A/N: So, rather than update every chapter, I deleted the whole mess, as some will be added, others removed completely, story elements tweaked... Basically, it was a pain in the ass.
The bed is far too soft to be my own, the room way too clean. Despite the drawn curtains, there is enough sunlight poking through to outline a paper card on the onyx night desk. It's a picture of Dana in this same room, sticking out her tongue, mischief in her eyes. I flip it around and squint to read what she wrote on the back.
"Enjoy the time you have left.
Thank you.
-D."
How drunk did we get? How did I get here? What's for breakfast, I'm starving! Exploring the place reveals it to be a high-class apartment; one bedroom, a kitchen, a spacious bathroom and a very cozy living room with expensive amenities like virtual reality and vidcast receiver.
No food in the fridge, no dishes in the sink and all the cupboards are empty. This is an unused apartment, from the looks of it. The door's heavily armoured, but slides out of my way automatically, revealing a one-way street in the residential district. I step outside, taking a moment to ensure I'm fully dressed, and the door slams shut behind me.
A pair of bums, inked and pierced beyond what's considered sane, spot me and waste no time rushing over to beg for spare coins. I brush past them and walk down the steps. Time to figure out what's going on.
You don't walk the residential district dressed like you can afford even a snack if you don't have some serious protection. Bums are a nuisance, but there are some legitly dangerous folks stalking these streets at night. It's dawn right now and I'm not dressed all that fancy, but two locals saw me walk out of what they think of as a palace, and without bodyguards. I've got to have something of value on me, right?
Experience tells me I have until they get the word out to find myself elsewhere, the truth is I don't get ten paces before something explodes, a dry "Pop!" followed by a whiplash two centimeters left of my spine. A warm liquid stains my shirt and drips down my back as I spin to face the bums.
One's holding a homemade stub pistol, a black powder, single shot model, the other has a steak knife out, held in an ice pick grip, and he's coming at me in a comically slow and sloppy fashion.
"Wait!" He doesn't listen, but I easily catch his arm and twist the blade away from my face. This guy is beyond malnourished; he's slow, weak and his bones are brittle, snapping like twigs under my fingers. He drops the blade and I let go, shivers running through my spine. I can still feel the splinters of bones moving under his skin...Yuck!
The guy is screaming, but tries to punch me with his intact hand, still sluggish and weak. I block it with my elbow and, since I've got a clear shot, punch him once, not as hard as I could have, but enough to knock him out.
The other has reloaded his weapon and is taking aim again.
"Stop! You don't…" Another dry pop, another whiplash, I fall to my knees and clutch my perforated chest.
"Just die already!" He shouts, rushing up to me, another round chambered.
I try to reply, but blood comes out of my mouth instead and I fall on all four to cough up more of it. The pain dulls somewhat after that and I can breathe normally, but the bum's got his gun right up against the back of my skull now.
It's a last ditch effort, but worth a shot; I swipe his legs with my fist and, to our shared surprise, he ends up off his feet, floating horizontally and yelling in terror. There has to be an issue with the air density or gravity, because I get enough time to scramble back to my feet, grab him by the shirt mid-fall and slam him in the ground.
His ribcage caves in like a cardboard box, even the duracrete behind him spider-webs under the impact. Then things get spooky; fleshy tubes and tendrils just sprout out of… Me? My hands, my back, my face, everywhere I look, shooting straight into my gurgling victim.
The man is pulled apart in the blink of an eye, bones and all, even the piercings are nowhere to be found. He thought I was some wealthy bastard from off-planet, maybe the privileged son of a crime boss. His name was Mathias, fancied himself a musician, but never could afford formal education. He built a stub gun from scrap and resolved to only mug people until he could afford a string instrument of any kind and earn his meals by playing in the entertainment district.
He panicked and shot first instead.
When I turn my focus back to the world around me, it's to see a couple running off at the edge of the street, vanishing around another house's corner a few seconds later. That's a smart idea, so I do the same, only in the opposite direction.
Everything feels sluggish and I feel surprisingly light. Every step cuts through the air like a blade, my legs lashing out like whips, and yanks me forward like I'm being reeled in by a giant.
People are leaving for work, slowly filling the sidewalk with half-awake live obstacles that I brush past, squeeze between and even jump over once or twice. Eventually, though, it becomes risky, as I'm going fast enough to seriously injure someone, so I turn left slightly, vaulting over a car to land on the road. The metal squeaks under my fingers and an indentation is left on that car's roof.
That's not normal. It is, admittedly, awesome, but undeniably abnormal as well. Dana will know what's going on. The park is a long way from here; through uptown, into industrial and then the slums, but at this rate, I'll be there in no time.
Already, the cozy and spacious residential area is far behind me, replaced by the high-rises and narrow streets of uptown.
As I am leaping over a blue van, crossing an intersection, a peculiar sound draws my attention to the left. Way down that road, at another intersection, are a dozen PDF troopers manning a rather flimsy-looking barricade. They are all looking straight at me and one has a knee on the ground, a column of smoke snaking its way down the street, from his shoulder straight to… Me.
I land in front of the truck a heartbeat before the whistling projectile closes the distance, just long enough to leap backwards and to the right, putting the vehicle in the rocket's way.
Didn't have time to think, don't have it now either, but one thought filters through before I am swept up by a cushion of hot air; this is a family's kind of car.
Arms and legs fill my sight, my arms and legs, twisting and flailing rather comically until I somehow land on my feet, facing the threat, with enough spare time to spot the spinning, flaming vehicle on a collision course with me, but not quite enough to do anything about it except raise my hands defensively.
The massive car doesn't crush me, nor does it even knock me down; I catch it like the damned thing's an inflatable replica, metal panels bending and groaning under my hands and forearms. I don't have enough traction in my shoes to hold my ground, however, and the impact has me recoil all the way into the street opposite the PDF, approximately where the sidewalk would be, were this not a four way…
"Dad!" The car's not empty. Dropping it might not be the best idea, as its wheels fall off when I do, but that scream really took my by surprise. Ripping the passenger door off like I'm opening a can of tuna would also be considered mildly rude in other circumstances, I suppose. Inside is a teenage boy, dressed in greasy overalls and bleeding from the lips, riding shotgun to a man in his early forties dressed much the same way and slightly more banged up. Both struggling with their safety harnesses as the burning back seats, thankfully empty, are threatening to turn this whole thing into an oven.
The boy's thick leather straps tear like over-used toilet paper under my hands and he is out of there in an instant. His father breaks free on his own and scrambles out his own door.
They both towards the back of the van, running out of the PDF's line of fire and to cover in a recaf store while I stay behind the vehicle and consider my options. The father's eyes meet mine for a moment; wide, confused and afraid, but he still mouths a thank you. To which I reply with a short nod.
Man's got no clue what just happened, but he has not forgotten his manners.
The van is belching thick black smoke now, not much time left before the fire cooks off its promethium tank. A peek around the back reveals that my attackers believe I'm dead, but are not going to take it on faith; they're advancing, eight troopers followed by a tank of some kind, already halfway down the street. Another minute and they will flood the intersection.
If that happens, the only escape will be down the street I'm on now, but that would take me into a labyrinth of narrow one-ways and dead ends. They'll just put up a few barricades and box me in.
Instead, I push and shove against the flaming van, its wheels rolling away in all directions as I do so. It sparks and groans, even more so when laser bolts begin to melt its frame. Tires screech and an incoming car narrowly avoids collision when I get the wreck to the middle of the intersection. Oncoming traffic, which is quite dense at this time of the day, wisely stops after that, but it won't have to wait long. I kick the van as hard as I can and send it barreling down towards the now retreating PDF forces. It doesn't hit them, it does not even come close, exploding in mid-air hardly ten meters away, but the explosion fills the road with smoke, fire and debris. This won't stop them for long, but I just need five seconds to orient myself and bolt towards the industrial district.
