Aberrant: 200X - Gods of War Intro: Heaven Sent

[WhiteRain]

The TV had little to talk about other than Novas and the Congo, which suited him fine. He had heard whiff of news that had ruined his day, and right in front of him he saw confirmation of it.

A pathetic little zip occupied front-and-center, hair parted like he wanted to provide a runway for a plane to take off, or a nice angle for an axe to follow. Nice little jacket, nice little mic, nice little worthless life.

Cameras surrounded the desk, the back banner showed the massive '5' that made for part of Station Five's name.

"Get the fuck on with it," he growled, waiting for the zip to get to the news he wanted to hear, rather than the pointless list of zips that had gone from baseline to flatline.

"And in other news," the anchor said, "a private jet has been shot down while in the airspace of the embattled Democratic People's Republic of the Congo."

The screen cut to a shot of the plane - a rude, slim little thing - flying in the air happy as you please, then a streak through the air towards it. A plume of flame went up, blossomed and faded. The plane angled down sharply and plunged into the trees.

"It is unknown who would be flying over the restricted airspace," the anchor droned on, "and it is unknown if anyone survived the crash. As it stands it seems that the lives of these unfortunates will be added to the mounting death toll in the region."

Scrambler turned the box off with a flick of his wrist. He was a tall, thin man, bony and gaunt, but much stronger than he looked and infinitely more dangerous. His eyes burned violet, his veins seemed to pulse with strange blood, for they were all visible, and so black beneath his skin. He leaned against the arm of his sofa, one fist supporting his head. "Shit."

A harsh laugh cut in.

Scrambler turned to see a tall, rocky figure. Seven feet for a start and potentially bigger, a goliath of black-eyed rock veined with red. He was dressed in a clinging red eufiber suit, while Scrambler wore jeans and shirt. He found them comfortable, though he tended to mold his eufiber into more dramatic garb when with the high-ranking members of the Teragen.

"Something funny, Greg?" Scrambler muttered.

"Should call me Fury now, Scram. Greg's my slave name."

"I'll call you shit-for-brains at this rate. Answer the fucking question."

Fury seemed angry for a moment. Then he nodded. He had power. Scrambler could turn it off. Oddly enough he found that rather scary. "Well you know how it happened right? Some zip shot it down with a rocket launcher. Seems fair to me. Zip-lovin' little slut gets killed by zip guns while inside a zip-made box being carried in a zip-made vehicle. Jus' seems kind of fitting to me."

Scrambler turned back to the blank TV. "The point wasn't to kill her, Greg. If it was we'd have done it right there, right then."

He felt Fury's shrug. "She's a zip-lover. Let her die with 'em, and move on. Never figured why you give a shit about her anyway, man."

"There's a lot you haven't figured out, Greg. That's why I'm the mentor, and you're the seeker. Leave me be."

Fury obeyed.

Scrambler stared at the screen, irritated beyond words. There was something about Chang. Something cursed. Every little plan he had that involved her went wrong, wrong, wrong.

"You'll fucking spite me into your grave, you little changeling bitch."

[WhiteRain]

***

Pain.

Chang had not often tarried with pain. Not the physical sort.

Oh there had been pain in her lessons. Flaying knives and fire, hammers and devices of torture. Just there to learn of suffering, to test her soul.

This was different.

This was chaos.

Smoke choked her throat, fire crept across the roof and walls. Her left arm had been smashed in the crash, a two foot-length of steel had penetrated her right leg. That same two foot-length had allowed her to squeeze her broken and battered body out of the solid box she had been sealed in.

The plane had shattered on landing. The hold was open to the sky, though from where she lay bleeding, it seemed the sky had turned red.

Quantum surged. Chang's bare chest bulged violently upward, forming swiftly into a new torso while her body tightened and separated into legs. Even without taking the effort to stand, she staggered, and feared she might fall.

Her vision blurred, but she was long past the point of needing just one sense to get about.

She could hear pieces of metal and debris falling, feel it through the hull, scent death and flame in the air.

Someone approached, crawling through the ruins. Chang could hear his heartbeat through the floor, sense his every agonized step.

One of her captors. The only one who yet lived.

Her vision cleared, and she watched him enter the hold. He bled, he was probably dying. She could hear splintered bones grating as he moved. But he held a gun.

"Y-You're alive," he said, and coughed.

"And I will remain that way, human," Chang said, her voice strong and cold.

He began to raise his weapon. "This won't kill you. Just stop you."

"I am leaving," she said, in all four voices, warning in her tone.

"I have to make sure you end up-"

She did not let him finish. Her three breasts stretched out in unison, molding into razor spikes that impaled him and pinned him to the wall.

Chang shuddered. She had never killed a man. Until now.

She stared at him, savored every sensation, every sick swirl in her soul and gut as she absorbed blood into her blade-nipples, tasted his end.

How mundane.

They had talked of killing, she and Scrambler. He had said how important it was to kill a man, to know what it meant. He had spoken of it almost orgasmically.

Her breasts slid back, returned to soft flesh. Her victim slid to the ground, dead.

So it was she became a murderer. Not in killing an enemy, not with premeditation. Just the passage of a moment, and the removal of an obstacle. She took a moment to think, to wonder, but it passed. Now was no time to meditate.

This would need much meditation.

She heard, smelled, felt his blood dripping onto metal, like fingers tapping on the floor. Unquiet reminders.

Chang looked up, wiping blood from her face. There were cuts across much of her body. Her cock bled from a dozen wounds. She fought it all. No time for pain.

She stretched upward, her torso easily extending up and out of the wreck. She coiled and curled on the shattered roof, lost her balance, slid off the side and came hurtling to earth outside her body contracting like a rubber band.

The breath went out of her in a rush as she collided with the soil, much of it hardened by the plane's collision.

Chang coughed and spluttered, let out a long moan of pain. Her arm and leg did not appreciate the fall. She could feel the metal shard in her leg scraping against her insides with every movement.

Sweet life rushed in. The rich soundscape of a jungle filled her world.

Lying there in the ruins, warmed by the fires of the crash, Chang looked up into the starlit sky, and smiled.

She felt it before she heard it. The onrush of vehicles, trembling in the ground. Her ears caught up moments later, she heard words, voices, and the unmistakable metallic clicks of guns being set and readied.

Chang would have run, but she felt dried up, a near-empty sponge of quantum. She needed time to get it back. Whatever Scrambler had dosed her with, it had done unpleasant things to her node.

She turned over, her hair writhing like a mass of snakes, pushing her up to her feet.

The soldiers came on. Black-skinned men in jeeps and armoured cars, clad in military fatigues. Soldiers. She knew the language, just one of many she had studied in part during her worldwide artistic wanderings in the past.

They knew what she was, of course. Too beautiful, even bloodied and smeared with dirt. Too unnatural, with three breasts and a cock far larger than their guns.

Guns they aimed at her.

Pintel-mounted machine guns zeroed in, the powerful lights on the front of the jeeps all trained on her. Men took up firing positions.

They most likely thought her an elite.

Chang slowly, very slowly, raised her one good arm, hand outstretched, and put it behind her head.

"I yield," she said, in flawless French. "I yield."

She dropped to one knee, and bowed her head.

The men came forward, cautious and halting. She wondered if this would be how she died. But she would not go easily into any night. She had yet to evolve. Yet to see where she would go, who or what she would become.

Scrambler couldn't stop her. Humanity couldn't stop her. And by no means did she intend to let the baselines stop her, either.

For now, she bowed her head, and waited.