Merry Head Poppin’

Police car engines rumbled outside the dim convenience-store alleyway. A ransacked vending machine chanted electronic error messages nearby, shards from its shattered pane cluttering the pavement.

“Damn,” a policeman said. “They got us stretched thin today.”

An officer aimed their pistol at the Othered huddled before them. He wore a loose tracksuit and an American baseball cap pulled low that hid his face. A plastic bag of unpaid groceries laid strewn beside his bent umbrella, sending loose, stickered apples rolling into the gutters.

“At least this one’s muzzled,” another said.

One policeman lifted his walkie-talkie. The gadget beeped on, sputtering. It short-circuited and spewed sparks across his palm.

He immediately dumped the radio, nursing his hand. “The hell?—”

“Good evening, officers.”

Moroya strolled into the alleyway. Their pointed leather boots spaded litter aside as they approached the policemen. Chastie trailed a step behind them, the fresh bandages on her arm dragging across the floor and gathering grime.

The police didn’t hesitate.

An officer whipped his pistol around and fired. The narrow alleyway exploded with fiery heat. But as it faded, and as the smoke cleared, the officer hadn’t moved. The barrel, still in his grip, had misfired and peeled open like a spoiled fruit. His head had all but vanished, leaving behind a fleshy stump that rained blood outwards like a marble fountain.

A nightmare. It was a scene out of a nightmare.

Chastie ducked behind Moroya’s blazer as the policemen erupted into disordered cursing. They opened fire in a blind panic, only for each of their shots to end the same way.

Moroya didn’t bother slowing his approach. The closest officer’s forehead was slicked in sweat, his fingers quivering around the trigger to the point of nearly dropping his weapon.

Moroya rested their fingers on his barrel. “…Solid.”

Instantly, the weapon melted into an oozing black liquid. It splashed down onto the officer’s polished boots.

The remaining survivors scrambled to retreat. As they rushed towards the alleyway entrance, their feet slid against the ground like an ice rink turned killing floor. The thudding of their falls was barely audible over their screams.

As Moroya stepped forwards, an abandoned pistol clinked under their boots. Warm pistol sludge soaked Chastie’s dress behind them.

Moroya picked up the weapon with two fingers, turning it to find the trigger. Then, they aimed it at the remaining officers.

Chastie squeezed her eyes shut.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

She knew it would be gruesome, but the gunpowder and blood clogging the air was still enough to make her head spin. She fidgeted with the soft hem of her dress.

By the time she finally opened her eyes, Moroya was crouching in front of the muzzled Othered.

“Terrible, isn’t it?” Moroya asked, reaching for his face. “You shouldn’t have to live like this.”

Moroya tapped the grate of his muzzle.

“Powered,” they whispered.

Click.

The muzzle disengaged with a pressurised hiss and fell loose around the Othered’s neck.

He rubbed his stubbled jaw in complete disbelief. Beside him, the scattered groceries began to drift slowly into the air. An apple wobbled upwards, levitating an entire metre off the ground.

“What… What are you?”

Without answering, Moroya stood.

“Come,” they said, holding out a slender hand. “We’ve a package to collect.”

* * *

A couple days straight spent cleaning would change a man. Or a woman, in Pisha’s case.

She pulled her surgical mask down below her muzzle and leaned against the wooden broom. Bats crouched low to the ground ahead, pinching a wobbly dustpan between three fingers. He’d given up on the task at hand, instead choosing to doodle cyborg-looking dinosaurs into the dust on the floor.

The polished concrete floor behind them was pristine white. Ahead, it was only slightly less pristine. Emphasis on “slightly.” The halls weren’t in major need of any cleaning, of course, but that was the point of busywork.

Since she’d beaten C.B. and Bonnie, the Director hadn’t arranged any more fights for her. That asshole must’ve not liked the results. There probably wasn’t enough suffering for his sadistic tastes.

It’d worked out for her, though, because she’d take cleaning over lethal training any day of the week. Better than whatever chaos the other Excursors were dealing with out in the field too, especially with how slammed they’d looked earlier.

Would hate to be them.

She banged the broom handle against Bats’s skull with a wooden thwack.

“OW! What the fuck!?” He whipped around, rubbing the spot through his crimson hair.

“Drink?” she asked.

Like a hamster forgetting the past three seconds, his pain seemed to vanish instantly.

He gave a mischievous smile in return. “Drink.”

* * *

The vending machine food was somehow better than the mess hall’s slop. Not that it was three-star Michelin meals, or anything. The A.O.A. chefs might’ve just hated Othered.

The machine beeped an upbeat jingle as Bats punched in the code for a coffee. It cast him in a cool blue light, making him look like an extra from the first Twilight movie. A grin spread across his face as his spare change clattered into the machine. One of life’s simplest pleasures.

His finger rested on the coin slot as he turned to her.

“You got ten yen?”

“Nope,” Pisha said.

Her first meagre A.O.A. paycheck was long gone. She’d already spent it on a new console, the more expensive version that could play DVD’s. And it had cost her every last cent.

Bats slammed a fist against the machine.

“FU-U-U-UCK,” he groaned.

She shuffled closer to comfort him, but he tore himself away, stumbling backwards. He paused, then retreated another three steps backwards. Then three more, until finally, his back hit the plasterboard.

He let out a guttural war cry and launched forwards. Right as he neared the vending machine, he leaped into the air sideways, aiming a drop kick at his mechanical opponent like some sort of illegal MMA move.

He slammed into it with a metallic thud, rattling the coiled springs and snacks inside like gumballs.

A moment later, he laid on the concrete, wincing. The machine stood perfectly still. A single bag of onion rings teetered off a coil without dropping.

Idiot.

“Good evening, you two,” Anma said.

She entered the hallway and stopped dead in her tracks. Her stare drifted between Pisha to Bats, then finally to the abused machine.

“Am I interrupting something?” she asked.

Pisha sighed. “No,” she said, pointing the broom handle at Bats’s twitching body. “He’s just short ten yen.”

“Ah. I see.”

She strode towards the change slot, stepping over Bats. After studying the screen for a moment, she inserted a couple coins.

Ding.

A pre-recorded voice thanked them as three small cans rumbled down and landed in the dispensing bin. Anma plucked them up in one smooth motion, handing Pisha one, then placing another on Bats’s stomach.

Pisha turned over the aluminium can. Heated-on-demand, the good stuff. It fit comfortably between her palms like an edible hand warmer. She needed the caffeine if she and Bats were going to pull another cleaning all-nighter.

“Thanks,” she said.

Bats grumbled something along the same lines as he sat up cross-legged. The faint sounds of clicking pop-taps and hushed sipping filled the quiet hallway.

Growing up, Pisha had stolen sips of her father’s coffee. Back then, it tasted bitter, in an adult way.

But really… It’s pretty good, isn’t it?

“Hey Bats,” she started. “Question.”

He swigged down a gulp and wiped his mouth.

“Shoot,” he said.

“How’d you end up in the I.E.?”

“Ah.” He rolled the can between his palms. “That’s a toughie.”

She pouted. “Hey. I answered your question earlier.”

Bats rubbed his chin and hummed in thought. Anma shot him a glance Pisha couldn’t quite decipher, and he sighed.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “Fair’s fair.”

His can clinked as he set it down on the concrete. For a moment, he stared at the wisp of steam spiralling up from the can.

“Rain. It was raining. My dad was at the wheel.” He glanced up at the panelled ceiling. “Then, we’re upside-down. My muzzle’s in pieces. Next thing I know, A.O.A.’s swarming the place. Met the Director and been here ever since.”

“Shit,” Pisha muttered, looking down at her coffee.

Someone as carefree as Bats… His entire family…?

“You were… the only survivor?”

It was all Pisha could think to ask.

“No, I…” He trailed off. “My family—“

“ATTENTION. ALL PERSONNEL.”

Bats shot to his feet, knocking over the steaming can and spilling coffee across the concrete.

The ceiling split and ejected strobing beacons. The vending machine’s blue light vanished as they plunged the entirety of the white hallway into a blood-red. A clipping message blared.

“ZONE EIGHT COMPROMISED. ACTIVE EXCURORS, RESPOND IMMEDIATELY.”

* * *

Intercity Excursion Force, Case File #11

Othered: Moroya.

Ability: Nullification.

Description:

TBD.