Forge 1.3

I walked aimlessly down the sidewalk, moving without any clear sense of direction. I should really be looking for a way to contact my parents soon, to try to explain the whole incredible story to them, but I didn't feel ready to face them yet. Too much had happened, too much had changed. I didn't really feel like Emma Barnes right now. Her worries and aspirations seemed like a distant memory.

I wondered if Emma Barnes had died back in that alley, and I was what was left. A surge of panic welled up in me at that thought and I crushed it down. I couldn't think like that, I couldn't afford to.

There weren't very many people in this part of town but what few there were avoided me, walking around me, not wanting to come close to the weird girl without a nose who looked like she had just climbed out of a grave. Oh, right, I had done that, hadn't I?

I watched a few of the people that passed me by, one of them a girl my age that took one look at my face and stammered incoherently before moving on. Had I been like her before this? The world seemed so different now, the everyday hustle and bustle just a sideshow. I had never really experienced the kind of cruelty this world was capable of, that the thugs had easily taken to.

Before today, I couldn't even imagine really trying to hurt someone. I had just been Emma Barnes, second daughter to Alan and Zoe Barnes, best friends with Taylor Hebert, and aspiring model. I was the kind of girl that worried about breaking a nail or keeping up with the latest fashion trends. I had been the most girly girl I knew.

Now? Now, I had killed at least four people, with the kind of savagery people normally attributed to serial killers. I had bitten off someone's nose, gouged out another person's eyes, cut the throats of two people, and I had butchered the girl who had cut off my nose. Who the hell did something like that?

To just chew off someone's nose or crush their eyes without pause—that took someone who was enormously messed up inside. I hadn't known I had that in me, like some sort of beast I had kept locked up inside me. Had I always been that fucked up? Just one bad day away from turning into a complete psycho?

I wasn't worried about what I had done to Yan and the others. In some intellectual sense, I knew that I shouldn't find taking another person's life to be in anyway okay. That I should feel guilty on some level for having killed them. It had been... disturbingly easy to end their lives. But, I couldn't find it in myself to care. I cared about what killing them had meant for my mental state, not so much that I cared for them.

I broke my index finger experimentally, the pain not even a fraction of the agony I had felt when I had been clawing my out of my grave earlier. I watched in fascination as the flesh rippled and shifted after a few moments, the bone snapping back into place. It looked the same as before, whole and undamaged. Too bad the same couldn't be said of my nose.

That knife had been sharp enough to shear right through Yan's nose. It should have cut through mine just as quickly. And I think I knew why it hadn't. Yan had hesitated when she was making the cut—I think a part of her understood just how insane what she was doing was. It had held her back, if only slightly. That had been the difference between me and the thugs. I hadn't been physically stronger or faster than them, but I had been willing to do things that others wouldn't. I had been willing to throw away my humanity, turn my entire body into a weapon. That was the reason they died and I lived.

And my powers let me do the same, to perform acts that no sane human could rightly abide. To become more beast than man. How long would it be before I lost myself again? How long before I put someone else to the knife?

In my introspection, I hadn't noticed where I was going. A right turn had taken me into an alley, almost eerily like the one I had been in earlier. I backed up and collided into something solid, before being pushed forward. I turned around, confused.

There were two of them, the skinhead on the left casually opening and closing a switchblade, a long scar across his left eye. The other held what looked like a gun, the metal on the slide glinting in the moonlight, and he had a tattoo of a swastika was emblazoned on his forehead. I turned around and saw two others step out. One of them was shirtless and the other one had a horrible case of acne. The oldest was the one with the gun, but they couldn't have been that much older than me. Seventeen, eighteen at the oldest.

Scar-eye grinned. "Where you going, honey?"

Of course, I had forgotten this was Brockton Bay. One of the worst cities in the nation when it came to crime. And I had been walking around in the middle of the night in what was apparently Empire territory. Stupid, Emma, so damned stupid. Trapped again, can't go forward, can't go backward.

Shirtless laughed. "Check it out—this bitch ain't got a nose!"

That same white noise was infiltrating my thoughts again, taking me in a thousand irrelevant directions. Shirtless was armed with a long knife, curved on the inside and it looked sharp as hell. I think it was called a "kukri" or something like that and I vaguely recalled that it was of an Asian origin. Ironic.

Acne-face growled, "Nose or no nose, you're in Empire territory. You got to pay passage."

I was frozen in place. There was a sort of inevitability, a kind of inertia that kept me from moving, from reacting. Everything was like one continuous nightmare. First the alley. Then the casket. Then digging my way out. And now another fucking alley. When was it going to stop?

I tried to say something, but my useless voice was caught again, unable to vocalize anything resembling coherent speech. Swastika shoved me then, pushing me further back towards one of the alley's walls.

"Why are we even wasting time talking with this red-headed heeb? Cunts like her aren't meant for talking," he said, leering at my... assets.

The other skinheads chuckled loudly at that. I froze, the implications of what they wanted from me sinking in. This would be the final transgression, the last violation of my person. I had been mutilated, I had been assaulted, I had been buried alive, and now, I was going to be r—

Shirtless grabbed my arm and grinned a horrible smile. "Just lay back and don't do anything. You might even enjoy it."

Sheer, overwhelming terror finally allowed me to do something other than stand still. I screamed and punched Shirtless just below his left eye, driving my fist in. He yelped in pain, letting go of my hand and staggering back. One of the skinheads behind me tried to wrap his arms around me, but I bucked and snapped my head backwards. I heard something crunch and the thug bellowed, letting go of me.

I stumbled forward, the other goon behind me shouting even as Acne-face came forward, his knife raised. He was saying something, but I wasn't listening, just watching the wicked edge of the knife gleam.

He came at me high, going for my shoulders, using the knife as a threat. Instead, I went low, instinctively going for his legs. I don't think I weighed more than him, but this was more about positioning and leverage than it was about sheer body mass. The momentum carried us forward, toppling us to the ground and laying him out on his back. He hadn't expected the move and the air was knocked out of him, his own body bracing my fall.

He had dropped his knife, a stiletto, and I desperately grabbed at it, needing some kind of weapon to—

There was a loud bang and then things stopped making sense. I stared uncomprehendingly at the ground for a moment, my vision blurry and out of focus. How had I gotten there? A curtain of red was descending down my vision, painting what little I could see in scarlet shades. I couldn't feel my limbs anymore, as my sight began to fade. Distant sounds died away as darkness claimed me once more.

I think I woke up sooner than later this time around.

"—had to really shoot her? What the fuck?"

People were talking. What was going on? Who got shot?

"She was going for your knife, Dietz. And it was just another kike anyway, what did you want me to do?"

"I had her just fine!"

The back of my head was throbbing with a fading pain. There was an odd sensation there and I heard a light crunching noise. My vision was starting to clear, the world slowly coming back into focus. I blinked lightly, droplets of blood falling from my eyebrows. Then I thought about what had just happened.

I... I had just been shot in the head? And lived?

I was lying on the ground, my head turned to look at one of the walls of the alley. One of the thugs was on top of me, searching the corners of my dress and I almost shuddered as he felt up my chest. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the other three skinheads, gathered around each other and arguing. Swastika and Scar-eye were among them, and what looked like Acne-face as well. Which meant that the one on top of me had to be Shirtless.

When they had threatened to... do things to me earlier, I had panicked. I had cast my mind back to my helplessness at the other alley, where I had just lain there and let my nose get cut off. I had forgotten one fundamental difference between that encounter and this one: I had powers now.

I had fought so stupidly just now—I let the gun stay in play, letting the thug behind me practically have a free shot. I was lucky I could apparently come back from being shot in the head, otherwise I'd be dead for real this time, after everything I had been through.

I had done better earlier against worse odds and without powers. If I didn't just lose my head again— literally or figuratively—I could more than even the odds. I could do things that these thugs couldn't, gun or no gun.

I needed to capture that sensation I had back after Yan and Lao came at me again. Back when I was clawing my way out of my own grave. I needed that savagery, the same ruthlessness, the same lack of hesitation. My powers didn't make me an Alexandria. I couldn't fire laser beams at a distance like Legend or take people down with a fancy halberd like Armsmaster. I didn't have that luxury. My power just let me become more of who I already was, let loose what I already had inside me. I just needed to lose my own self-imposed restraints.

Shirtless's hands came to rest near the side of my face. He looked at my blinking eyes. He stared in shock.

"Holy—"

No turning back.

I grasped his hand firmly and opened my mouth wide, shoving two of his fingers inside before he could react. Then I bit down. Hard.

Bone crunched and crackled as I felt the flesh separate. Shirtless gave off a blood-curdling scream, drawing the attention of the other three skinheads. I was already rising, my fingers wrapped around the kukri Shirtless had dropped. He was collapsed on the ground next to me, cradling his damaged hand.

They were still trying to process the scene before them, going far too late for their weapons. I was closing the distance the whole time, the kukri held firmly in my grip, only a few steps separating me from my purpose. Swastika was struggling to get his gun clear, the slide caught against the side of his jeans. I spat out the remnants of the fingers still in my mouth, right into Scar-eye's face.

"What the fuck?"

Action beats reaction.

Something raw and bestial escaped my throat and I slashed his throat, the edge of the kukri easily digging into the exposed flesh, ripping a jagged line straight through. He collapsed, clutching his neck as blood pooled around his fingers, dropping the switchblade to clatter uselessly against the ground.

That's when Swastika finally got the gun up and began shooting me again. The sound was incredibly loud in the enclosed space of the alley, bouncing off the walls and creating a painful double echo. Flashes of light illuminated the darkness, temporarily blinding me and probably himself as well. I was hit once, twice, three times. I felt each impact like a murderously hard punch against my chest, the bullets ripping through and through. It hurt less than I expected it to and I still hadn't stopped moving, focus and will carrying me through. I needed to end this quickly.

Swastika was forced to stop shooting as I ran towards Acne-face, the kukri held low and at the ready. Acne-face was right in front of me, his face panicked and filled with terror as he saw me advancing and he slashed frantically at me with his knife. I felt the edge cut against my cheeks and lightly into my shoulder, but he wasn't doing any real damage to me. I shoved him against Swastika, driving my shoulder into his light frame even as I plunged the kukri into his abdomen.

I snarled, ripping the blade through flesh and muscle, no bone to impede its progress. His eyes widened with pain and I pulled the blade in and out, tearing a line through and across his stomach. Something wet and squishy pressed against my dress, but I ignored it. The fight was completely out of Acne-face now and I brought my knife up to his throat, slitting it to finish him off and I closed my eyes as red mist splashed against my face.

Swastika was still shouting, trying to get his gun clear, but I wasn't having any of that. I kept Acne-face's dying frame pressed up against Swastika, smothering him with his own partner's weight, trapping his arm and keeping the gun pointed down. I reared back with the kukri and Swastika watched with horrified eyes as I plunged it into his thigh, the blade sinking deep into the flesh.

He howled in pain, dropping the gun as I dragged the tip of the kukri upward, slicing through muscle and tendons, and pulled all the way through. The blood loss was surprisingly minimal—I must have missed the artery. I let go of Acne-face at this point and the corpse crumbled to the ground, letting Swastika fall to the ground as well, screaming in pain as he clutched his bleeding thigh. It was the pain more than the actual damage I had done that was keeping him down.

Shirtless was running down the alley at this point, shouting something. I didn't know what he was saying and I didn't care. In my other hand, I picked up the gun that Swastika had dropped, staring at the sharp lines and black metal. It looked vaguely German. Actually, I had no idea, but I imagine that a neo-Nazi would have a German gun if anything. I looked down at Swastika, hands wrapped tightly around his thigh.

I raised the gun, kicking away Acne-face's knife, and I felt my wounds begin to re-knit and heal. Swastika watched the whole process with wide eyes, as if suddenly realizing just how far out of depth he was.

"Please!" he rasped, his shoulders shaking with pain. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! We didn't mean to do anything to you!"

"You didn't mean to rape or shoot me earlier?" I said coldly.

"No, yes, I don't know. Just, please, please don't shoot!" he shouted, one hand still clutching his thigh and his other held up in a useless defensive gesture.

I stared at him, disgust welling up in me. I felt my finger begin to tighten on the trigger. Just one twitch of my finger and I would end his life. Unlike me, he didn't have powers to help him come back. The temptation was almost overwhelming. Just one pull of the trigger and a potential murderer would be off the street for good. Just self-defense, like the other times.

Except this wasn't self-defense anymore. This would be an execution. The danger had passed, the moment was gone. There wasn't any need for me to continue to be the beast anymore, was there?

I stared at him, his face contorted with terror, his cheeks streaked with tears. Was this what I had looked like back at the other alley, before I had made my decision? I... didn't like the way he looked. I didn't want to see him like that anymore. I stopped seeing him and I started seeing me. I could see my face superimposed onto his, the red hair, the blue eyes. The intact nose. I wanted to get rid of that face, I couldn't stand to see that face.

My finger wavered, but I felt something hot and ugly remain inside me. I could see it in my mind's eye— all the things he and the others would have done to me if they had been able to. All the things they probably did to other people like me. It kept me from lowering the gun and I re-settled my finger on the trigger.

Swastika closed his eyes, desperately whispering what sounded like prayers beneath his breath. How many of his victims had been in the same position? He had been willing to do that to me, just now. How could there exist things like this, monsters went around and casually destroyed other people's lives on a whim?

Maybe this was wrong, but I couldn't find it in me to care.

"Live by the sword..." I murmured under my breath and then made my decision.

It seemed almost anticlimactic, nothing like what you saw in the movies. His head didn't implode or anything excessively gory like that. There was just a brief flash of light, that same loud double echo, and something slapped hard against his forehead. He slumped to the ground, smearing a trail of blood on the alley wall behind him.

I stared at the corpse for a few moments, my finger still tight around the trigger. Then I took off the slack and lowered the gun. I couldn't hear anything else but my own breathing, steady and sure. Nothing but me, the gun, and the body.

Then my hand starting shaking and I dropped the gun, the heavy metal clattering against the ground. I stood there in silence for a few moments, my hands still shaking. They had almost... God... I hugged myself, sinking to my knees as I shuddered at the thought of what had almost happened, what they had been planning to do to me.

Blood from Acne-face and Scar-eye's corpses continued to flow, mixing and pooling around the corner of the alley. The sight of it made me want to gag and I was glad I was unable to smell it, lacking a nose and all. I rubbed the blood off my face as best as I could, but it was hard as blood- and dirt-stained as I was.

I glanced at the bodies around me, the lifeless eyes of the corpses I had created. They hadn't died well even if they had died quickly. I felt a vaguely pleased sensation inside me at that thought, and I didn't know what it said about me that I could feel that way. I just didn't want to think about it anymore.

I got up, picking up the gun as I rose—I needed to be anywhere besides here. Just somewhere safe, where people would stop attacking me. Somewhere where I could feel like Emma Barnes again, not some beast hiding in human skin.

I walked in a daze down the alley, gun clutched in one hand and kukri in the other. I kept the kukri concealed, blade up, beneath the side of my skirt, and the gun was wrapped inside one of the folds of my dress. It wasn't particularly smart going out armed like this in the middle of the night—I was practically inviting trouble, but I wasn't thinking clearly right now. I just needed more than my fists if, or at this rate when, something happened again. The kukri in particular was a comforting weight against my side.

The entire mess had blended into one long nightmare, beginning with the alley on the one hand and ending with another alley on the other. When would this horror end? When would it all stop?

I didn't really know where I was going, as I stepped out the alley and into another street. People continued to avoid me and I had never been in this part of town. Not that I ever had a great sense of direction to begin with anyway. Something else instead was guiding my steps now. There was an invisible, vibrating pressure at the base of my skull, with a slight prickling sensation along my neck. It became stronger as I moved forward, growing in intensity as I advanced in a particular direction. I didn't know if it was smart to let myself be guided by that sensation. But, there was nonetheless a sense of rightness about it, a certain inevitability.

As I walked, I thought briefly back to the fight. It hadn't last all of several seconds. This time, it had been... easier this time to slip back into that state of mind. And it hadn't been that hard to decide to execute Swastika. I wondered if it was going to get easier still. There was something about that that worried me.

It was a couple of minutes later that my path took me just in front of an apartment complex. There were a few cars parked along the curb, but I couldn't see anyone around. I felt the pressure increase to almost painful levels, keeping me locked in place. For a few moments, all I could hear was my own breathing.

A tinny, mechanical voice cut through the silence. "And who are you supposed to be?"

I whirled around and my heart sank at the sight.

There were maybe ten of them, coming out from behind the dumpsters, around the bushes, exiting the darkness. Skinheads, wielding knives, chains, and a couple that had fully-extended batons. They were around me on all sides, completely surrounding me.

In the center before me was a woman, twenty-ish or so with a bleach-blond buzz cut and wearing a metal cage as a mask, with an odd metal device at the base of her throat. All she had on was a sports top and what looked like running pants. She was well-built and was clearly someone who seriously worked out. And what skin she had exposed was marred by a number of scars, some of them fresher looking than others.

A cape. Fuck.

She looked at me impassively, waiting on me to reply.

Then one of the skinheads spoke up. "Holy shit, that's the one! That's the one that took out Dietz and the others!" It was Shirtless—he must have ran over here earlier.

The cape glanced over at Shirtless and then back to me. She spoke with that emotionless, artificial tone, "Interesting that you'd show up here. You know I can't just let something like that go unpunished."

Her hands went behind her back and withdrew two odd weapons, what looked like small scythes, the handles about as long as her forearms. She twirled them expertly between her fingers, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet, as if ready to leap into a full-sprint at a moment's notice. The vibration in my neck reached a fever pitch at this point.

Just one absurd situation to the next.

"She's mine," she declared in that same mechanical voice. "Don't interfere."

For some reason, as I took the gun out of the folds of my dress, all I could think about was why the hell these neo-Nazis seemed so obsessed with Asian weapons.