First degree burns
The metal coffin in which I had been helplessly raging an instant before broke apart before me like it was made of paper.
I took a step forward, covered in filth, bleeding in several places that stung uncomfortably, and positively fucking pissed.
Still, with the simple act of pulling the blade from the sea of flames in whatever the hell that Brockton Bay was, I was in control of each of my actions. There was not mindless rage, there wasn't even a smidge of myself that I wasn't conscious of: from my feet to my impending execution of those that had made my life hell.
I had just become a parahuman, but the event had ceased to faze me at the moment I had set on fire the Winslow in my waking dream of Brockton Bay. Like finding again a long-lost firend, or recovering sensibility in a limb that had gone numb because of the cold, I was aware of my life as Taylor Hebert, and of another, much vaster one.
A life that spanned across millennia, clear as my own, even while I could easily put a name and ascribe a character to those memories. Yamamoto.
I was aware of the implications of murder in my society, even as I saw the casual disregard for the loss of life typical of Soul Society. That sensibility had been hammered passively into me every day of my waking life, even as now I knew myself capable of genocide. I was aware of the social contract that stated that I would not resort to violence, leaving its application in my defense to enforcers properly placed in that role, and yet I knew that the ultimate authority was my own. In a way, the principle of civil confrontations, of the rule of Law, followed the idealistic dream that once everybody agreed and a government was founded, a perfect society would ensue.
You'll be safe and happy as long as you follow the law. It was the underlining message. Civilized people are above violence. Was the implied code of conduct.
I now knew, with a perspective that stretched across millennia, that saw the creation of a state of Law, that any authority whatsoever was always born of Violence. Either applied or implied.
I wasn't sure how my trigger could have led me to have memories of another life, and one that dwarfed mine so massively, by sheer virtue of the measure of time and sacrifices made.
Yet, emotionally speaking, I stood as Yamamoto's equal, I could tell. He, being what he was, had never been betrayed in the way I had been by Emma. He, powerful as he was, had never been the one to swallow constant humiliation in virtue of an ideal Moral Law that didn't actually exist.
My eyes washed over the gasping faces in the corridor, fools that were filming the events and no doubt already publishing those on the web, until they landed on them.
Yamamoto's perspective wasn't conflicted on this. They were young, children, even. Yet, he had resorted to genocide when he had to save the balance between Human World, Hueco Mundo, and Soul Society. When the choice had come between neverending violence, vast brutality, bloodshed, and the destruction of the world... well, that had put him with the shoulders against the wall, so to speak.
I ignored the brief flash of memories about Quincy burning alive as my ears seemed to *pop*, sound rushing back into them as if I had been underwater until that moment.
Emma smiled, overjoyed, and started to open her mouth while Hess snarled something.
Both my own and Yamamoto's perspective on this coincided. My world, seen through the lenses of the Shinigami's experience, was fumbling for cover, with Heroes and Villains playing around only because they were needed for Endbringer fights. There was no order, only a veneer of it, like a too-thin coat of paint: one only had to observe closely to know that the world wasn't what it was being portrayed as, and a single question was enough to scratch away that frail pretense.
Could I do better?
With the memories of the ancient Shinigami running through my head, and the potential of the blade that... I frowned, remembering the blade, but not hearing its Name.
Can I do better with Earth Bet than Yamamoto did with Soul Society?
I raised my right arm to my side, picturing me once more over that sea of flames, and pulled, unsheathing the Zanpakutō whose name still escaped me. I eyed it with a knowing eye, understanding intuitively that for some reason, my soul was its scabbard. I could even tell that there was a sea of flames just beyond my reach over the edge of the blade.
But for now, it would be enough: I closed my second hand on the hilt of the blade, and made my decision. It would be far-reaching, it may lead to ruin, but inaction wasn't for me. It didn't suit Yamamoto, and sure as Hell, it wouldn't suit me.
My eyes landed on my tormentors, and the necessity of establishing myself came clear to the forefront of my mind. Emma, Sophia, Madison... children in a sense, but so was I, and maybe because I never had any power to speak of, but I never abused others for the taste of it.
Common Bandits. Filth.
I flash stepped forward, the air failing to keep up with my movement, and slashed down. I may have wished to mock my small-time enemies, now that I was in a whole different league, but experience guided me here. There was no point in exchanging words with those that were about to die, not when I didn't have either allies or enemies to impress.
The steel parted Emma from her right hip to her left shoulder, the returning slash passing clear through the neck of Madison. Without even looking, my right foot rose, planting my heel in the solar plexus of Sophia, which dissolved in a cloud of shadows and disappeared in the ground.
I took a reflexive step backward, my blade returning to a resting position at my side, both hands on the hilt, as I used a form that Yamamoto favored in his youth, when he still sparred with Unohana.
An inhuman discipline kept me from screaming in frustration and outrage: Sophia had turned into shadows. Sophia was a parahuman, and there was only one in the Bay whose ability matched hers: Shadow Stalker.
The flames almost swallowed me right then and there, but I held fast on the hilt of the blade, commanding my rage.
I felt more than saw a movement behind me, and I whirled on myself, this time reiatsu flowing in my leg as I swept the middle of the cloud. She could phase through physical attacks, but the soul is not so easily ignored. She had been lucky that the most efficient tactic had been to cut down those two before her, because I was sure that my Zanpakutō would have killed her as surely as anything else.
I ignored the screams of the others students that immediately started to flee, keeping my immediate focus on the parahuman intent with keeping up the attack.
Her being a Ward wasn't something that I discarded, no, I was aware of it, and I realized that killing her could only help me in the long run, now that I had decided on a course for the future.
Soul Society was a lawless land in the beginning too. Very much like the Cape community was now. Yamamoto's answer had been to take over, leading others that he could see as equals, and only once he had control, he shaped that world in its entirety, slowly leaving the bureaucracy to the Central 46. Taylor knew that it wasn't the wisest move: too easily had Aizen took them over, too easily quick decisions cost the lives of those that had no faults.
The Visored and Kuchiki Rukia to name two. Those errors had been born both from Aizen's actions and Yamamoto's complacency. Victory over the Quincy had truly crippled him in a subtle way that all but guaranteed his eventual downfall.
And yet, I could see how Yamamoto's callousness was justified in his eyes: each of the people he ordered around were Shinigami. Sworn to duty. If death was necessary to ensure victory, he wouldn't expect anything less from them, and they'd be glad to die to follow their duty.
I took a step forward, bringing myself in striking range of Sophia Hess, a simple tilt of the blade sent the small knife she tried to stab me with off course, and only then I struck. There was no rush, fighting was about timing, and I didn't wish to strike so fast that my actions would go unseen.
My Zanpakutō plunged into her heart with mocking ease, and I remained still as the Soul Cutter properties forbade my enemy from turning into shadows.
I blinked and took in the quickly deserting corridor. Time was such a fickle thing when in the heat of battle, and while I hadn't been trying very hard, I was unused to such speeds with my current body, reiatsu could compensate wonderfully, but while I had the powers of one, I was no Shinigami. Not yet.
I had to have spent less than ten minutes in the locker, because otherwise, people would have gone to their lessons instead of remaining for too long, my exit and purging of those responsible took at most 2 minutes, mostly because of Shadow Stalker's slowness.
Once I felt the life completely abandon Hess, I retreated the blade, whipping it on one side to clean it from the blood.
I looked myself over, and grimaced at the stench. I'll take a shower.
The contents of my backpack were still safe, if only because filth hadn't had the time to filter through and reach the clothes that I had prepared for P.E. what seemed to be a lifetime ago. They'll have to do.
Sheathing back the Zanpakutō inside my soul, I flash stepped across the school, too fast for the panicked students to see, and reached the showers, where I immediately lost my clothes and proceeded to wash up, grateful for the change of clothes.
The wounds that I had received before my triggers were still there, but they were inconsequential if not for the fact that they reminded me why. Why I had killed those three, why I felt nothing while doing it, why my life seemed to be reduced to a long winding road until some semblance of order could be established in this dimension. How could the parahumans, and humanity at large, hope to defeat the Endbringers if they kept squabbling against each other?
I cleaned myself in record time, making conscious use of those few products I purchased to take care of my hair. No matter what anyone said, Yamamoto took great care in his beard and mustache, knowing that appearance could be a weapon on its own, and my hair was the only thing I had left of my mother, if I could make use of it, even minimally, to shock and awe, I would.
I ignored the messages that were being sent by the intercom, even if the voice of Blackwell annoyed me greatly, especially since it was depicting me as some bloodthirsty madwoman, and thought about my options. Founding the equivalent of the Academy couldn't happen overnight, I would need a stable powerbase first, allies, equals like Yamamoto had before the birth of Squad 0.
As I rinsed my hair, I considered if hunting down the Principal that had enabled my torture was worth the effort of looking for her feeble and meaningless spiritual signature, only to decide that burning Winslow to the ground, before stating publicly that it was all her fault, was more than enough. I knew that my blade was capable of vast destruction, even if its name fled me still. I wasn't limited to swordwork, in any case, Shikai and Bankai weren't needed to make me dangerous. Hand to hand, Demon Arts, if it could be used to kill and destroy, Yamamoto had learned it, and so it rested at my fingertips.
It wasn't like I planned to destroy my school because of some teen angst. No, my mind, which for some reason shared the tactical acumen of the ancient Yamamoto, already grasped all the implications of that action. In the contest of PRT, Protectorate, and the other gangs of the city, an unmasked cape was either someone inconsequential because he belonged in New Wave, and they could keep each other safe, if only because of the numbers and the easy synergy, or fresh meat to recruit.
As far as power plays went, it wasn't particularly cunning, but unless I... Hey, that's an idea. I realized.
My plan was originally to bolt away, before looking for a place from where I could start to rebuild in the same way Yamamoto built Soul Society. My first idea had been to take over the Moord-Nag, or the Yangban. No, I could immediately state my worth by trouncing the local protectorate, like Lung did when he carved for himself a slice of the city, and follow up by wiping away the gangs.
I owed it to my city to at least try and make it that beacon of order that I hoped it could become. I was born here, mum died here... it was sentimental of me, but I would try.
Oh, I was wary of the capes the Protectorate could bring to bear, mostly because their powersets might synergize well enough to cause unexpected trouble, but that... that plan had potential. If I failed in Brockton, I could simply relocate over the ocean. Winslow was a breeding ground for the gangs, there they recruited, pressurized, shaped their culture over the admittedly young and easy to manipulate students.
I didn't hear troubles coming from Arcadia about the gangs. And that everybody knew that by coincidence the Wards attended there, while leaving the other schools to die in their own shit, was appalling enough.
I nodded to myself as I walked away from the showers, my mind going over the possibilities I had for an offensive against the local heroes.
The school was surprisingly quick about the evacuation, and by the time I completed my slow walk towards the main entrance, I felt that I was alone in the building.
I once more flexed my reiatsu, feeling myself plunging my hand into the flames in order to bring out my sword, and strode out.
In front of the school, more specifically, all over the parking lot, PRT vans were parked in order to offer some sort of roadblock, drawing a semicircle from which the troopers were able to point their foam sprayers at me while enjoying some form of protection. Arrayed on the front line, a bit separated one from another, stood Armsmaster, towering in his blue power armor, Miss Militia, whose power was circling between weapons almost faster than my eye could follow, and off to the side, Battery.
To my previously cape-geek sensibilities, this would have been a *squee* moment. But now, with my new perspective, born from the memories of a God of Death whose existence dwarfed mine, I was hardly impressed. My eyes shifted to the side while I focused on the frail spiritual pressures in the air, quickly picking up the presence of Velocity, who was keeping himself away from sight, but nevertheless ready to jump in.
"This is the Protectorate, you need to lay flat on the ground and collaborate!" the blaring orders that were delivered by Armsmaser hardly mattered. I wasn't going to slaughter them, there would be little point in doing so, nevertheless, I wasn't going to acquiesce to their requests.
I raised my head the fraction of an inch, my chin jutting forward, and answered: "No."
I moved faster than most of them could follow, avoiding the retaliation made of con-foam granades, and jumped in to engage, keeping myself too close to the heroes for the PRT troopers to intervene with their equipment.
Armsmaster slashed down with his signature halberd, only for me to parry the blow almost casually, with just enough strength to divert it to the side, reiatsu taking form in my free hand and exploding when I pointed a finger at the incoming Battery.
"Hadō #1: Shō." kinetic force slammed into the incoming cape, throwing her against one of the arrayed PRT vans.
I then took a single step back, avoiding Miss Militia's baton before slashing with my blade in order to keep Armsmaster from attacking again. My eyes still on the Military-cape, I then surged forth, clipping the 'hero' on her shoulder with a punch only to duck under a slash from Armsmaster.
His form was good enough, but in such close quarters, he couldn't employ it at his best, even more so considering the risk of me diverting his momentum in order to strike at Miss Militia.
It was then that the Tinker simply spit his Halberd in half, the mechanism giving out a burst of compressed air as its owner tried to engage me with dual-wielded baton-like weapons. It didn't escape my attention that the top of his halberd kept changing following the commands imparted by the Tinker' fingers on the handle, nor that the bottom half crackled as a taser was ready to get me.
Reiatsu helped me being fast enough to compensate for his sudden advantage, but Yamamoto had faced several dual-wielders in his time, and so I simply pressed forward. I slashed at the Tinker holding my blade with two hands, forcing him to cross block.
Faster than it was possible, my right hand darted forth, clamping on the Tinker's wrist. Following actions that I seemed to have practiced a thousand times before, I tugged, my momentum working together with my enemy's surprise to unbalance the 'hero' and successfully pulling him in the line of Battery's attack.
The female cape bowled him over while she tripped on his limbs, and I kicked wildly on the incoming Velocity, who pinged off me almost as a pinball, tumbling on my left just in time to be my shield as Miss Militia took aim.
I eyed dispassionately the capes that immediately scrambled to their feet: "You'll need something more if you hope to keep up with me."
Truly, they were so slow they seemed to be still, never I would have imagined them to be so... inconsequential. Was it any wonder that Brockton Bay was so helpless? How could I be surprised by the state of the world? And my hopes to find people to act as my companion against the tide of lawlessness and madness dimmed.
My right arm whipped upwards, the flat of the blade echoing dully against Armsmaster's armor even as he jumped back in order to avoid being killed on the spot. In one of those instants in which my perception of the world slowed down until I could count the singular hairs on the Tinker's beard, I noticed the faintest signs of surprise.
"Why would I kill those that at least attempt to bring order to the city?" I asked mockingly, correctly interpreting his surprise as I kicked him in the stomach, catching his crossguard and crumpling it like it wasn't even there, only to immediately flash step in front of Velocity, who had attempted to spray me with containment foam in the second I spent talking.
"Slow." I taunted him as my elbow landed sharply on the inside of his shoulder, pushing it out of its rightful articulation.
I tilted my head sideways, letting a green-light ike bullet whip beyond me, only to turn my head towards Miss Militia. Yamamoto had never been one for mockery in battle, while he could be long-winded about his speeches, for an uncountable number of years he acted like his victory in any given conflict was a given.
Was it stupid, to wear his confidence like it was mine? Perhaps. But I needed to send a message, and I couldn't do so through manslaughtering the local Protectorate.
While Velocity was still reeling, biting off a pained scream, my left leg straightened with a snap, my toes pivoting on the asphalt allowing my right leg to move in a high sweep that hit Armsmaster just as he attempted once more to charge me, choosing to stop to avoid me cutting apart his precious tinker-tech halberds.
My name. In the surprisingly bright winter morning, everything looked like it was being painted with a strange brush, and I stilled for a moment, only for my instincts to force me to keep moving. It was almost thoughtless, I moved in a counterclockwise circle, taking down a parahuman after another, leaving them just enough time to get back on their feet. How far did they look when I was helpless, and how far they are now that I stand above them.
I bent out of melee attacks, using the limbs I could grasp as leverage to turn my opponent into shields, twisting my wrists in order to slash, tear, cut, end, kill, terminate. Only at the last second, I held back, unwilling to kill these weaklings that so misguidedly thought that they were making a difference.
I spun, ducked, punched, and kicked in moves that were part of dance without rhythm, a flow full of obstacles. While I was moving, I realized that the music of the song I was playing was dictated by the attackers, the crescendo of a cocked back fist here, the taut violing string of a halberd swinging down on me, the light drumming of panic and rage all around me.
Then, maybe too soon, it ended, and something hit me. I felt it coming, but for the first time that night, I couldn't move out of the way quickly enough. Then I heard the overjoyed screams.
A Cape wearing blue and silver had just arrived, and everyone around me felt immediately safer, I could hear it: the light drumming of panic and fear had died down, excitement surging forth to replace it.
Legend was here.
