A Multiverse of Possibilities
Guilty Blood (Worm/DCU)
Please Read and Review.I'd like to know what I'm doing right (to keep doing it), and what I am doing wrong (to correct it).
"Adam Mustain. Skidmark." The disdain in the ghostly voice was cold and heavy. "Purveyor of filth. Murderer of dreams, bodies, and souls."
"Yeah, bit**! I am all that and more, and no c*** sucking c*** is gonna invade my fu**ing home just like it was her moth******ing territory! Cape or no fu**ing cape! I'm gonna make you lick my *** and eat my ***t, and you'll thank me later!"
"Your words offend me in ways you will never understand." The Spectre said, bitterness in her voice. "Yet your mangling of the English language is not a sin in and by itself. You owe a debt of blood, and the Spectre comes to collect.
"Are you a mot***-fu**ing nun or what? I speak like I fu**ing want!" Skidmark signaled his drug-addled gang. "What are you ****ing morons waiting for? Shoot the bit**!"
Immediately, the barely functional drug addicts began to shoot at the ghostly apparition, some of them, more by luck than by any conscious decision, did so from behind their leader. Skidmark's power layered multiple kinetic fields, accelerating anything that crossed them and turning them into even deadlier projectiles.
Behind the group, Squealer, Skidmark's girl and creator of multiple vehicular abominations, jumped to the cabin of her latest creation, a mix of truck, tank, and mobile cannon. The large canon moved until the wide bore barrel pointed directly at the ghostly intruder.
The intruder didn't even try to move. The whole power of the attacks hit her dead center. A cloud of smoke and dust even though most bullets missed their target, many still hit their target.
At the side, Mush, the last Merchant cape, gathered all kind of trash onto himself, building a malodorous armor around his no less dirty body. Somewhere in his barely functioning brain, he had registered a threat to the Merchants, and more importantly, to his next high. If anything of the intruder remained after the whole Merchants ended their attack, Mush would pound it into tiny fragments.
The cloud began to settle after a few seconds. As Skidmark laughed, showing his rotten teeth to the world, Squealer opened the hatch of her tank, and Mush walked towards the place he had last seen the intruder. There was nothing there. Not even blood or chunks of pulverized flesh.
There was absolutely nothing there but fragments of concrete and wood, covered by grime.
"What the f***?" Skidmark spat a glob of saliva to the side. "Where the **** is that bit**?"
"Must be a Porter." Squealer noted.
"When I want your ****ty opinion I'll fu**ing ask you, you s***!" Skidmark covered the ground around him with his gun. Creating and dissipating kinetic fields in front of him as he turned.
The voice of the Spectre sounded from all around. "You pose an interesting problem to me, Adam Mustain."
"The fu**ing name is Skidmark, you damned *****!"
"Many times you have murdered souls, without killing the bodies; infecting them with your filth in the name of greed. They in turn corrupt others, to get their next fix, to ease the pain in their bodies, the hunger you infect them with. This ends tonight."
The roof of the dilapidated building was ripped off by gigantic hands. Above the Merchants, the Spectre loomed, as if looking into a dollhouse. "That hunger is not theirs. Those sins are not fully theirs. Hunger and sin forced on innocent souls are beyond any promise of redemption."
The Spectre's eyes gleamed, and a tidal wave of bugs appeared from the shadows, enveloping each Merchant like a living shroud. Many screamed in horror, immobilized by the unnatural creatures. "Therefore, each one will be judged accordingly." The three Merchant capes struggled to free themselves. Not even their powers or gadgets making even a singular dent on the mass of insects that held them.
The floating hair of the ghostly intruder shot towards the immobilized gangers. Each Merchant received a strand of hair, that wrapped their heads, leaving only a narrow pair of spades free so they could breath and see.
A dirty glob began to form above them. Multiple gangers fainted on the spot, while others screamed and died, their hearts literally bursting to pieces inside their chests. "Watch, Adam Mustain, as the unredeemable pay the price for the deaths they caused. Watch, fear and dread." From the arms and mouth of each Merchant, living or dead, sickly looking fluid oozed, gathering into a growing ball. "All the poison you dealt to them. All of it is now leaving their bodies. Can you see it, Adam Mustain? Can you see your greedy dream die? They are now free from your hunger. Poisoned no more."
The Spectre gestured, and the fluid sizzled and boiled, consumed by green fire. "Each sin must meet a corresponding punishment. But putting your poison into your veins wouldn't be it, for you would actually enjoy it as you died of a massive overdose. Instead, I shall let hunger consume you."
The gray globs floated around Skidmark, orbiting closer and closer. The drug-pusher watched with bulging eyes, unable to move, to even scream, until the globs hit him, passing through the mass of bugs holding him aloft.
The swarm dispersed under him, leaving the pusher barely standing. His eyes looked blindly ahead. Under his cheaply made hood, sweat ran down in growing streams. His body shook uncontrollably as he fell to the floor, holding his arms around himself in a useless try to warm himself. He tried to scream through chapped lips, but only a ragged breath emerged. He tried to crawl, to drag himself towards the stash of drugs, only to helplessly watch as it was slowly consumed by a roaring green flame. In the flames, he watched as skulls appeared to cackle at him. Maybe if he hurried, he might still have a dose.
He tried to beg, consumed by the all-devouring need for a fix. For a dose of drugs that would never come, that would never be enough.
Skidmark died a slow death, his body consuming itself as he crawled, muscle and sinew disappearing gradually as he moved under the pitiless gaze of the Spectre. Minutes later, he looked like a skeleton covered in fragile parchment, his face was a skull, his eyes sunken and febrile. And yet, he still moved.
He had almost reached the still burning pile of drugs when his body finally gave up. His skin broke to pieces, as his bones turned to dust.
All that was left of him was a bundle of loose clothes and a bag of skin full of dust.
The Spectre spoke again. "The Archer's Bridge Merchants are no more. Skidmark is dead, along with several of his underlings. The rest of the gang has been detoxed, including Squealer and Mush, and will need medical care to recover." She paused, "I am the Spectre. That's all you need to know."
The Spectre's words had been received simultaneously by the BBPD and the Protectorate.
Brockton Bay
The Rig
Meeting Room
3 Hours Later
"PHO is exploding right now." Assault noted. "Somebody managed to record part of the last stand of the Merchants."
Emily Piggot, Director of the ENE Branch of the Protectorate, grimaced. "What kind of cape are we dealing with?"
Armsmaster tapped at the tablet in his hands, sending the video to the big screen. "An extremely high level grab-bag. At a minimum, this Spectre has shown Changer, Brute, Shaker, and Master or Stranger powers. Her maximum height seems to be at least 300 feet, with enhanced strength, a regular sized human being of her body type wouldn't be able to lift the roof of a proportionally built maquette. All the surviving Merchants were forcibly detoxed. Panacea reports that many had suffered long term damage, mainly to kidneys and liver; but somehow, they are no longer addicted to drugs, not physically at least. There were not even traces of drugs in their bodies. Psychological addiction is another matter." He grimaced, "The few Merchants who were coherent enough during and after the attack reported swarms of unnaturally colored bugs under the Spectre's control, we found no trace of any of those insects in the area, only the expected variety of insects; meaning flies, cockroaches, bedbugs, lice and fleas."
"What about the call? Have we traced the origin?" Miss Militia asked.
Armsmaster shook his head. "There seems to be no origin. It was simultaneously sent to both us and the BBPD. The voice analysis software of the recording crashed several times. I've resorted to analog copies and manual analysis. The voice doesn't register as sound in digital media, yet can be clearly heard."
Velocity shuddered. "It's not an electronically distorted voice. Even when I use my power, I can still hear it clearly. It echoes inside my head." He waved vaguely with a hand.
Piggot looked around, "This is a potential disaster in the making. The balance of power in Brockton Bay has been irrevocably changed. If either Kaiser or Lung sway the Spectre to their side, one of the gangs will get an S-Level cape in their ranks. Any hint of her ethnicity?"
"The shape of lips and jaw seem to point towards Caucasian, though. Her visible skin is…" Militia hesitated, "almost as pale as an albino. Though it mostly reminds me of a dead body, after lividity has drained all the blood downwards. She's pale as a corpse."
"Maybe the reason why she chose that name. Maybe she considers herself a ghost." Battery offered."
Piggot nodded. "Possibly a trigger event right before death."
Brockton Bay
Medhall Building
Secret Meeting Room
Same Time
Káiser looked around, satisfied by the presence of his whole roster of capes. He waited ten seconds, letting the tension build up before speaking. "Thoughts." He said, knowing everybody knew the subject at hand.
"Extremely powerful." Victor said. "Completely remorseless. She destroyed the Merchants in a single strike."
Hookwolf scoffed, "Not a high bar to clear, Victor. The ni**er and his pals were high most of the time. We didn't wipe them out because they weren't messing with us. The scum kept to the worthless territories and stayed there."
Krieg cleared his throat, "We got a copy of the medical reports. Whatever she did to Skidmark, the end result was poetically ironic. The dreg was completely wasted."
"One shot to the head does that, what's so amazing about it?" Hookwold grinned. "That n***** deserved to die anyway." He chuckled ominously.
"Here, look at this." Krieg passed a file to Hookwolf, and another to Kaiser. "These are copies of the report on Skidmark. Look at the pictures. I didn't mean wasted as in killed, I meant wasted as in dead from starvation. He was a literal sack of skin and bones, nothing else. Muscle, fat, even the internal organs, everything was canibalized by his own body."
Hookwolf went silent. Kaiser evaluated the images.
Krieg continued, "She killed a lot of Merchants, but the ones she didn't kill, she cured of their addictions. They were still malnourished and had long term damage, but are completely detoxed. Panacea couldn't find even a trace of any hard or soft drug in any of them. She could conceivably do the same, but on a one-by-one basis, not over 150 plus in a night, much less a minute! Rumors say she will try to rebuild their bodies up to a… healthy weight."
Othala gasped. If this was true, the Spectre was the most powerful healer in history. In a very specific way. "Could she cure wound or diseases?" She wondered.
"Unknown." Krieg admitted. "It may be the case, and she could have withheld a full healing, doing just the bare minimum."
"What's her stance on race… issues?" Kaiser asked.
"Unknown too. According to the Merchants, the ones who were more or less coherent during the attack, the Spectre ranted heavily about sins and punishments."
"A religious nutcase?" Hookwolf snorted. "Those are always fun to break."
Brockton Bay
Coil's base
Same Time
The skeletally thin man leaned back on his comfortable chair, thinking. This… Spectre… was too powerful for his taste. She would have to be controlled, removed or destroyed. Quickly.
He dialed a phone number from memory. Two rings later, a feminine voice answered. "Tattletale here, Boss."
"Check PHO, read the "Spectre" thread and then do the usual research. I'll call you in four hours for your report."
"Sure, Boss."
Brockton Bay
Edge of Empire-88 Territory
Same Time
"What in the hell was that?" A tremulous voice asked.
"Hell indeed." A supernaturally hissing voice answered. "Your confederates shall dine in Hell, tonight and forever. The stench of their murders no longer taints this world. You have been spared on account of your soul not being tainted with the sin of murder. Yet." the voice sounded angry, tired, and somehow, young. If it hadn't passed deadly sentence of a group of Empire-88 goons moments before, the nearly initiated teenager would have sworn it was somehow familiar. Like a voice he had heard somewhere, many times.
A shadow emerged from the darkness, walking with deliberate purpose, stepping on the bare bones of the goons, their flesh consumed in mere seconds by a swarm of spiders, ants, wasps, cockroaches, and centipedes. All of their bodies green with deadly pale legs and heads shaped like stylized skulls. The living tide of bugs smoothly cleared the space the shadow's feet would thread. Finally, the shadow stepped into the moonlight.
It was a tall woman, wearing a green cape with hood, her long black hair floating around her head, swaying in the same imperceptible wind that moved her cloak. He could see the lower half of face was cadaverously pale, with bits of flesh missing, though no blood marred her skin. The eyes and nose hidden by shadows so deep it was unnatural. Yet he could see a pair of pitiless lights open where her eyes should be. Joe scrabbled back, trying to flee from the figure, who kept on walking towards him.
The figure continued, "But heed my words, mercy can be withdrawn at the very moment you decide, freely and willfully, to snuff a human life. So swears the Spectre." Without a single gesture from her, the living swarm covered Joe from the neck to his toes. Paralyzed by fear, he didn't resist, and the mound of insects and worse forced him to stand, face to face with the Spectre.
"Now, look into my eyes, Joseph Gordon Carson, Winslow dropout, thief and thug, aspiring member of the Empire Eighty Eigth, almost a killer, and be witness to the rot in your own soul, so you will know how close you are to the edge of the Abyss."
Against his will, Joe raised his head, looking into the white eyes that burned inside the dark cowl. The eyes grew bigger and bigger with each beat of his racing heart. It beat so fast he could hear it over the sounds of his ragged breath, the chittering of the bugs, and the sound of traffic in the street.
Soon he found himself looking into a single eye, so big it occupied the whole of the world. He was nothing, just an insignificant particle of dust.
And he saw.
Oh, God in Heaven! He saw!
He saw the very depths of Hell. And souls being tortured with multiple instruments of unending pain.
He recognized many faces, screaming in pain. Not even pausing for breath.
The Spectre's voice surrounded him, just as the smells of blood, sulphur, rot, burning flesh and guts spilled assaulted him. "This is the fate that awaits you, Joe. Walk away from the edge, for the fall is long and the fire burns dark with blood."
"Who… what are you..?" He sobbed.
"I am the wrath of innocents murdered. I am the avenger of the victims and the executioner or the murderers. I am the Spectre." The voice hissed. "And may God take pity on those who incur in my righteous fury, for I won't have any."
Joe looked around, and saw nothing of the Hell he had just witnessed. The tall woman, the self-proclaimed Spectre, walked leisurely away towards the solid brick wall at the back, the swarm skittering obediently behind her. Neither she or the insects stopped, simply ghosting through the wall.
A long time after her departure, Joe found the will to walk. Leaving behind the bloody bones of the ones who thought themselves the superior race.
One hour later, he was in a night-time bus to Boston, maybe his aunt would still be willing to help him. Working at a church seemed to be the most sensible course now. The wages wouldn't be too high, but he had already decided to start again.
And anything was better than facing the Spectre again.
No one in the whole Empire Eighty Eight could scare him as much as the Spectre had.
Brockton Bay
Undersiders Lair
20 Minutes Later
Tattletale exhaled. Her hands trembled as she watched the shaky video for the fifth time.
Her power screamed in horror inside her head. And still it worked.
"Dead. Angry, Pitiless. Ironic sense of humor and love of poetic justice. Do not provoke. Hates violence upon the defenseless almost as much as she hates killers. And she is no cape."
Despite the agonizing migraine assaulting her senses, Tattletale smiled.
Multiversal Lattice
Cauldron base
Fortuna looked blindly ahead, barely breathing. "There is no path." She whispered, her eyes wide as saucers.
"Is she a Precog, Contessa? Too strong for Path to Victory?" Doctor Mother asked.
"No. She is not a Precog of any kind." Contessa whispered. "The Spectre is… outside the Path, she does not interfere with it, as Precogs do. Even if I can't Path them, they make waves around them. The Spectre doesn't, she's beyond…"
Doctor Mother scoffed, "Are you gonna say she's beyond Good and Evil?"
"No, she is beyond life and death. There is no Path to Victory against her. Confronting her is to die."
"Could she…?" Doctor Mother held her breath, not daring to give voice to her hopes.
"Yes." Fortuna hid her face in her hands. "And us with him."
Author Notes
I must admit I have not read Worm, and currently have no plans to do so. Even so, I have enjoyed a lot of fanfics based on it.
For once, I wanted to do a story told completely from an external POV. Taylor Hebert is to be seen in this snippet only as an unknown factor, a force of nature.
I'm not sure if I'll continue the story. I feel this was a good cut-off point.