Pulp Friction

“It's seriously just us!?” Pisha wheezed.

She sprinted behind Anma and Bats into zone eight. Loose documents and binders littered the hallways as they closed in. Her sneakers pounded against the concrete, the pre-recorded message blaring behind them.

The facility had been compromised? What the hell did that mean?

That’s vague as shit!

Anma’s arm shot out and Pisha skidded to a stop.

Ahead of them stood a multi-story archive room. Rows of filing cabinets and shelves of labelled boxes crammed the space, drawers and lids flung open haphazardly. Sheets of paper drifted down from the ceiling like uncatchable banknotes in an arcade money booth. Splotches of colourful paint and dripping graffiti splattered the railings. And at the centre of it all, a spiral staircase twisted up towards a moonlit skylight.

“Do somethin’, Bonnie!”

In front of them, C.B. was already there. He kneeled, his arms splayed out at his sides. But something was seriously off.

His limbs were massive. Too massive, much bigger than they’d ever been during their fight. And they were still expanding.

“They won’t—I can’t move!”

Bonnie sat pinned to the ground beside him. Her own wires were knotted tight around her body. Each time she thrashed, they dug deeper into her uniform, drawing out trickles of blood.

“You two.” Anma raised her pistol. “Where’s the enemy?”

She balanced the gun on her other arm and panned it across the room, taking a step forwards. As she did, her leather loafer slid across a dropped document on the floor. Her ankle twisted in on itself with a dry popping.

“Watch it!” Bats shouted.

He reached for his back to draw a second machete.

“Ack—Shit!” He yelped, jerking his arm out.

Blood trickled from his palm where he’d missed the weapon’s hilt for its blade.

This…

C.B.’s arms continued growing. His skin stretched thinner and thinner, bubbling and wrapping across the inflating surfaces like a fleshy cling film.

Until, they popped. Like a balloon skewered by a needle, his limbs burst open. Red gushed out of the pair of gaping wounds at his shoulders, shreds of flesh and clots of blood slapping against his torso. He slumped over, lifeless.

And after that, silence.

This’s… Pisha covered her mouth, fighting the urge to hurl.

The only sound was the soft splashing of paper fluttering into the spreading puddle of blood.

Bonnie’s porcelain face finally cracked. She let out an ear-piercing shriek as her head rolled to the side. The cords uncoiled, and she collapsed to the ground. Her chest heaved with faint breaths.

“What the fuck.” Pisha muttered.

There wasn’t even an enemy. It was like they’d lost to thin air.

It’s all gone to shit.

From behind the staircase, a petite figure emerged. Cloaked in soiled bandages, illuminated by the night sky, and dragging a hefty briefcase along the floor.

It was the girl from the protest. The one who’d been hanging around Moroya.

Anma whipped her pistol towards the girl. “Freeze!”

A series of floating chain links manifested in the air. They reached the briefcase in an instant, only to veer off-path at the last second and snag a fluttering leaflet instead. Another chain formed, then another, until Anma was surrounded by mistakenly-swapped office supplies.

“Please… Please stop!” The girl raised her hands. “Struggling will only make it worse…”

“Are you crazy!?” Bats shouted.

He lunged forwards, but a misstep sent his shoulder banging into a nearby metal cabinet.

Anma’s pistol flared orange. Her bullet ricocheted off the staircase beside the girl in a shower of sparks. The rebound sent it whizzing back like a rogue boomerang, flying clean through Bats’s foot.

He groaned and keeled over, the cabinet toppling alongside him and flinging cardstock folders into the air.

Anma instantly lowered her weapon. “Bats!”

Pisha couldn’t even move. There was no way she could help them. Her feet were glued to the floor, and her eyes to C.B.’s twitching corpse. Just a couple days ago, he’d nearly killed her. Now, there was barely anything left of him.

None of it made any sense. None at all. Anma didn’t miss. Neither did Bats. None of it should’ve been possible.

“Pisha, stay back!” Anma shouted. “Her ability, don’t get any closer!”

The girl took another step towards them, letting the briefcase scrape across the concrete. Her loose dressings rustled behind her.

“...Pisha,” she said. “It’s better… if you don’t move. Or else…”

Pisha’s hand drifted towards her belt. “Or what? We’re dead too? Back the fuck off.”

“N—No!” The girl staggered back, bandages snagging against the railing. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to—”

As she flinched, a faint red dot appeared on her forehead. It flicked down, landing on the suitcase.

Click. Pop.

A small green pellet pelted the briefcase. It burst into a saturated paint splatter with five letters stencilled out. “Float.”

Like they were stage directions, the luggage lifted off the floor. It began floating into the air, wobbling towards the stories above. In unison, the team glanced up.

Three stories above, a man coated in camouflage and multicoloured paint strolled towards the staircase and towards the floating suitcase. He racked another paintball into the tall rifle slung around his shoulder.

A sniper!? The shooter clicked the pellet into place as Bats groaned in pain.

He must’ve been there all along.

Anma fired. But, with a gritty clinking, her pistol jammed, the slide pounding into her hand. Thick smoke spewed out from the back of the gun. It smelled like burning gunpowder.

The suitcase sailed up past the third story’s railing, and the sniper snatched it out of the air. The bandaged girl staggered forwards again.

“The device,” she said. “That’s all Moroya wants…”

Behind the girl, Bats was crouched, gripping the toppled-over cabinet as support. His knees buckled under him, machetes strewn across the blood-covered floor. Anma scowled beside Pisha, turning the useless pistol over between her hands.

And she couldn’t even blame her. What were they supposed to do? It felt like no matter what they tried, it all went wrong.

Anma had never looked so frustrated. “Moroya. You’re with him?”

“Ah… Yes,” the girl said. “But we don’t… want to hurt you.”

Right. She didn’t want to hurt them. Either that was the worst-timed punchline in stand-up, or Bandages had set a new world record for the biggest contradiction.

Pisha nearly started laughing. “Like hell!” she shouted, swinging her arm aside. “Look around you!”

Click.

Then, she heard it. The same click from earlier, right before the rifle fired.

Anma levelled her pistol at the girl again. Her knuckles were clenched tight around the grip. And between Anma’s eyes, there was a single, glowing red dot.

Anma. Without thinking, Pisha leaped in front of her.

The pellet popped into her chest, staining her vision with neon purple as graffitied letters tagged her uniform. “Explode.”

A sudden pressure built in her chest, like her lungs themselves were boiling into steam. Like dozens of C.B.’s arms, in her torso, all inflating at once. Swelling. Her organs twisted. She wanted to puke, but it felt like there was nothing inside her stomach but piping-hot air.

Fuck.

Ropes of innards soared out and sprayed the concrete as Pisha burst open.

* * *

Intercity Excursion Force, Case File #12

Subject: The Othered Act.

Description:

In the immediate aftermath of the Shinjuku incident, the Association for Othered Advancement lobbied for the ratification of an Othered Act. This landmark legislation mandated the universal screening of newborns for Othered abilities. Under the Act, identified Othered were subject to enrollment in Special Advancement Centers, centralising Othered education and ensuring the safety of the general public.