this range, clear line of sight and a calm night like this," I carefully narrow my eyes, hopefully giving the impression of a mischievous smirk, "there's no way I'll miss."
Aegis chuckled, moving to accompany me to my destination, the entrance to the Lodge proper, "I believe you, but please do me a favor and don't say 'caress' around Timesnatch or Warp… unless you like being teased with endless innuendo." I scoff, even as my blush flares beneath the facemask, which makes the rather attractive PRT cape give off another deep chuckle, to my annoyance; happily, or unhappily given the connotations, he changed the subject, "Armsmaster's here, in case you were wondering; says he wants to talk to you."
I sigh as we reach the doorway; standing up in the alcove, I take my hand off the dagger on my hip after checking the area and look up at the cape, who unlocks the Lodge's door. I ask tightly, "I'm guessing everyone's heard what the Militia's saying about me?"
He nods, lips pursed as he looks at me from his hover, "Yeah… and we all think it's absolute bullshit, Stalker. Especially Colin," Carlos hesitates, but ends up smiling a little, "Scuttlebutt says the Commander ripped into Barnes for labeling you a villain without her say-so, but, well," he shrugged, "can't do anything about it now but keep your nose clean and hope things get better."
Folding my arms as I look at him, I tilt my head to one side and drawl, "Colin's still catching flak for killing Night and Fog last summer," shaking my head, I turn to the door and sigh, "So forgive me if I doubt Barnes forgiving me for castrating one of his precious Militia with an arrow anytime soon." I reach for the handle –
A hand lands on my shoulder, making me stiffen for… multiple reasons; Carlos whispers, voice sure and encouraging, "Hey. I don't blame you, and neither does anyone here. Fucking pendejo deserved what he got. Don't let that tight-ass Barnes get to you, Taylia, alright?"
Shrugging my shoulder to remove his hand, but not so hard as to be dismissive, I whisper back, "I won't… thanks, Carlos. I'll, uh, just head in." So much to do tonight, and spending it blushing in Aegis' presence will only tempt me.
To say nothing of the fact that, when he touched me, I had a mini orgasm. Stupid sensitive Dark Elf physiology!
"Stay safe," he says with an easy nod, disappearing from the visible spectrum a moment later; I can still smell him, so live and male, as he shoots out of the garage and into the deep night, no doubt to meet up with Sparta so they can go thrash some ABB twits.
Shutting and locking the door behind me, I groan to myself; stupid, inconvenient nymphomania, making my whole body tingle like this! Luckily the pad pressed against my groin is not only there to soak up any arousal I may discharge, it nullifies the scent as well. Three cheers for Tinker-fab products, yayyy…
Deciding to walk it off, I follow the red Christmas lights into the depths of the building and the Lodge, trying to think of a plan to boost my reputation back into the positive and incredibly anxious about the coming conversation with my favorite sparring partner… and the closest thing I have to a father figure in this horrible, desolate place.
