Hunger

by Baked The Author

Taylor dies in the locker. She isn't too happy about this setback, or the results, but at least she can still try to be a hero… while trying not to indulge in all the tasty snacks running around. Zombie!Taylor, AU, TaylorXMulti WARNING: dark, char death, lewd

2. I can haz snacks!

EDIT, 4/22/2018: Chapter ending re-written, see AN at the bottom.

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Hunger

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Chapter 1:
Foundry

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Dying isn't painless.

Usually, there's some obvious cause: a bullet in your head or heart killing you quick, a knife in a vital point that makes you bleed out, crushed by an eighteen wheeler against a concrete divide, falling from a great enough height that your bones shatter and become shrapnel, shredding your frail internal meats…

Sometimes, it's an infection; less obvious, but more effective and terrifying than the sudden death. A slow, methodical, unavoidable certainty, creeping through your veins, under your fingernails, beneath your eyelids, the feeling of ants worming their way through your brain as Parkinson's slowly consumes your ego, or Ebola bleeding you from within, your lungs filling with water as cancer takes you…

I'd heard of a show, in Earth Aleph, called One Thousand Ways to Die, which explores all the zany possibilities, all the crazy ways that our frail bodies can fail. Sometimes it surprises me how vicarious humans are, that the idea of death brings them entertainment, but then I remember the Coliseum, and the world makes sense again, though it remains of a grey tint.

Burning sounded terrible; the flames licking away your body, inch by inch, like a living necrosis, not knowing when the next breath will be your last…

Drowning's not much better, your body involuntarily taking a breath, only to receive something it can't process, your lungs burning as the water erodes the sensitive organs and your brain starves itself… but I've never been afraid of water, a result of learning to swim at a young age, I supposed…

The idea of somehow being shredded by a wood-chipper always sounds stupid as all hell; if it's jammed, turn the machine off, then go sticking your leg into the thing that eats tree stumps!

Apparently, you can be scared to death; a sort of cerebral shock, I guess. I'm sure there's a proper word for it, but I'd never been very interested in the medical lingo that tries to put all kinds of things, including death, in carefully arranged and cataloged boxes, seeing to define that which is relative, chasing shadows that are ever beyond their reach.

Even hearing my mom die over the phone that rainy night (an aborted scream, screech of metal, wet rattle while I cry out desperately for her to answer) two years ago didn't cause a sudden interest in the study most macabre. Nor did it convince me to seek shelter in the imaginary arms of a deaf and absent god. There was no point in doing either; understanding death was beyond the ken of us mere mortals, and if Jesus was coming back, it would probably be to pick up our bodies once the Endbringers were finished with us.

In a morbid, cynical way, Glaistig Uaine was more of a savior than Jesus could hope to be, what with her tendency to harvest the powers of dead capes. Hell, there were several cults dedicated to her, praising the (allegedly) insane villain as our only hope against the Endbringers; her turning aside the Simurgh was a pretty common sticking point in those cults, one which was difficult for the PRT to refute. Too bad she was locked in the Birdcage… though, given the fact that she'd turned herself in, she was probably capable of breaking out whenever she wanted.

That morbid cynicism was what was left, in the wake of events succeeding my mother's death.

My Dad, closing himself off to the world, always leaving a side of the bed empty, unable to move on. A husk of a soul in a meaty prison. Brave enough to face the world, but not enough to leave it.

My best friend, Emma, leaving my side for some inscrutable reason before committing to a campaign of terror, again, for no apparent reason than driving me toward suicide or insanity.

I read somewhere that loneliness is one of the three strongest feelings a person can experience, superseded only by empathy and love.

Knowing all three, only receiving one; for Dad was barely there, and even though I knew he still loved me in a roundabout way, I couldn't bring myself to love an empty husk of the man I once looked up to, and I couldn't exactly empathize with my tormenters. I'd been raised to abhor such behavior. It therefore surprised me, again, in a morbid and cynical way, how numb the Winslow High School administration was to my plight. Weren't more people raised to be compassionate?

Or were we all just selfish animals, only out to benefit ourselves?

Because if that's the case, it still makes more sense to work together, so we all benefit. So when we die, invariably in pain, it's not so bad.

Not that any of this matters anymore, seeing as I'm lying in a freezer in the morgue.

Of all the ways I thought I could die, being eaten alive by bugs in a locker half-filled with two-week-old fermented menstrual pads and used tampons was really unexpected, to say nothing of a boy, paid by my former best friend, bringing it about by shoving me into the toxic filth and locking the door.

Death's like that though. You'll never see it coming until you're in the morgue.

Yeah, that's me: part of my torso gone, my insides, which had spilled out, carefully rearranged and stitched in with all the care of someone stuffing trash into a bag, left hand gone from trying to fend off a horde of flesh eating bugs, left face eaten nearly down to the bone, exposing teeth and frayed muscle, the eye on the same side gone from the socket, my nose nearly gone as well, both my thighs, along with my calves, hollowed by maggots, to say nothing of my groin and female parts; on the whole, I'm a bloodless, half-consumed ruin…

But I'm not dead. Well, medically I am. Personally, I'm still here, locked in this ruined husk.

Waiting.

If I could still feel anger, I'd probably be in a frothing rage right about now. How dare the universe cheat me in such a callous way!

But the universe is callous, and ever so beautiful, so I can't blame it much.

A single-minded, insane purpose, which I'm now weirdly okay with. It's not the universe's fault for being created for the sole purpose of experiencing all possibilities and probabilities.

Like God destroying themselves so they can understand themselves.

Because, in a way, I did die… or saw my life flash before my eyes. I suppose it doesn't really matter which.

It was around the point a centipede crawled up inside me, tearing my hymen on its way to gnaw at my virgin cervix. I think I passed out after that, or died, or started to really die, or whatever…

Because I saw things, there, in the locker, my own personal corner of Hell.

For a moment, I thought I'd finally lost my mind, but the feeling was so WARM and SAFE and FAMILIAR. A metronomic thrumming, running through me and everything around me; warm and wet and dark, I flexed and moved and learned and LISTENED.

It changed, as things do; suddenly there was roaring. A tight feeling, PUSHING me, PULLING me, and PAIN inside me. I can't BREATHE anymore! I can't SEE anymore!

And then…

I'm EVERYWHERE and NOWHERE. A STAR is born before my eyes and I KNOW why it exists, because all that IS was created so the RIVER, the truth behind the universe, could UNDERSTAND itself; gas and dust, my foot! Stars were born from PURPOSE, because the entire universe seeks to UNDERSTAND itself, KNOW itself, and it can't do that while inert, so it seeks out its perfect form.

It just so happens that galaxies were the perfect recycling centers for dead stars, which were galaxies themselves in miniature, taking white dwarfs and pulling them back together in the cosmic medium. Over and over and over again, an endless waltz of life and death, forever. Heat Death? Big Crunch? Pah. There's no such thing. A galactic filament flickers and slowly dies out, the leftover matter and near inert energy, over tens and hundreds of billions of years, ends up getting drawn into gravitational focal points…

There have been countless Big Bangs, regional to the infinite web of rivers streaming throughout the vast halls that are the cosmos, going everywhere and coming from nowhere, truly infinite and inscrutable, above and beyond what any physicist could ever dream of. I suppose it's the closest thing one can come to the universal Truth: that nothing is permanent, but neither can anything truly die.

I see ME. I see myself grow up; hurry up, hurry up, I want to be a hero. But Emma has a germ in her head and it's going to kill me because she doesn't UNDERSTAND that she's her and I'm me and we're not made the same because that's how everything's supposed to be but it won't stop her because her Dad drinks and her Mom hits her when she doesn't do well in her modeling classes and her agent made her suck his cock but she won't tell me because she hates how sure and strong I am and it sickens her and she wants to kill me because she thinks my strength will become hers if I die and she thinks my grief makes me weak but

she's

wrong. She'll always be weak.

I see her in the alleyway. I see why Emma finally stops pretending. And I see Sophia Hess. I see Shadow Stalker.

I UNDERSTAND her.

I see Sophia's PAIN. I see her stepfather pin her down and take her and I see her cry and she turns to smoke because she wants to escape but she can only escape for a while because she has to be solid to stop others from feeling that same PAIN. I see the city twist her PAIN into HATE, turn her REMORSE into APATHY, and I feel her SOUL, the deepest and most personal part of ourselves, the piece of us that returns to the RIVER, crying out in agony as the PASSENGER warps Sophia into the very thing she hates.

Born of CONFLICT, it twists her, but Sophia is strong. She fights it, as much as she can.

It sickens me to watch, but I can do nothing but watch. Because if I don't watch, the pain will come back and I don't want to be in the locker anymore and it still hurts but the pain is lessening…

Sophia didn't push me into the locker…

She didn't want to; the last gasps of her SOUL, a final try at redemption. She didn't take Mom's flute and destroy it. Sure, she beat me, called me names, tripped me and stole my homework.

But unlike Emma, there was still a shred of EMPATHY in her heart.

Unlike Emma, she didn't put me in the locker. Unlike Emma, Sophia didn't destroy Mom's flute. She didn't kill me.

As I lay dying, surrounded by filth, being eaten by bottom feeders, I suppose my life, in a way, will be worth it, if Sophia can find out how to LOVE again.

Because that's why everything exists; it loves itself, seeks to UNDERSTAND itself, and, in doing so, is only too happy to go through the suffering that is LIFE to KNOW…

And then it returns to the RIVER.

I see the essences of so many people and beings, returning to the RIVER, but I'm standing on the banks of the river, my ankles in the silt, and I KNOW I won't follow. I can't follow. I'm different. I know this without knowing. The RIVER speaks these things into me, and I CHANGE.

OUROBOROS. DREADNAUGHT. UNDYING.

{/-\sS!mILAtE}

[Error! Dissconn-]

The PASSENGER, the ADMINISTRATOR, dies. Its remains are absorbed, assimilated, optimized.

I am TAYLOR, in name and behavior, but MORE than I was.

I am also DREADNAUGHT. So the RIVER wills and desires, so it shall BE.

Because the RIVER is flooding over, inundated with countless lives, victims of the CONFLICT brought by the PASSENGERS, creations of the VIRUS, the PARASITE; I feel their victims, brushing against my toes, crying out in agony to dead and silent gods that have never existed except in their minds and if this continues, eventually, ENTROPY will triumph at last, and the RIVER will finally dry up. And there will only be the PARASITE, ZION, and it will tear away the banks of the RIVER, thinking it's escaping, finding one last redoubt against FINALITY…

…then I see what lies beneath the banks of the RIVER, beyond space and time and life and death, and I see ZION'S face contort in horror and disbelief as he SEES IT and everything-

STOPS.

This cannot happen.

I must go back. The RIVER shows me how to do this, how to stop everything from ending.

So I cup my hands. I drink from the RIVER, knowing that my life will be worth it, my death not final or meaningless, and-

And then I see a hospital room and I'm leaving my mother and I'm crying and I'm put back in her arms and I'm drinking from her breast and part of me UNDERSTANDS. And I ACCEPT this life, warm in Mom's bosom, and fall asleep.

Then I forget, and go on with my life, happy and unknowing of the horrors and glories my future will bring.

I'm back in the locker, a cockroach chewing on my left eardrum, more bugs chewing on my optical muscles…

It still hurts, but I'm falling away.

It all fades to black, a high keening wail as my brain lets out its death cry from lack of oxygen because there's a few dozen insects eating my lungs-

Silence falls, save the continued chewing of the bugs.

I'm still in the locker, dead but not. I understand again.

No heartbeat. Too much damage, not enough blood anymore.

No thought. Just a soul in a husk.

No way to move or speak. Muscles are dead, most of my throat now occupied by a millipede, mindlessly chewing on my thyroid.

It doesn't hurt anymore.

So I wait. I watch without eyes as they cut the lock off the locker.

As Sophia, bless her, sprays me with a fire extinguisher. "It'll kill the bugs! God, fuck, Emma you bitch!" A nice sentiment.

She fingers Emma, tries to help Dad convict her. Emma claims insanity. Therapy.

Not enough for Dad. He kills the Barnes family. He makes the cops kill him. He goes to the river, swimming quickly to catch up with Mom, so fast he doesn't see me.

Such a coward.

Four days is all it takes for all my bonds to be severed. Sophia is still there, but her soul is brighter; she won't bully again. She understands… not as much as I do now, in living death, but more than before. Not kind, never kind, but more gentle than she was, using compassion rather than dismissal in treating her fellow Wards, and they help her get past the grief of failing me. She has learned her lesson, through me.

I'm happy for her. I'll have to thank her for trying, once I can get up.

All the while, I spend three more days in the morgue, in a freezer, slowly getting dehydrated, the act preparing me for my pyre. They're going to cremate me. The bean counters think spending money on an orphan's burial is a waste, Dad's life insurance barely enough to pay for his.

So few people remember me now: Sophia is the only one who shows a shred of fondness. Madison, in a hateful way, as she's forced to attend therapy. Blackwell, as she waits for her trial, cursing my name.

They put Dad next to Mom. I'd follow, but I can't go yet. The RIVER must be dammed, its incessant flooding stemmed, or the PARASITE will win.

So I wait. Wait for the coroner's assistant, a closet necrophiliac, to try kissing me.

Because I know he will. I've seen it.

The RIVER showed me when I drank from it. Amongst other things.

I know what I must do.

ZION MUST JOIN THE RIVER.

Only then can I finally die.

[]

My chance comes when the coroner steps out to do paperwork in his office.

I'm joined by a neighbor, one of the Merchant's slave girls. Overdose. She went to the river in painful warmth. Her name was Carol Laedis. She was sixteen. She wanted to work at the ASPCA after college. She loved her dog Max, who died trying to defend her from the kidnappers. She died alone in an abandoned factory, surrounded by filth and other broken souls, after being broken though drugs and gang rape, after turning tricks on the streets for four months. She couldn't go on living, so she went back to the river with a needle in her neck.

Dying always hurts, no matter what anyone says. Always. In this case, it's a release. A distant pain as the river takes her into its warm waters. She's blissful as she joins the eternal currents. I feel happy for her, I suppose.

My feelings are blunted. No pain. No heartbeat. No breath. But I am. I exist, still.

The assistant does things to the computer, putting the security feed into a loop, making it look like he's still doing work. He walks over toward my cabinet.

'Do it, do it, do it!'

I'm so hungry. So itchy.

If I eat his flesh, fresh and raw, I'll be able to rise again. The river showed me, when I drank.

He dithers, thinking about choosing the overdose victim…

"Nah," he mutters, grabbing the handle of my drawer, "Don't want to catch AIDS or something."

I get pulled out, seeing, for the first time in my undeath, a living body.

Dead bodies still have slight nerve synapses, the corpse's nerve cells using the energy released by dying tissues to propagate themselves. One last flicker of the candle, a eulogy for the soul it once contained.

Like fireworks. So pretty.

A living body is like…

…like…

…it looks delicious. So much life and warmth, like the universe in miniscule, microscopic miniature! So yummy-looking! Such complex life, just waiting to rejoin the river! Just a few bites and I'll be well on my way to being whole again!

It's something I've realized, lying here on this cold slab: I need to eat. To consume energy. To feed. If I feed, I become stronger. If I become strong enough, I can defeat the Parasite.

I'm sooo hungry, and this necrophilic ass takes his fucking time caressing my cold cheek.

At least he rubbed my intact side, but he really needed to stop teasing me! I'm hungry! And so itchy! I haven't moved in days! I want him to kiss me so badly, it's maddening!

Kiss me, so I can rise.

"Too bad about your dad, honey," Derick, because that's his name, said softly, plucking at the strands of my hair with his greasy fingers; he's ugly, with acne scars, and slightly obese, which is perfect. More material I can work with.

He lowers his face, warm breath rippling over my cold skin, "How about you call me daddy, for a little while?"

He kisses me, finally!

Like Snow White, I awaken, using the very last of my strength to open my ruined mouth and hold his head in place with my right arm; my left hand isn't really there anymore. It was stuck deep in the muck, and came away when I fell out of the locker, but that's okay!

I'll have a new hand in short order!

I chomp down on his face, teeth sawing unnaturally through muscle, bone, and ooh it tastes soooo~ gooood~

Barely swallowing, I shunted the raw matter into my right arm, and crushed his spine, just beneath his skull. Derick begins to join the river a few seconds later, terrified, in agonizing pain as I continue taking chunks off his neck and shoulder, going though bone as easily as flesh.

He doesn't understand, not at first. By the time his body shudders and dies with a gurgle, he's forgiven me and dives into the river like a fish that's been out of water.

In a way, souls are like that. Fish out of water, happy to get tossed back in.

I kept eating; his skull comes away easily, warm tasty blood like gravy on my hands. I cracked it open to get at the brain within. Such a delicious aroma! Like buttered popcorn only better, and even tastier! Neurons pop in my mouth like fizzy rock candy, mmmmm~

As a happy plus, all of Derick's worldly knowledge became mine; the human anatomy became clear as day, chemistry and biology and coroner studies imprinting themselves into my still slovenly mind, helping me rebuild what was lost in the locker. My left hand reforms in a burst of black lattices, taking on my bluish-white skin tone a half second later.

My eating pace is faster after that.

After consuming most of Derick's upper body, down to the diaphragm, I'm not so itchy anymore, but still so hungry. Gulping down a piece of lung, which tastes a bit like plain cheesecake, I examine my naked body.

The grey of death has set in, and the scars of my autopsy mostly vanished while I assimilated Derick's flesh into my own. Still skinny. Still weak. 'I need be stronger. Me fight Scion. Kill. Eat. More.'

I'd need more brains, too, so I could think better. But at least now I could think with some clarity, which was better than nothing. I keep eating.

A few more minutes pass; the human digestive system isn't all that tasty, but the reproductive system is. It's a bit like boiled eggs, with just the right amount of salt. Muscles in the thighs tastes of pork. Bone melts like taffy in my mouth, strengthening my own skeleton as I savor the sweet, savory taste of Derick's femur. The ball joints, at the tops of the humeruses and femurs, are crunchy and soft, like truffles, only tastier.

Then a black rectangle – 'Radio. Is radio. Walkie Talkie.' – on Derick's pants says something. It's the security guard, asking after Derick's well-being.

Three times they ask, three times I ignore them. Eating is more important.

By the time two swirling masses of light start approaching, I'm sitting naked in Derick's hollowed out body, chewing on one of his tibia. A bit tough, what with its higher than usual density, but better than any steak I'd ever eaten while alive!

They're nearly at the door, the coroner moving faster suddenly, the other snack urging him to stop and wait.

Their hearts beat once. I'm on my feet.

The coroner's at the door, opening it. Another heartbeat and I've crossed half the room.

The door opens fully with the third beat. I see the tasty snack, the one that cut me open to check the damage, open his mouth to scream. He's shorter than me.

I didn't want him to scream, so I took a bite out of his forehead. 'Divine, oh, soo good.' Just one bite and it was already easier to think! I go for another bite-

Something hits me in the side of the head, and it gets harder to think for a second; I tear my attention away from Doctor Myers' tasty brains, his soul gibbering in terror and pain, and look at the other snack.

I recognized the uniform, a Brockton Bay police officer, his gun leveled at my face, heart stuttering in terror. Corporal Pedro Velez. He's a little overweight, and the bits of knowledge I'd just attained say he might have a heart attack. I saw him, as though through a thick mist, running away; Mr. Velez doesn't make the door, his heart giving out before he reaches it. But he warns the city, hoping the Protectorate can stop me as he slips away into the river.

That wouldn't be good. I haven't eaten my fill or beaten the Parasite yet!

The gun in his hand barks again; or, I guess it did. I felt the sound more than heard it.

On the other hand, motherfucker! I'd just regrown that eye! Silly snack! You shouldn't have done that!

I close with him, slam him into the wall by his neck, spraining it and breaking four ribs. His heart stutters worryingly. No! While he moans in pain, shooting me in the chest, I rip aside his protective vest and plunge my hand into his chest cavity.

Warm, fresh hearts taste like cherry-vanilla smoothies! Yummy!

'I better get Doctor Myers' before it cools!' waving my free hand in sudden anxiety, trying to figure out what to do first while holding Officer Velez's slowly cooling body, I decided not to waste the other heart while it was fresh and still sorta beating. So thinking, I toss the snack in hand over by Derick and harvest the other snack's still warm and juicy heart before dragging it into the freezer room, Dr. Myers' heart melting in my mouth, the flavor making my knees weak with pleasure.

A three course meal sounded lovely right about now! ~

[]

Two bodies and twenty minutes of experimenting with my new powers later, I understood a little more about myself.

Firstly, I could make my body do virtually anything I wanted it to do, provided I consumed living or recently deceased flesh; trying one of my fellow corpses didn't go so well, or the salami slices in Derick's sandwich. Like wood chippings and moldy cheese. Yuck.

To wit, I was now possessed of a rockin' body; perky, C-cup tits, flared thighs and perfectly rounded ass, thick, dense muscle hidden beneath a nearly-bulletproof layer of skin and dense fat. A rummage through my snack's memories located the 'lost and found', and I found myself in possession of a short skirt, a little black number that wouldn't hide anything if I jumped through the air, with a tight-fitting tank top of the same color that was decorated with a white, stylized 'D'.

Pulling the shirt on, I realized that it wouldn't take much more biomass to increase my cup size to the letter in question. I also realized that killing those three wasn't bothering me much. It was probably because they were at peace, the river taking them into its warm embrace.

That and the knowledge of their sins in life: Myers, a widower, was addicted to cocaine, and had discreetly trained his daughter from a young age to be his personal sex slave; he'd been planning on using her to entertain his friends once she hit sixteen, make him more money to fuel his addiction.

Officer Velez, while thinking himself a good and upright person, was racist against white people, and moonlighted as a 'vigilante', which amounted to cornering young white people and torturing them to death in secluded areas, sometimes sexually. Male or female didn't matter to him, so long as he could avenge his uncle, a victim of Allfather's insanity, but Mr. Velez didn't realize that he was the insane one, not until the end.

Secondly, I wasn't breathing. My heart still wasn't beating.

More than that: my entire biology didn't make sense from a medical perspective, anymore. I was, physically anyway, a densely packed conglomeration of three men and the ravaged, mildly desiccated remains of fifteen-year-old Taylor Hebert, in the form of skin, hardened muscle shored up with fat-like constructions, a skeleton that could probably survive getting hit by a bus, and… the black lattices.

Remembering the details of what the river showed me was becoming harder the more time passed, but I was pretty sure the black lattices were its waters given physical form. With them, I could absorb, remodel and dissolve any type of biomass, living or dead. An experiment, where I cut my hand open with a scalpel, showed that I could control the lattices for an inch or so outside my body, and that they were better at absorbing dead material than eating it, evidenced by their covering Carol's body and assimilating it into mine in just two minutes.

Twelve minutes after discovering this and getting dressed, I got to work on the other residents of the freezer room, all eight of them.

By the third such act of absorption, I realized something was wrong… well, not really wrong, considering my entire situation was hardly the norm by any stretch of the imagination, but… something was off, I supposed.

I wasn't getting much heavier. Just… denser. I'd started with the freshest, most robust corpses, but that still meant the combined mass of six people was now part of my biomass. Yet, a check on the scale near the computer showed I was 145 pounds, rather than over 1300.

Doctor Myers' memories told me the reason: the weight of my muscles wasn't corresponding to any increase in mass, they were just becoming denser, more like carbon nanoweave fibers than biological muscle. While alive, I was 112 pounds soaking wet, so the combined act of increasing my body's density while simultaneously increasing the area my body takes up (tits, ass, legs, and ripped abs!) was the reason I'd gained only thirty-two pounds. At the same time, my body was now probably strong enough to bench five times my current density, according to the good doctor anyway.

Very useful for my future plans… too bad I couldn't assimilate the memories of a corpse, however…

Meh. I absorbed two more bodies and checked my weight again.

146.5

Those two bodies, combined, weighed 388 pounds, putting me at over 1700 in consumed biomass. Use of a tape measure was irrelevant, however; most of the mass was going straight to my tits, which were now a clear D-cup. A quick restructuring of my internal… structure… evened the changes out; I was still a D, but at least the rest of my body matched…

I moved around a bit, seeing if the extra mass would impede my movement much. They didn't have much sway…

Oh, right, rigor mortis. Silly Taylor!

Good thing they didn't wobble around too much and were round as well as firm; I'd hate to have to improvise Officer Velez's combat training to account for my nicely sized and shaped melons, along with my succulent legs and glorious ass. I took the chance to run through the martial arts forms Velez knew. No issues with movement, seeing as I could also make myself as flexible as I wanted to be. Right! It was time to get out of here and hide!

There's no denying it: I'm a zombie. A really, really sexy zombie, but still; people would see me and think all kinds of horrors, and, much to my chagrin, those worries would be well-justified.

I eat people.

A check of a security feed, plus the knowledge from Derick on how it all worked, showed that I was the only one in the small building. There was a police cruiser further up the block, two more BBPD officers standing watch. They didn't matter at the moment. I was still learning.

Rewinding a certain camera, I watched myself tear Doctor Myers and Officer Velez apart.

I watched it again, feeling nothing but a hole where my heart should've been. I'd recycled it into the lattices when I realized I didn't need it anymore. If I wanted to move, my body responded, in defiance of all knowledge of biology.

But I wasn't worried. I was here, and could still move. Maybe it was a powers thing, or a product of drinking from the river.

Then I watched the video a third time. Eight seconds.

I'd killed two people in eight seconds.

After being shot in the head. Twice. So I was a different type of zombie than the kind you see in the movies.

A zombie queen. I hoped it wasn't contagious. If it was, I'd better not leave any of my bits lying around.

I went back to the door to the freezer room, opened it, and looked on the ground. There was a dark puddle where the pieces of my skull and brain should've been. I felt warmth emanating from it.

'Come back to me,' I thought, feeling a connection to that warmth, so much like the river. The puddle rippled, and then shot into my bare foot. It tingled as it seeped under my toenails and became part of me again.

Very useful powers, indeed.

I absorbed the remaining corpses, erased the security footage for the last twenty-four hours using Derick's and Doctor Myers' knowledge, destroyed the hard drive (by pulling it out of the computer, crumpling it into a ball, and eating it, just to see if I could. Platinum tastes like generic rice cakes and salt, yuck!), shoved as many clothes as I could carry into two backpacks, put on Officer Velez's boots (after washing the blood off), covered my head with a black hoodie and a matching scarf to hide my face, put one bag on my front, one on my back, and slipped out through the back door.

It was nighttime. Good. I had a lot of ground to cover.

Sooner or later, probably in the next half-hour or so, Velez is supposed to check in with the patrol car. By then, I'd be halfway across the city. Halfway to my destination, my chosen hiding place, the place Velez usually took his victims, somewhere only he and some half-mad squatters and transients knew of, an abandoned factory complex outside the city limits.

Hopefully, no one would spot me on the way.

[]

Hannah didn't know what to make of what she was seeing.

In this city, Brockton Bay, horrors were a daily thing; from the visceral to the personal, if it could happen to you, it could happen in the Bay. Sometimes, Hannah felt she'd never left the killing fields she'd grown up on, especially whenever the Empire or ABB decided to flex their muscles in the occasional rally or shootout. A show of strength, a reminder that they were still there.

As though anyone could forget either gang was in the Bay.

Also, this resulted in high mortality rates, which in turn resulted in a need for more morgues and experienced coroners. Hannah wished such measures were unnecessary, that people could live in peace in this great nation, but, well… what could she do, with the Protectorate keeping her hands tied? Some days, especially after what Stalker told her of the events at Winslow, she'd spent her sleepless nights wondering why she didn't just nuke the whole Docks, start over from the ashes.

The Birdcage was reason enough not to, her personal morality taking a backseat to self-preservation.

Seeing the absolute carnage in this West Side morgue, however, really made her wonder if that nuke wasn't such a bad idea.

"Find anything, Armsmaster?" she whispered, watching one of the PRT agents shoveled up the few remains they could find of Derick Callahan, the coroner's assistant, and put him in a Hefty bag. There were blackened spots here and there on his body, same as the other two victims, a police officer and the coroner himself; necrosis, far too advanced for being dead for only two hours.

The Desert Eagle on her hip turned into an SPAS, slung over one shoulder. Whatever did this, she hoped it wasn't still around. Some of that necrotic tissue looked like bites, which made Hannah think of The Siberian.

Armsmaster shook his head from where he was examining the guts of the morgue's PC, "Negative. Whoever did this was very thorough. They removed the hard drive and took a hammer to the motherboard. No fingerprints, either."

His voice sounded like he admired whoever did this; Hannah didn't hold it against Colin. The poor man had a hard enough time connecting with other people as it was, so lost in his work that he saw everything in his life outside Tinkering as tiring business.

In Hannah's opinion, he needed a girlfriend, or at least a one-night stand. Anything, to remind the great big lump that he was human.

Unlike whatever tore through here… "That's… not good," she admitted, glancing at the empty drawers along one wall, frost framing each one from being left open, "We have thirteen corpses, ten of which are outright missing, with no possible perp or motive. Director Piggot won't be pleased."

"Sir? Ma'am?" Miss Militia turned to the Agent inspecting the body drawers; he was standing near one that had a pool of steadily coagulating blood beneath it, looking down at a Tinkertech scanner, "From what I can see, this is where it all started. The blood here is older than that of the hallway by at least twenty minutes."

Hannah walked over, careful not to disturb the blood trails, "What's the name on that drawer?"

"One Taylor Hebert, tag number 1255," the agent replied, before continuing, "It looks like Mr. Callahan was murdered first. He'd opened the drawer, looked inside, then… well, there's a few things that could cause bleeding of this magnitude," he gestured at the pool, then the trail that led to what was left of the man, and shrugged, "but I'm guessing his throat was torn out."

Armsmaster cut in, "Taylor Anne Hebert. Age: 15. Died seven days ago. Cause of death: toxic shock combined with 47% of her physical mass being consumed by various flesh eating insects, resulting in pulmonary and respiratory failure." Hannah winced, thankful she'd sprung for a light breakfast, as Colin continued in a near-robotic tone, "No current living relatives, as her father committed suicide by police four days ago, after slaughtering Alan Barnes and his family before wounding several police officers with a shotgun, necessitating his termination; evidence shows Mr. Barnes' daughter was responsible for Ms. Hebert's death, and successfully managed to plead insanity. Ms. Barnes was to serve a year in a mental health facility before receiving five years of mandatory therapy. According to filed records, Ms. Hebert was to be cremated to save money on her burial; her ashes were to be placed between her parents' caskets."

'My God… what is this city coming to?' As if dealing with the gang's insanity wasn't enough. Even ordinary people weren't immune. It made Hannah sad, to know that this poor girl died in such a horrible way, all because of another girl's madness.

"Well, she's up and walking around now." Hannah's nearly cricked her neck looking back at the PRT Agent's androgynous voice; they were looking at the blood smeared on the metal slab with a tilted head, "This smear is indicative of someone moving their leg, then body. Also, the blood is thinner near where Ms. Hebert's head would've been… and there's not nearly as much as there should be…" they trailed off.

Colin coughed, but Hannah beat him to the punch; she'd seen Bonesaw's work before, and the edges of the victims looked like some of the injuries were caused by bites. "Are you saying Ms. Hebert is… what? A flesh-eating zombie?"

The Agent's facemask met Miss Militia's eyes, reflecting her incredulous expression, "Ma'am, I was part of the Winslow clean-up. Considering the toxic cocktail that was in that locker, combined with whatever they used on her for the autopsy, I wouldn't be surprised if that stuff accidentally created a slow-acting variant of Bonesaw's worse contagions, let alone this." He (the shoulders gave his gender away to Hannah) gestured at the room pointedly.

"I concur," Colin grumbled, frowning; Hannah could tell he was using his helmet for some purpose, probably to hack the morgue's servers. After a moment, he spoke up again, but quietly, "However, I don't believe this is the work of Bonesaw, or any known villain. I've just accessed the main servers here, with Dragon's assistance, and the results are… disturbing."

A tinny female voice, Dragon's, elaborated from the speakers built into Armsmaster's power armor, "The last twenty-four hours of video surveillance have been utterly erased, even from the backup caches; whoever did this, I doubt it was the late Ms. Hebert. She would've required extensive knowledge of the system's internal workings, passwords, and advanced learning in coding to erase everything so thoroughly." Dragon added when Hannah raised an eyebrow, the SPAS shifting to a SCAR-H with a flicker of green light.

Armsmaster nodded in agreement, saying to the PRT Agent, "We won't rule out the possible 'reanimation' angle. Make sure you file that in your report. For now, we assume we're dealing with a Stranger, possibly a Striker or Brute with a regen factor, considering the necrosis evident in the victims and the shell casings on the floor outside. Be on guard." The Agent nodded, already moving away from Hebert's drawer.

Miss Militia remembered something, from reading about the BBPD's countermeasures against robbery and kidnapping of beat cops, and spoke up, "Are any of the belt's tracking devices responding? If they still have the items, we might be able to find them."

The Agent put a hand to his helmet, muttering for a minute, then shook his head negatively, "They found all the trackers in a garbage can, three blocks away. Not even a partial fingerprint."

No further evidence was forthcoming, so the area was sanitized and reports were made. Ultimately, Hannah surmised that this monster might be a Bio-Tinker specializing in corpses; why else would all the other bodies be missing, if not for some madman's experiments? When she raised this hypothesis to the Director, she received orders to arm and advise the Wards with lethal countermeasures; they already had three adult deaths, that they knew of, and the Director wasn't interested in seeing that body count rise. No sense adding the thought of dead kids to the public's collective paranoia, never mind the ENE Protectorate's collective conscious.

Miss Militia agreed; the very last thing she needed was getting a frantic radio call during a patrol, only to find Vista or Kid Win had already been victimized by… who?

Was it Miss Hebert, raised from the grave? Was she an unusual Parahuman, with a power like Alabaster's, or was she the product of a Bio-Tinker's madness? Or was it something else entirely, something they'd missed in the morgue? A product of Blasto's experiments that escaped the Bio-Tinker's laboratory, or something of Lab Rat's that they'd missed before putting the Villain in the Birdcage?

…Was it Nilbog? Dragon didn't think so; the case didn't fit his MO, and there wasn't any sign Ellisburg's quarantine had been breached. Still, Director Piggot did send off a request to double and triple-check the doomed city's perimeter, just in case the Goblin King had grown tired of his small fief and was attempting expansion.

Whatever the case, Hannah kept a watchful eye on her Wards, especially the now-morose Shadow Stalker, knowing that the answer may soon become clear.

She only hoped it didn't make itself known in a rain of blood.

[]

The Breckenridge-Farrier Foundry Complex, a relic of the era of major steel mills; near enough to the city for a reasonable daily commute while also far enough away for the fumes it's furnaces produced to not be a bother the local populace.

Before the arrival of Scion and the advent of Parahumans, before Tinkers and the collapse of the shipping industry, factory complexes like these provided hundreds of jobs for various skilled laborers.

In the early 1900's, these sprawling red brick buildings were common; building outward instead of upward, they were usually occupied by multiple small industrial businesses that organized under a single owner, trying to stay afloat amidst burgeoning corporate competition. Generally, these places were havens for unions and skilled workers who found themselves out of work after the fall of the monopolies.

Breckenridge-Farrier was no different, housing a group of symbiotic companies that primarily dealt in the production, refinement and sale of cast metal products; a mold would be made, usually cups or flatware, but sometimes dollhouses and decorative potpourri, and occasionally larger works, like Ferris wheels, which would then have liquid metal poured into them. This was made on-site, the raw material created in the expansive foundry that the entire building was built around.

Painters, mechanics, lawyers, secretaries, metallurgists, MTT-specialists, general laborers, on-site hospital staff, teachers and day-care personnel from all over the Bay lived and worked in the massive building, boasting over fifteen hundred employees in its heyday; a nearby railroad line, between the bay and the foundry, carried product to all 50 states and beyond, back when Brockton Bay was at peak production, in the 20's, then again in the 40's and 50's. Even the Great Depression couldn't break the Breckenridge-Farrier Foundry, the companies therein employing more general laborers than any other foundry on the East Coast, with a peak workday population of 2140 workers in the building and the nearby rail line.

As the 60's rolled around, however, amidst the cost of maintaining the aged apparatus and skilled personnel, along with the Vietnam War taking most of the young men away from the labor force, to say nothing of health concerns amongst the tenured workers and government environmentalists, Breckenridge-Farrier found itself in dire straits. Several bad business decisions, including a failed attempt at producing radiators for Ford, saw the company take its last breath. In 1968, sixty years after opening its doors, the foundry was shut down.

Several times since that year, the Brockton Bay city council made proposals to either tear the seven-million square-foot complex down, or repurpose it, either as luxury apartments, a mall, or, at one point, an alternative to the Protectorate ENE base.

In every case, the plans proved to be either logistically or financially untenable; too many problems in demolition, especially with the two basement levels of the sprawling building, nearly as expansive as the above-ground complex, flooded right up to the ground floor by rainwater and a burst water line. The tepid water was found to be highly toxic, the cost of clearing it out quadrupling the cost of any proposal for the place, including sale.

All of which resulted in the CDC condemning the steadily crumbling building in 1989. A 12-foot high chain link and barbed wire fence was erected around the property, which was then quickly ignored and forgotten by city council members and the populace alike with the death of Vikare, then the rise of Behemoth and formation of the Protectorate.

Over the resulting years, it served as a base for various groups, mainly villains; the Butcher was its first resident, causing the surrounding community to evacuate. After the Teeth left the Bay, Marquis' March briefly occupied the building before moving to greener pastures. Allfather considered making it the Empire 88's main base of operations before balking at the cost of repair and renewal, founding Medhall Corporation instead.

In the past eight years, the residents of Breckenridge-Farrier Mold Complex consisted mostly of transients, hobos, drug addicts, and a small herd of deer; much of the copper and aluminum that could be safely accessed was stripped, over these years, by salvagers trying to make a buck in these trying times. The surrounding residential areas were demolished to make way for suburban projects, and evergreen trees planted in a five-acre buffer zone around the fence, blocking out the view of the slowly crumbling structure.

Only a single service road, rarely used, provided wheeled vehicles access to the Complex. College kids experimenting with drugs or alcohol sometimes discovered the hole in the boards at the loading docks, sneaking in for a day of adventure and, occasionally, horror, as both feral dogs and deranged humans called the place home. Many were a missing person who found their end within its labyrinthine corridors and red brick walls. The BBPD occasionally attempted to clear out or re-secure the building, due to the occasional hobo wandering into the nearby suburbs, to little effect; budget cuts amid a failing economy put patrol of the sprawling complex nearly at the bottom of law enforcement's priority, as Corporal Velez discovered and subsequently exploited.

Someone of small wit had gone so far as to quote the poet Dante in white spray-paint over the loading dock nearest the train tracks, where the largest hole in the fence was located:

ABANDON ALL HOPE, YE WHO ENTER HEAR

"Gonna have to fix that typo when I get a chance," my voice is hoarse and slightly wet; a few reviews on how female vocal cords are formed should fix that. Manipulating the lattices in my throat, I try again with a voice closer to my old voice, though it's still a little hoarse, "Hi, my name's Taylor Hebert, sexiest zombie ever!"

Nodding to myself, I headed for the nearest entrance: the hole in the loading dock, where Velez usually brought his victims through. The interior of the building is cold and dark in the pre-morning light; even so, my perceptive vision shows the glittering lights of living things all over the place!

Little spiders in the darker places, ants between cracks in the flooring and in the walls, a few birds in the rafters, rats scuttling back to their burrows, a few deer on the far side of the building. Focusing on the last group as I toss my bags onto the upraised dock platform and jump in after them, it looks like they're climbing over rubble, looking for shoots of grass to eat. They'll make for a nice snack, later, once I've settled in.

Blinking my glassy eyes, I notice something else: humans. Delicious, nutritious humans! There's twelve in this sprawling place, all spaced out evenly; one looks like a family of three, or two people with a shorter person maybe, while the rest are more or less alone and keeping to themselves. One of the exceptions, closer to me, is a pair that seems rather close to one another, but that one seems healthy, while the other…

I get a feeling of despair from the other. Shame, thick and cloying, ripples over my senses; it feels a little like how Carol felt, before she returned to the river. Frowning, I began looking for a way to get up there, picking up my bags and searching for the stairs… and thinking.

'Okay… I'm dead. Pity that,' my slightly plump lips pursed while heading down a likely-looking side passage covered in old graffiti, 'But I'm still walking around, so that makes me a zombie… Also, I understand more about death than I ever really wanted to… Poor Dad… No, can't think about that! Okay, Taylor, you're a sexy, luscious zombie-… fuck, did some of that necrophiliac's personality rub off on me?!'

I shook my head, trying to knock the perverted ideas forming in my head aside, to no real avail, 'Damnit! Okay, that's a thing now. Maybe I'll just eat someone who's not a sexual predator, see if that balances things out… but… damn, these powers are a double-edged sword,' I find the stairs, right as the healthy-looking one starts… starts raping the weaker person, who doesn't fight back, 'Sicko. Anyway, it looks like, if I take the knowledge of a person, some of their personality rubs off on me. Logically, then, in order to become a hero like I've always wanted, I have to eat the brains of a good person to re-align my moral compass… which would make me a villain.'

Reaching the top of the stairs, I hear the slap-slap-slap of flesh against flesh, which causes an… involuntary sensation in me. Several sensations, actually. Of the drooling variety. Both mouths. 'Looks like Officer Velez rubbed off on me a little, too. Fuck, I feel so dirty, enjoying these sounds, anticipating my next meal,' frowning miserably at my lot in life, I move toward the two moaning voices; well, one of them is enjoying themselves. The other sounds like they're quietly begging for mercy.

Carefully dropping off my bags outside an open door (the chipped, patina-coated plaque reads DAYCARE), I look inside, the sound of rape and smell of sweat, human waste and sexual fluids strangely enticing to my palette, making my mouth water. The room looks like it used to be a classroom, broken desks amid bare cement floors and crumbled linoleum tiles. More examples of graffiti decorate the walls, some recent and alarmingly provocative, some old and mildly artistic or humorous in their quoting of classic comedy, like Richard Pryor or Monty Python.

Along the wall I'm peeking around, I see the back of a shirtless, dirty man, muscles rippling as he thrusts his hips into his now-crying victim with excited gusto; my chest begins to feel heavy with arousal, smelling all the heady hormones clogging the air while that deep, gnawing hunger starts to return in force.

Creeping slowly forward between the broken desks, I clap eyes on a simple campsite. Empty cans of food, a few gallons of water, and a hole in the floor that smells strongly of human waste; even in my current state, I don't get the feeling that consuming that would do me much good, even with the lattices. Just… eww.

The rapist finishes inside the dark skinned girl chained by her neck to the wall, chuckling and whispering to his sobbing, bruised prisoner, "Such a greedy pussy, drinking up my seed. You'll be having my baby soon, my slutty nigger pet."

Her resultant cry is one of such delicious despair that I find myself unable to hold back much longer. My nethers gushing and mouth practically a lake, I silently remove my nice clean hoodie, as well as my tank top (no sense getting them all messy while I eat!) and stand up, unconsciously grabbing one of my tits and squeezing it, flicking a finger over the nipple; it makes me feel warmer, a nice juxtaposition to the numb hollowness of my being.

"Good morning," I purr with a grin, still calmly pleasuring myself.

He stiffens and whips his head around; unkempt beard, yellowed teeth, dirty skin. "Wh-whoa." He's staring at my tits with obvious arousal.

I smile coyly, thankful for the low light that hides my true nature, and ignore the chocolate snack whimpering disjointed warnings and pleads for me to flee, "Got room for another naughty little slut? It's soo~ cold out, and my dripping pussy's feeling rather… empty~" I finish with a cute pout, leaning against one of the stable desks and playing with the edge of my skirt. 'Take the bait, take the bait you fucking rapist-'

"Haa…" with a small pop and a miserable, defeated sob from his slave, the guy leaves her with a slap on her perfect, upraised ass and starts stalking toward me with a rotting grin, bringing himself back to full hardness with a few strokes, "Damn, I'm lucky this morning. Two gushing sluts for breakfast."

I grinned back sultrily and let out a happy, eager laugh, lifting up my skirt and exposing my soaked pussy, going so far as to lift up my leg in invitation. 'A little closer, just a bit closer, that's it…'

He grabs my thigh, about to take advantage, but apparently notices how cold I am, "Ooh, you really do need some warming u-ghkk!"

My teeth sink into his neck, making that sentence his last words.

Pulling him closer, I unthinkingly force him inside me, savoring the warmth of his stiff member in my cold body, but still retaining enough presence of mind to not eat his brain.

'Oh my god, I just took my own virginity! Fuck that necrophiliac, and the doctor and that cop, too! If I'm this bad now,' I mused while tearing his carotid artery away, riding him to the ground, slipping my hand between his ribs and exposing his juicy, delicious heart, shaking my hips and sliding up and down on his cock, which suddenly starts pissing into my inert uterus, 'I shouldn't eat any more rapists or sexual offenders. God, just eating three turned me into a dirty little slut!'

The other snack starts screaming, but I can't bring myself to care; no one can hear her anyway. The nearest human is over one hundred yards distant from here, and still asleep. Also, if the feeling the river's giving me is correct, the little chocolate snack in the room with me has been here for a couple weeks now. If one of the neighbors wanted to help her, they'd have done it already.

Mmm, tasty heart, oh sooo good~

His liver isn't all that great, though. Probably the meth. Still, food is food!

The screaming's turned to inane gibbering. Oh, and the pretty little snack's trying to find a way to kill herself, spare herself from getting eaten by me.

Gulping down a chunk of lung, the rapist's dick softening inside me, I say nonchalantly to the girl, "Hey! I'm not gonna eat you, so shut up! You're disturbing my breakfast." She shuts up, but keeps breathing fast, eyes wide with horrified panic while I scarf down some yummy ribs and a pancreas. Steak and pancakes, the cornerstones of a zombie's balanced breakfast!

Once done, I stood, the rapist's limp member sliding out of me like an afterthought; I'd honestly forgotten it was there, as the warm piss in my dead womb had already been assimilated by the lattices. Putting on a nice smile after wiping my mouth with a handy discarded sock, I walked over to the cringing, fearful girl; I must've looked a sight, with all the blood and viscera dripping down my chin and between my tits, but I didn't much care how horrified she was.

"What's your name?" I asked, smiling and peeling a piece of muscly flesh from where it landed on my right boob, popping it into my mouth nonchalantly.

The pretty little snack gasps in fraught terror a few times before managing to stammer out a response, "M-M-Maa-Me-Melis-s-sa?"

'Why doesn't Snack Melissa here sound sure – no, Taylor! This one isn't a snack! I'm going to set her free… but… I need something to offset these sexual predators' mannerisms, and eating her brain might…' I stare at her for a moment longer, and see it, 'No. She's nearly broken, traumatized, naturally submissive. If I eat her brain, I'll just become more naturally submissive than I already am, and she barely has any meat on her bones. She's useless.'

I smiled down at her, before crouching before the cowering teenager and examining her while she cringes away from me; yellowed bruises covered her body liberally, and a dribble of mingled sexual fluids runs through the dirt plastering her legs and ass. She doesn't look like she's bathed in all the time she's been here. Distantly, like it was a dream, I remember seeing her face on TV, a little before Christmas. Missing person. From the suburbs. Only thirteen years old. Poor little jailbait.

"Where do you live?" I asked, still smiling nicely.

Melissa gulped, "N-N-Near Ar-Arca-d-dia…" she seemed calmer, if still terrified of me.

"Do you know where you are?" she shook her head. "You're about two miles from Arcadia, but there are some suburbs nearby where you can get help. I'm going to set you free, now, and then I'm going to give you some clothes, and then walk you to the hole in the fence; just follow the train tracks in either direction to reach civilization. You'll have to find your way home from there, okay?"

She nodded fast, looking like she didn't believe me; oh well. I'd just have to show her my intentions were strictly honorable, no matter how much I wanted to open her like a lunchbox and scarf her down.

I reached toward the padlock on the thick leather collar she's wearing. She flinches, so I growl, "Don't move." She freezes in place. Good girl.

I almost changed my mind, a part of me wanting to keep her as my pet, but I ignored it, breaking the lock and carefully removing the collar, revealing more bruises. That way of thinking would lead to madness… well, greater madness than what I'd already done. 'Fuck, I can't believe the act of killing and eating someone got me off! I have to figure out a way to control this, or I'll never be a hero, just a people eating whore!'

Melissa wobbles unsteadily on her legs, using one of the desks to help her stand, but still has the will to shoot a hateful glare at her rapist's corpse while I clean the blood off my hands and torso with a dirty towel. She doesn't meet my eyes while I walk her to the door, and allows me to dress her in a sweater and hoodie. Two layers of jeans and a pair of woolen socks later, she's looking much happier.

But she's still weak from her imprisonment and can barely walk, even while using the wall as support. So I swept her up in a bridal carry and made for the exit, dutifully ignoring her squeaking protests and bright blushing from contact with my full chest. It got annoying a little, as her legs and torso kept rubbing against my hard nipples, but I could deal. At least the metronomic action made me warmer inside.

It's snowing lightly outside, but Melissa was wearing thick socks and one of my extra pairs of shoes, and even while nearly naked I didn't notice the cold. Still, she could barely stand up straight, slightly bow-legged from being fucked stupid every day for weeks, let alone walk all the way home.

So thinking, I looked around a bit before shrugging and breaking an electrical pipe off a wall. After removing the wires (and eating the scrumptious black widow inhabiting the thing, which gave me the ability to make spider silk, grow an exoskeleton and create poison glands), I passed it to a pale-faced Melissa, who'd been watching me with numb shock, "There you go, Melissa: a walking stick to help you get home!"

She kept staring at me for a moment before asking, "A-are… are you dead?"

I nodded, frowning thoughtfully, "I think so; otherwise I wouldn't have woken up in a morgue. Don't worry though," I soothed her with a smile, when she started shaking with fear again, "I think I'm some kind of Parahuman with a weird undeath power. It's not contagious, promise!" that seemed to calm her down, but then my smile faded a bit, "Um, but could you try not telling people where you were? I'm still trying to figure out my powers, and I don't want to hurt anyone who doesn't deserve it."

"B-But… what do I say, when they ask how I got away?"

I think for a moment, and then remembered what the river called me. It seems almost like a dream, now, but I must remember why I'm here. The title it gave me should do, for now.

And so, I grinned again and said, "Tell them you were saved by Dreadnaught, leader of The Undying."

[]

It took me five days to systematically clear all the other humans from the Complex, but nearly a month passed before someone came to "visit".

The group of three I noticed when I first came here was a group of 'black widows', or three young women that preyed on men for shits and giggles. Their brains were even tastier than the ones I'd already consumed, and so full of information!

Happily, their collective memories ended up subduing the ones of my first kill, the necrophiliac. Well, mostly; unfortunately for me, the humans that lived in this place were, by and large, half sexual predators and half Funny Farm™ brand crazy. Oh, and just about every one of them enjoyed seeing others suffer, which didn't exactly help my 'I want to be a superhero' mentality…

Three weeks since waking up in the morgue passed me by at a steady pace, alone in an expansive factory with nothing to do. I hadn't been idle, either; whenever I wasn't exploring, setting traps against intruders, painting the walls or pleasuring myself (I could give myself both male and female parts, which made the act of masturbation a lot more interesting!), I tested the limits of my powers, discovering quite a lot about myself in those three weeks.

My power was of a whole other level of bullshit than anything I'd heard of, barring the big names like Glaistig Uaine, Eidolon and Butcher. The lattices inside my body were definitely the physical manifestation of the river, in that they both gave me intense insights into the mysteries of life and death, as well as providing me with instant understanding of any biological material they touched.

Well, except plants, for some weird reason. I wasn't complaining though; meat and brains were much tastier!

Biologic matter assimilation was only the first of my abilities; it seemed like the higher my biomass, the more benefits I'd receive from the river's water.

For one thing, I couldn't die. I'd tried, just to make sure; I'd slit my own throat all the way to my spine, belly flopped off the six-story tower on the south side of the building onto a pile of cinderblocks, covered myself in gasoline and lit a match (I'd been worried about that one, but it turns out I'm not very flammable anymore), and even bashed my head against a wall until my skull was pulp. Nothing I did even hurt, let alone released me from this living death.

Also, I'm fairly certain I shouldn't have eaten a couple of those hobo's brains. I think one of them might've been schizophrenic or something, to make repeated attempts at suicide seem normal to me. That, or the act of dying had driven me insane… nah, it was probably the bad brains.

I didn't get hot or cold, the semiliquid material in my body merely making me clammy and lukewarm; outside temperature didn't matter anymore, my skin regenerating any damage done to it before serious side-effects, like necrosis or frostbite, set in. It was still an unhealthy shade of blue, but hey, what could I do about it? It wasn't like I could get a tan, anymore.

Temperature ignorance was fairly useful too, seeing as there was only one room with electricity and heat in the whole building, some enterprising hobo having jerry-rigged a transformer that received power from a nearby march of high-tension wires, which he then connected to a former machine shop on the second floor of the building, near the foundries. I could "breathe" the heat of that room into my body, granting me more stored energy; even so, I couldn't stay in there too long, for fear of my skin rotting…

Which was stupid of me, I realized after the second week. Any damage I sustained would regenerate within seconds.

Anyway, that hobo genius had been living in the complex for a while before I showed up, stockpiling supplies for the coming apocalypse; he seemed to think it was the Protectorate that would destroy us. I tried being friendly with him, even brought him some canned food as a peace offering! But, oh nooo, he decided that trying his hand at being an amateur zombie hunter was a better idea than making friends with the sexy, unkillable zombie girl who just wanted someone to talk to!

At least he kept his body in good shape for me, thank goodness! Some of those other hobos were nasty!

Practicing with my powers revealed how truly durable I could be; with a thought, I could adjust my cellular density between average human and living tank. It was the best way to describe it, really, that second estimation. With my density turned all the way up, I could run through a cement wall and not even feel it! Of course, this was after eating four deer to increase my contained biomass to a solid two-and-a-half tons, in addition to finding a wall that wasn't either load bearing or went outside. The last thing I wanted to do was draw attention.

Crazy hobos, murderous drug addicts and serial rapists were one thing; eating normal, law-abiding citizens just because they're delicious was just a plain bad idea… no matter how much I really, really wanted to.

The only other ability I'd been able to discover was a sort of Striker-ish power. If I pushed my lattices through my skin, I could become a walking porcupine of death! Couple that with how fast and strong I was, along with the weird side-effects of the river showing me events in my vicinity before and after they happen, for about a minute either way, and I was well on my way to becoming one of the most powerful Parahumans in Brockton Bay!

Or was I? A Parahuman, that is. I doubted I still had a proper brain, and then there was the whole thing with constructing lungs just so I could speak...

It was a real conundrum. One which I wasn't going to worry my little zombie head over!

I mean, really now! I'm fucking dead! Being able to recreate vital organs from a metaphysical substance is the least alarming thing about my whole situation!

Besides, I was supposed to be focusing on the matter at hand: killing and eating this deer!

'Helloooo, little deer~' thought I while stalking one of the grazing animals, which had become separated from the herd; it was wandering around the snowy, overgrown parking lot outside the loading dock, and I'd not eaten in two days. I was famished, 'I'm gonna eaaat yoooouuu~!'

To wit, I lunged from the roof, caught the doe about the neck, and snapped it like a twig before my feet hit the ground!

'Mmm~, yummy!' I thought while nomming its brains; deer brains were good at grounding my sanity, for some reason, 'Maybe it's because they're closer to the river, like me… or maybe it's because their minds are so simple…'

Again, super interesting stuff! Deer hearts tasted different; still delicious, though, a bit like chocolate-strawberry wafers!

My body was changed again as well; after eating those girls, I figured a less, ahem, voluptuous appearance would do wonders for my self-esteem; I could feel pretty without giving myself a body that'd make every porn star in the world weep. Also, at that size, my tits got in the way while hunting.

Using my body to lure in snacks was all well and good, but… well, getting an antler in the tit, while painless, was kind of embarrassing, for me, and for the deer.

So, I was currently sticking to a sensible 36 C, with a nicely trimmed figure to go along with it; okay, that was an understatement. I was built like a star athlete, lithe, powerful and beautiful. My face, however, remained the same as always.

I was still Taylor, after all.

Finishing off the deer and burying the bloody snow in more snow, I skipped back over to the loading docks, completely naked and without a care in the world!

Well, I was a little lonely, and I'd already explored most of the complex. I started considering whether or not to try swimming in the fetid, toxic water in the basements, find out how deep they went… then I heard a car coming, from the service road… a car with humans in it!

…'Yay! New snacks-I mean, visitors!' with that thought, I put on a grin, made sure the bear traps were in all the right places, and headed further into the complex, intent on putting together a nice pot of tea and some scones for whoever decided to come visit me!

I couldn't wait to meet them!

[]

Bakuda hopped out of the van and glared up at the sign, placed outside this abandoned factory.

After leaving Cornell, she'd gathered a few minions while looking for somewhere new to settle and ply her trade; Boston was right out as a new base. She didn't want to make any deals with that slimy fucker Accord. And no way in hell was she going to New York City; putting herself in Legend's corsairs was just stupid.

Brockton Bay, on the other hand, had plenty of abandoned buildings, like the one before her, which would give the supervillainess plenty of space to Tinker and build up her stockpile. As an added bonus, the black-haired half-Asian woman figured she'd be able to get in good with Lung if she showed him how useful having a bombmaker on payroll would be.

Sure, she could probably take the rage dragon no problem, turn him to glass or something; but that would put her in the sights of every other Parahuman in the Bay, both hero and villain.

That was the issue with being the best: everyone wanted a piece of you. And Bakuda knew, while she was very powerful, she couldn't take on that many capes singlehandedly.

Not yet. Hence, the necessary detour to this abandoned factory.

Still… the sign above the open door was really weird, giving Bakuda a moment's pause before telling her boys to back the U-Haul carriage into the dock.

WELCOME TO THE FOUNDRY!
ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!
SNACKS ARE ESPECIALLY WELCOME!
MULTIPLE VACANCIES, INQUIRE WITHIN!

All of that was written on a square piece of plywood in a large, friendly font with green paint.

'Fucking crazies,' Bakuda thought, grabbing a bandolier of grenades and her trusty grenade launcher; the paint on the sign looked relatively recent, and, if the news of how much the gangs around here are allowed to get away with was true, that meant whoever wrote the warning/welcoming sign was probably still around and serious about the risk warning.

Suitably armed, she swept her gas-mask covered face across her minions: eight men and one woman who'd heard of her exploits and decided to throw in with Bakuda's desire to bring chaos, fear and destruction into the world. Criminals all, she'd taken them on partly for their valid credit cards and bank accounts, partly to have some human shields between her and whatever she deemed a threat, and partly for a germ of an idea that Bakuda really wanted to try: putting bombs in people's heads so she could have an army of suicide bombers!

Ahh, instilling the fear of sudden death in the populace; one of the few things Bakuda truly enjoyed.

"You, and… you," Bakuda pointed her launcher at the black girl armed with two revolvers and Murdoch, her first minion and the closest thing she had to a lieutenant, "Clear that warehouse, make sure no one's watching or loitering about, or if there's traps. If someone's hanging around, capture them if you can, kill if you can't; whoever made that sign probably knows this place better than us, so don't run off either. That'll get you killed."

Two "yes boss!"-es later and the two had climbed up into the expansive warehouse; from what Bakuda could see, it was once a place where fresh product from the steel plant would be stored before being shipped out. Now, it was an empty ruin, the floor covered in debris and graffiti swirling chaotically over the walls. Three hallways that she could see went to parts unknown. Bakuda itched to explore this place and salvage what items she could for her art, only caution in the face of the unknown holding her back.

"Hey boss, there's bear traps on the floor here!" looking over at the sudden sound of one going off, the bomb Tinker chuckled at the sight of the girl… Becky, maybe, using a stick to trigger another nearby trap; good, maybe the girl had some use beyond fucking her partners in crime.

Nodding to show she'd heard and approved, Bakuda heaved herself onto the dock herself while one of her boys pulled a metal ramp out, leaned it against the dock edge, and the unloading process began.

Checking her ammunition while case after case was unloaded and more bear traps were disarmed, Bakuda wondered what kind of paranoid fuck-wit put up a welcoming sign and then set traps that could amputate the average human's foot.

'Probably some insane hobo or doomsday cultist,' she mused as the last of her bomb crates were wheeled into the warehouse, saying to Murdoch, "Be careful disarming that shit; if the crazy fuck who set them is as paranoid as I think, there's probably more hidden under this debris." Murdoch nodded and went back to poking debris with a machete, Becky moving more carefully after Bakuda's order.

While her men started unloading the perishables and personal effects, and disarmed the remaining traps, Bakuda strode confidently through a clear path in the debris, kicking any suspicious-looking mounds to check for further traps; when she made it to the far wall and leftmost corridor, she took a closer look at the graffiti covering the walls.

Most of it looked like old gang tags, nearly covered by the black streaks flowing across the walls in a disturbing caricature of a dark river. Here and there, the vague suggestion of faces contorted in pleasure and pain made themselves known, the artist incorporating older artwork into a vast mural that took up the entire wall opposite the entrance she'd used.

Stepping back a bit and looking around in curiosity, Bakuda noticed the black waves and eddies whirled out into the hallways, disappearing in the dark gloom. 'Someone had a lot of time on their hands…' she mused with a small chuckle, shifting her mask's vision settings between x-ray, thermal and night vision. Nobody around.

Looking back at the mural, the Tinker noticed a small block of writing above the middle and widest passage, which led into another vast and partially-collapsed section of the factory. Moving closer, she read the words, written in a tight block only a foot high:

THROUGH ME YOU SHALL KNOW YOURSELF
THROUGH ME YOU SHALL UNDERSTAND
THROUGH ME YOU BECOME REAL
THROUGH ME YOU TURN TO DUST
YOU COME FROM ME
SO YOU MAY KNOW
ALL THE FACETS OF PAIN
AND TO ME YOU WILL RETURN
BRINGING WITH YOU ALL THESE HURTS
SO YOU MIGHT SHARE THEM WITH ME
FOR I HAVE NOTHING BUT TIME TO SPARE
NOTHING BUT LIFE TO GIVE AND TAKE
I AM THE TRUTH
I AM THE LIE
I AM DEATH
I AM LIFE
I AM THE RIVER, FLOWING ENDLESS, OUTSIDE TIME
I AM THE RIVER
I AM ETERNITY

It made no sense to Bakuda, 'Figures the crazy person would try their hand at poetry. At least the mural's nice.' Glancing at the painting in question one more time, appreciating the chaos of it all, Bakuda turned back to her minions. They looked nearly done, but there was more debris to check…

"Um, excuse me?" a shy-sounding female voice off to Bakuda's left, near the only remaining passage. Bakuda whipped her head around to look, fingers gripping her launcher's handle tighter, to see the speaker.

A pale girl, dressed in an all-black getup consisting of a zip-up hoodie and short skirt with holed thigh-high stockings covering her legs, was peeking around the corner of the final corridor; Bakuda couldn't see much of her face beneath the hood, but she could see that the mystery girl had a wide mouth and a well-shaped body of pale skin that would've made the mad bomber slightly jealous, if said girl wasn't dirty as fuck.

Bakuda gestured for her men to ignore them for now; she could handle one homeless teenaged bimbo. Turning to face the girl, who was looking between the bomber and her men with a curious frown, Bakuda spoke up, "I think you're lost, little girl," she jerked the launcher at the girl for emphasis. That might get her to stop being curious.

But then the little bimbo fucking grinned, "Good one!" then she turned around and picked up… a porcelain tea service?! Bakuda's mind reeled slightly at the sight of the young girl stepping cautiously out and laying the fully stocked metal tray on the ground about ten feet from the hallway's entrance, speaking in a happy voice all the while, "I'm just here to welcome you to my house! You're doing very well so far with disarming my traps; please, help yourselves to some tea as a reward for your cleverness! And maybe we can discuss your living arrangements, um, if you're planning to stay, that is!" having laid the tray down, the weird, dirty and clearly homeless Goth girl darted back to the hallway entrance, but continued to smile brightly, while Bakuda stared in confused incredulity.

'What in the actual fuck?' Out loud, Bakuda snarled, "I'm not here to drink your fucking tea and make nice with a crazy homeless slut, you stupid little bitch," the smile wavered a little; which was good, in Bakuda's opinion, the little white hoe should be nervous, "Me and my gang are moving in, whether you like it or not… but, if you're good, I might be inclined to take you on as entertainment." Needless to say, her inflection on the final word didn't imply karaoke nights or magic tricks.

"Oh…" weirdly to Bakuda, the girl just raised a finger and started playing with her pouting lips, "I'm guessing you are all villains, then?"

"No shit." Bakuda was about to go on, ordering the stupid bitch over to Murdoch so he could have the boys break her in, but then the little slut…

Vanished. Bakuda's mind kicked into overdrive as a black blur shot between Bradley and Kevin, both men raising their guns and looking toward the van –

CRASH!

– just in time to see the engine block get ripped out from under the hood by the little Goth bitch!

Forcing herself not to panic while Murdoch barked out a command and her people raised their weapons, Bakuda switched out the pain grenade in her launcher for a vitrification one, 'Mover: yes. Brute: also yes!'

The little bitch jumped onto the roof of the wrecked car with a low bwoom, a wide grin splitting her face as Bakuda's gang leveled their guns in the fucking bitch's direction.

'Naïve, idiotic slut: most definitely!' "FIRE!" the villainess screamed, taking aim herself.

For fifteen seconds, eighteen guns from eight people poured lead into the Goth chick that destroyed Bakuda's car, the sound echoing through the decaying factory; flesh and blood were torn from the stupid whore's body, ruining the ridiculous outfit she'd been wearing.

Once the ringing silence fell and the mystery girl collapsed onto the roof of the van… only when five seconds passed and her men (and Becky) reloaded their weapons… only then did Bakuda let out the breath she'd been holding.

"Damnit!" swore Kevin, lowering his AR slightly and frowning at the discarded engine block, "I liked that van…"

Murdoch slapped the tall man on the shoulder and chuckled, "We'll get ye another, mate. We should probably lay low, boss," he added over his shoulder to a warily approaching Bakuda, "cops might've heard that."

One… two… three…

Everyone's eyes and guns were once again trained on the corpse of the cape they'd just riddled with bullets.

Or, rather, the empty space she'd just been in. "The fuck?!" whimpered Brad, head swiveling around as the distant, disgustingly cheery voice cooed again, seemingly from all around them:

Who… should… I… kill?

Disturbed like never before, Bakuda toggled through her mask's vision settings, using X-ray and thermal together to try and find this knock-off Alabaster while ordering her people, "Get around me!" They obeyed, forming a circle around the explosive-obsessed Tinker, guns facing outward.

Every motherfucker… running up the hill…

"Quit butcherin' Rob Zombie and come out, ye fuckin' slag!" crowed Murdoch, waving his pistols about while Bakuda slowly pulled a hand grenade from her bandolier; it was a conflagration device she'd created on a whim, like napalm only harder to put out. She'd affectionately named it Greek Fire, and the suit of armor she was wearing was the only material Bakuda knew of that was immune to its flames.

And if her people got caught in the explosion? Meh. She could get new people. If she survived the creepy regenerating Mover/Brute.

One, two, three. What should I do?

"Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck…" Charles whispered, sweeping his shotgun around, aiming at the shadows the voice was echoing from.

"Steady…" hissed Becky through her teeth, eyes flicking about before she tensed and yelped, "There!"

Everyone aimed where the dark-skinned woman was facing, including Bakuda.

The mystery cape was standing beneath the poem Bakuda'd just read, smiling widely despite her ruined clothes… glassy eyes fixed on the bomb Tinker and her gang with undisguised hunger, "I get fucked up, and fuck up a you."

Only Brad got a shot off before Bakuda's vision was splattered with red, accompanied by a wet tearing.

Brief screams and more wet tearing followed, now with warm wet soaking into Bakuda's costume; her people were being slaughtered, 'Nothing for it then!'

She pulled the pin on her fire grenade –

A hand, ice cold, wrapped like a vice around the bicep of her left arm, the one holding the grenade

– and her arm was ripped out of the socket, so sudden and with such ease that it took three seconds for the pain to come.

Bakuda performed a duet, then, her scream of horror mingling with the FWOOM of the grenade she'd primed exploding some feet away, 'OH FUCK! NO NO NO NO!' she was about to bring up the 'explode all the things' option in her HUD menu –

"Hm. That's useful! Bye, Kendra!"

– Bakuda had just enough time to be shocked at the use of her given name when her murderer's hand simultaneously tore off her mask, ripped out her heart, and scooped her frontal lobe, skull and all, off her head.

And then there was only the River.

And Kendra understood.

She dove in.

[]

Bakuda's deadman switch was easy to deactivate; it was on a five-second timer, so that was more than enough time to assimilate Kendra's passenger, access the powers it possessed ('Area-of-effect devices, huh? I guess you could call what she did explosions, but this power can make friggin fields of grain! What an unimaginative bitch…'), and switched off the 'destroy everything' thingy Bakuda implanted in her own heart.

It was the only way, really; if I'd made an alliance with the foolish woman, or blessed her with the river and made her like myself, like I'd been thinking of doing to a deer or two, I'd have had someone to talk to…

But I'd also descend further into the promiscuity that was constantly threatening to overtake my desire to be a hero. And I couldn't have that…

'On the bright side,' I mused, evaluating the corpses littering the floor, 'I've dealt with a major threat to public safety! Go me!' Sure, it meant sacrificing my favorite tank top, but I could make spider silk from the lattices. I'd just make another… once I had the time to do so.

Right now, there were more pressing matters: other than the whole I need to eat these bodies before they get cold issue, which was easily addressed by tucking into the delicious visitors-turned-snacks obligingly laid out for me, there was also the slight, very minor and not at all pressing matter of…

…Was Bakuda wanted by the PRT? Could I get money for sending her corpse in? Oh, a smart phone! Thanks, Becky! Your pancreas sure is tasty, too!

Now that I thought about it… did I need money for anything? Hmm…

'Well,' I mused while opening the phone's browser and scooping someone's thigh muscles into my mouth; I sure made a mess, here, 'I could use funds to make some area-of-effect devices… that I could then sell to the city or PRT… playground in a jar? Build a better flash-bang? Hmm…'

Slurping down some idiot's now-lukewarm brains, I began browsing PHO for info on Bakuda… Hmm, bombed Cornell, eh? Well, I knew that already. What wasn't on the page was more important: Kendra, Bakuda, was a psychotic sociopath, a bomb just waiting to go off. For so very long, she'd never lost, in either social interactions or educational achievements. Honor roll all through High School. Valedictorian.

I blamed her parents, who… well, let's just say CPS would've crucified Kendra's parents if they'd caught wind of how they'd "trained" their daughter to always excel. A bullwhip at four years old. Goddamn.

Oh, but what's this on the site banner? A new Ward? Well, let's just see what I've been missing since…

…Oh.

Chandra, New Brockton Bay Ward, Debuts

That hair… that figure… familiar…

The river speaks to me…

…Melissa.

[]

[]

[]

EDIT A/N:

Skittles: Pussy Liquor?! Really?

What? It's funny and creepy, which is what you wanted.

Skittles: …fine. It's about time you got around to cleaning up this dumpster fire as is.

No, but seriously, forget what I wrote for Chapter 2 of this story. I re-read it three times before deciding to scrap that ridiculous story-line and try this one instead.

Skittles: So… no Freed?

Nope. Upscale will be here, eventually, but the rest… no. I'm not going to write that out, only to brutally slaughter them. Nope, we're going with Plan Q.

Skittles: Uh... what about Plans B-P?

Fuck those plans, they're for quitters. And oil conglomerates. Plan Q is for winners!

Skittles: Aight, I'll bite. What's Plan Q?

NO SPOILERS. Oh, and if you reviewed the no-longer-existent 2nd chapter, I'm sorry, but I will not be responding to any of them. I feel ashamed just for writing such a hot mess. Just keep in mind that I love you all, and am trying to improve my writing. If you liked that chapter, I'm sorry, but I'd rather not go down that road.

Skittles: That's your biggest problem: not thinking things through completely. See what you get for writing nearly 20k words in two weeks, ya duck?

Duck?! Bitch, I'm a word-chef!

Skittles: Well this fic needs more spice! And I thought I said rare, not double-rare medium! Go uncook this shit!

…I'm already doing that… fuck it. Go sit in your corner and figure out how to continue Night before I get testy with your pleasantly plump rump.

Skittles: Fine! I'll go think about super-sexy Dark Elves, you do the zombies! *walks away with extra grumbling*

Anyway, until the (much more (in)sane) re-worked second chapter, Baked and Skittles, signing off.

[]

Up Next: Chapter 2: Cage