It’s an Awful Life

She was sixteen years old, and for twelve of those years, she’d wanted nothing more than to kill herself.

It’d all started the day she was born, when those staffers from the Association for Othered Advancement had told her she was just that: An Othered. There were only a thousand or so born every year, and, just her luck, she was one of them.

By four years old, she’d already realised they were nothing but contradictions.

They said Othered were dangerous, that their powers had to be controlled, and strapped that stupid, damn-heavy muzzle on her.

She rapped her knuckles on the metal plate covering her mouth.

To her, they were the dangerous ones. Her classmates tormented her every chance they got, all because she was muzzled. The bullying got so bad, her high school went and got rid of her.

It’s not like I want to wear this shit.

Pisha clenched the crumpled resume in her grip. The downpour melted its cheap printer ink, bleeding across her palm.

Her inbox had been filled with nothing but rejection emails for months. It wasn’t because she was a high-school dropout. Well, admittedly that might’ve played a teensy part. But really, it was because whatever A.I. scanned those resumes knew she was an Othered. And nobody wanted to hire an Othered.

She’d had enough.

Raindrops battered her muzzle, leaking through the gaps and pattering onto the ledge beside her. Lonely windows dotted the dark Tokyo skyline.

She’d had enough of being an Othered. She’d had enough of being a walking contradiction.

Her breaths were ice-cold against the metal of her mask. The traffic below left bright, lagging streaks on the wet street, honking horns and screeching tires barely ringing over the drumming rain.

If you want to die so badly…

She vaulted forwards, arms flailing, damp clothes flapping behind her.

“Then die, damnit!” Pisha shouted.

In films, the moment always seemed to happen in slow-motion. Reality wasn’t as cinematic.

The wind shrieked in her ears. From high up, the pedestrians looked like bedbugs crawling across a thrifted mattress. The steel skyscrapers blurred past as the concrete below rushed towards her.

Today was the day. For the first time in her life, she’d accomplish something meaningful.

No more contradictions.

She slammed into the pavement with a grotesque crack.

A pulsing, red static filled the alleyway. It felt like the air itself was pressing against her ear canals, vibrating into her skull. The taste of pennies and blood soaked her mouth. Her muzzle shattered into metal shrapnel, jutting from her skin. Limbs pointed in every which direction. A human starfish splayed out onto the sidewalk.

This is it…

She felt her life, seeping out of the throbbing gashes that minced her flesh open. Redness spilled out onto the concrete under her. Raindrops mingled in the growing puddle of blood with a lame pitter-pattering. The rain. Why was the rain still so loud?

Then, the human starfish began to twitch. First, a finger. Next, an arm, with a sickening creaking.

Snap.

Snap.

Snap.

Her corpse moved on its own. One by one, bones snapped. Grinded. Shifted, back into place. She opened her mouth to scream, but only a squelching, guttural wheezing escaped her lips.

No. Stop.

Her left knee, bent sideways, wrenched around ninety degrees. Her spine twisted in on itself, like a damp towel being wrung out. She felt veins and nerves coil, burrowing into her flesh. Muscles unraveled, just to seize and strain into tight lumps. It was a hundred power drills, shredding her a hundred million times over.

Was death… Supposed to hurt this much!?

She should’ve been dead. She shouldn’t have been able to feel anything. But somehow she felt everything.

An approaching siren drowned out her pained grunting.

A boot landed in the puddle beside her, splattering her cheek. The blood hissed and evaporated into a red steam.

“Muzzle’s damaged. This must be the one,” a female voice said.

“That shit’s more than damaged!” A nearby male voice laughed. “Eh? She’s still moving!?”

His foot nudged Pisha’s face, sending her eyeballs rolling inside their sockets.

“Gross!” he said.

“We should retrieve her—”

“Like hell! What’s there left to retrieve!? I’m putting it out its misery.”

Pisha muscles spasmed as she tried to turn.

There was a steel glint, then a wet, tearing pop. The world spun as her head rolled clean off her shoulders, landing face-up. Raindrops plunged straight down onto her eyes. The cold air pricked at her exposed flesh.

Why was any of this happening? How was any of this happening?

“Hrk—kh!” Pisha coughed, spraying blood and rainwater.

Her arms fumbled for the rest of her body, strands of her neck stapling themselves back into her torso. “I can feel that, prick!”

“What the hell!?” The young man fumbled with a pair of black, tactical machetes in his hands, scrambling behind the woman.

Pisha wiped away the rain, or tears, from her eyes and stared ahead.

The pair standing in front of her were Othered, too, and they looked only a couple years older than her. They wore pitch black muzzles with matching uniforms somewhere between a suit and a straitjacket.

Faint scars ran across the man’s face. The woman’s unnaturally deep violet hair was dripping wet, glued to her forehead. Her glasses flashed from red to blue in the siren’s spilling light.

“Excursors…?” Pisha muttered.

The woman glanced at Pisha’s demolished muzzle. “This must be her ability.”

“Should I try chopping her again?—”

“Idiot,” she said. “Cuff her. We’ll take her back to the I.E.”

The woman cranked the dial on her muzzle. It clicked, and suddenly, the metal brace in her belt swapped places with one of his hatchets.

Definitely Excursors.

The woman turned and marched out the alley.

“...Whatever.” The man’s shoulders slumped.

He trudged over and clamped the cold brace around Pisha’s neck. It hissed as a dozen small needles pricked her skin. A nauseating, chemical feeling raced through her veins.

“Ah!” she shouted. “What’re you—”

“Up you go!” He lugged Pisha over his shoulder, her reconstructed spine groaning.

“OW!” Pisha flailed. “Hey! Put me down, asshole! HEY!”

* * *

Intercity Excursion Force, Case File #01

Othered: Pisha.

Ability: TBD.