The Good, the Gross and the Grosser

Pisha winced at the rope of bodily bile currently hanging in the training room. It reeked of rotten eggs, leaking gastric ooze onto the cracked tiles below.

“I’m gonna throw up,” she muttered.

Bonnie whipped her arms forwards, slinging the dripping fluids with them. They arced up towards the roof then snapped down towards Pisha.

That’s got to be some sort of biohazard, right?

Pisha rolled to the side as the fluids crashed down, splitting the cafeteria table clean in half like a glowing, thousand-degree knife.

They were really doing this. It was just one thing after another at the A.O.A.

“Hey, your ability looks strong and all,” she said, “But can’t I just fight him instead?”

C.B. leaped towards Pisha.

“You sure ‘bout that?” he shouted.

He landed in front of her as she stumbled out of her roll. He lifted his club-like arm overhead and flashed a smug grin. His teeth looked like they’d been filed down to sharp points.

Her left hand flew to her belt. She met his swing with the rod she’d picked up just a minute earlier.

She would’ve preferred one of those blades Navy SEALs carried around. Hell, she’d even settle for the swordsman’s old katana. It wasn’t like he was using it, anymore.

But a flimsy toy was better than nothing.

As soon as it made contact, her new baton clicked. The vibrating handle threatened to rip her entire hand off as glowing blue sparks erupted from the weapon.

C.B.’s arm spasmed. It boomeranged away from her and into the ground, demolishing the already chipped tiles.

“Ack—Shit,” he hissed, his muscles rippling.

They deflated an inch with a pressurised hiss. His flesh sizzled red where it’d met her aluminium stick.

From a dozen yards away, Bonnie swept her arms and lashed a loose strand between the pair. Each time her wires snapped through the air, the sound echoed between the room’s battered walls.

Pisha spun out of the way, the baton still crackling in her hand. She swept it across the floor and watched as the tiles rattled with electricity. Ah.

Electric stick.

C.B. wiped his mouth. His free arm swelled to match the other’s size as it brushed past his lips.

“Bitch!” he growled. “You’re fuckin’ dead!”

He lifted a chunk of the foldable table from the ground and chucked it forwards. Any doubts about his ability boosting his physical strength vanished the moment he launched it as fast as one of Anma’s bullets.

The debris met another one of Bonnie’s tripwires mid-air, splitting into a dozen deadly projectiles.

Pisha ducked as they whizzed past, but the moment her head lifted, C.B. was already in front of her.

He’s quick, too!?

“‘Sup,” he said.

Before she could even gasp, his massive fist was barreling towards her muzzle. She sidestepped it, but his other arm was already hooking around her.

Shit. Her baton pitched up to catch the punch.

His fist shoved past the rod and smashed into her shoulder.

Crack.

Her ribcage caved in with a splintering crunch, but the sound was immediately drowned out by a high-pitched ringing in her ears.

Searing pain slammed into the joint like a steel anvil as her shoulder burst into shrapnel. She tried lifting the limb, only for her skin to sag off the bone like a lump of charred meat.

It was the same pain as plunging into the pavement, a million times over.

Bonnie circled the pair, her fingertips dancing in the air. Liquified thread wormed its way across the training room.

Those two were impossibly strong. The Director calls this ‘training?’

It felt less like a specialised regimen and more like an assassination attempt.

The impact had squeezed the air out from her lungs. Her sneakers skidded across the tiles, her useless arm dangling behind her like a bad-luck charm.

That was, until her trainers met a slick wire. She gasped, trying to reach an arm out for balance, but her mangled limb refused to move.

Bonnie’s fingers blurred, and the wire under Pisha instantly sprang sideways, like plucking a discordant guitar chord. It yanked her to the ground with a dull thud.

To her dismay, she landed flat on her spine. Her shoulder rebounded against the solid tiles. A wave of pain incinerated the joint like it’d been poured over with searing magma.

The overhead lights seemed to flare as the training room shifted in and out of focus. She caught a swivelling surveillance camera out of the corner of her eye.

The Director was probably sitting behind his crowded desk, laughing his ass off. It made her want to spill her lunch even more than the smell of Bonnie’s wires.

There’s nothing funny. About any of this.

Sadist. The man was an evil, perverted sadist. And those two assholes were just as bad. Somehow, they were enjoying this.

Two grown adults, picking on a teenager. Didn’t your mom teach you any better?

She tried spitting at the lens, but her mouth was completely filled with blood.

If Bats were there, he would’ve already knocked the lights out of them. But Pisha couldn’t even lift her arm anymore. And it wasn’t like a staffer was going to barge in and save her.

As long as those two were still breathing, she wouldn’t be leaving that room. They’d kill her over, and over, and over again. Until she forgot what being alive even felt like.

C.B.’s silhouette materialised in front of the fluorescent lights.

“You still kickin’?”

He didn’t wait for her to recover before swinging down on her. She rolled, teeth grinding together as her wounded shoulder grazed the ground for a second time.

She swept her baton around with her good arm.

His fists plummeted into the spot where she’d just laid, shattering the tiles into a classical glass mosaic. At the same time, the rod jabbed his ankles. It showered the tiles with flickering particles as he staggered down to one knee.

She stumbled to her feet, her right hand clasped around her shoulder.

No doubt, if Anma were watching, she’d order Pisha to take a moment while he was down to regenerate. To “plan ahead,” in that same nagging voice she’d always use during training. Plan. Think ahead. Then, plan some more.

Pisha’s shoulder grated into place. She vaulted over a wire, straight onto his back.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’m not Anma.”

She thrust the baton into the muscles in his neck. The tip sank into his soft flesh. Pained groans gurgled over the crackle of electricity as his right arm deflated to a flattened pulp.

“And this one’s for calling me a bitch.”

His skin bubbled and seared red under the aluminium. The smoke wafting off the baton made the flesh smell medium-rare.

“Fuck.” She hauled it over her head for a final swing. “Go down already, you freak.”

Then, Pisha’s rod was yanked backwards. A thin cord snagged itself around her baton, just as she was about to bring it down.

“Huh?” Her eyes flicked to Bonnie across the room, hands outstretched.

Below, C.B.’s arm finished deflating. It was only a moment before the skin began to pucker. His arm pinched in on itself, compressing until it narrowed to an impossibly-thin point.

It was too sharp. The sort of sharp that’d slice through solid metal without issues. His milk-white bones were nearly visible beneath the stretched skin. It looked more like a jagged needle than a human limb.

Pisha’s fingers loosened around her weapon.

Since when… Can he shrink?

“Surprise,” he sneered.

The needle shot forward. A flesh-coloured flash. She threw herself backwards, his arm narrowly catching and carving through her side. Blood splattered the scarred tiles as she landed.

She probed at the aching gash. The chilly A.C. pricked at her blood-soaked fingertips. Slippery warmth leaked through her grasp with no signs of stopping.

Heal. Heal. Heal, damnit.

Her fingers clenched around the wound. Shit.

The blood curdled.

It started with a spilt puddle on the ground. Like guided by a snake charmer’s spell, the blood twisted and lifted into winding threads in the air. They slithered to Pisha’s side before wrapping themselves tight around her shoulder, biting into her skin.

Bonnie spread her fingers as far apart as they could extend. The wires went taut, yanking Pisha’s shoulder out of its socket and levering her up towards the roof.

The baton clattered to the floor as her feet lifted a full metre off the ground. She hung like an unbalanced pulley from the suspended fluorescent lights.

The warmth drained from her fingers, circulation sputtering out. Is forfeit… Still an option?

C.B. shot the needle forwards with the speed of an Olympic fencing champion. It pierced through her chest, sliding past her ribcage and between her lungs, before jabbing an opening through her spine with a wet pop.

The toothy grin behind his muzzle looked more like a starving animal’s than a soldier’s.

“I ain’t finished yet,” he said.

His voice whistled through his pointed teeth. In an instant, his arm expanded again.

Her eyes rolled up into her head.

Muscles ruptured and tore as his bulging flesh forced them aside. Her lungs folded into themselves until they were crushed to a paste, and her thumping heartbeat vanished, pulverised into nothingness. She tried to swallow, but his arm cut off her breath at the throat.

Blood poured out endlessly from the edges of her twitching wound. Each time she regenerated more, it was absorbed by the wire snarled around her shoulder, and the restraints grew thicker. They notched past her uniform and skin, into the tissue itself. She teetered from side-to-side like a marionette dangling from the ceiling. A pincushioned voodoo doll.

For a moment, she wished her heart would just stop, once and for all. No more regeneration. Each ounce of blood was just giving Bonnie more wire. It hurt too much.

C.B.’s arm twisted inside her chest. She felt every inch of it. Everyday, she managed to experience some new class of pain. And every time, it was somehow worse than the last.

Would it ever stop?

No. Not as long as she was still under the Director’s control. The Director’s patronising grin burned in her mind even as her limbs went numb.

Hah.

Foxes, duties, responsibilities.

Her physical senses had vanished. The throbbing pain in her chest was all that remained.

If the Director wanted to treat her like a wild animal. Like she wasn’t even human. Then she’d do something a human never could.

…I’ll show you an animal.

Pisha’s fingers twitched as her pupils wriggled back into place.

“Careful, C.B.!” Bonnie shouted.

Before C.B. could react, Pisha locked her arms around him, chest-to-chest, in a tight bear hug. Unfortunately for him, there was no love there.

“The fuck?” He jerked his arm backwards. “You ain’t dead yet?”

Right as he attempted to rip the limb free, the opening fused shut. Her chest began to regenerate around him. Slimy threads of flesh and organ joined between his arm. He was pinned between her hardening muscles like a safety boot stuck in wet concrete.

He writhed, thrashing and twisting his arm to no avail. She felt the heartbeat in his wrist skyrocket into a frantic thumping.

“…Hah,” she wheezed. “Got you.”

* * *

Intercity Excursion Force, Case File #09

Othered: Cliff.

Ability: Compression.

Description:

Rapid inflation or compression of the upper extremities.

Limitations:

Exceeding finite degrees of inflation or compression risks permanent tissue damage.

Transitioning between compression states triggers a brief period of latency.

Optimal effectiveness necessitates close-quarters engagement.