Aberrant: Mutant High - War

[z-The Morrigan]

Warhammer stood ready, his hands hanging down to his knees. The former nerd stood stock still, waiting patiently. That’d been the hardest part of helping people he’d learned: the patience to wait for the right time to help them. He had limits on what he could do, even for the poorest of people. Once, Grace Boggs had told him that he needed to pick his battles. That’s what he was doing here, he thought as his fists curled shut. He was picking his battles.

Something flashed out in the sun of the Sudanese sands. Warhammer shifted slightly, not caring if they saw him. It was a van, and as he watched, it turned around and angled its back end toward the village he stood before. As he lifted his brutish head to squint against the sun, he saw them lower a cage out of the back. With an angry snort, he broke into a lope. That was the way it started, by all reports.

Some mutants moved like an animal; Warhammer moved like a nightmare. His posture rocked forward so that he could involve his arms in the motion. It might have been gorilla-like, but no gorilla moved with such presence or speed. His massive brown body was crusted with hardened plates of bone, and his elongated mouth bristled with four lower-jaw fangs. His huge hands were tipped with bony, tar-black claws which kicked up as much sand as his feet.

He gained quickly on the van, despite it speeding up rapidly while he advanced on it. But while they were his the source of his ire, his target was in the cage they’d just set down. He hoped to get there before they opened it; if he could jam it, he could win without raising a fist.

His slim hope was denied. The door popped open, and the form crouched in it surged toward him. He saw a blur of red as it ran, but he’d been expecting this. Still, when he looked into the red eyes of the monster, he was taken aback.

The Morrigan was young, but there was nothing human in that gaze, or in the blood-streaked face that glared up at him. The girl screamed and Warhammer felt his knees loosen. But he’d faced worse, and with his own bellow, he backhanded her. Let her taste his strength; perhaps she’d back down so he didn’t have to beat up a teen girl.

She rocked with his blow, but that didn’t stop her. The Morrigan’s body followed the snap, coming back around for the attack. He blinked with surprise – she didn’t even slow down! That second of shock earned him a wicked slash across his chest from a blood-red knife. He was surprised again – not because she hit him but because it cut him.

He struck again, still not using his claws on her. He couldn’t look past the child’s body, even if it was naked, dripping blood and wielding bloody blades. This blow knocked her backwards, lifting her into the air and dropping her twenty feet away. He leapt after her, catapulting himself into the air and landing hard in the sand, right where she had been a second ago. He tried to hit her again before she rolled out of range, but she was too fast. His closed fist slammed into sand too late to do any good, and she had darted back in to cut him again before he could straighten up. They were shallow cuts, but still surprising. He’d forgotten when it liked to be hurt, and he didn’t like it.

He twisted around like a mountain swinging a baseball bat, and hit her again with a closed fist. She soared again and he tried to be faster, to follow closer. He needed to get a hand on her and hold her – then he could subdue her. He wondered if she’d be open to negotiation if he could slow her down for a while.

They parried back and forth over the sands of the Sahara, slashing and swinging. He left his blood across the sands, and so did she, from hits that split her skin. But nothing slowed her, nothing dissuaded her, and no damage stayed long enough to matter to her. Warhammer was losing in tiny cuts and scratches. He knew that he had to end this sooner rather than later.

He had been bouncing around, trying to avoid her. Now he stopped, standing straight, quite a feat for the huge mutant. He could feel power building in his arms as he raised them over his head, clasped together. For a moment, he paused, feeling all his might and strength in his body rising into his fists. She darted in close, her knives flashing. He felt the attack slash over his skin, but ignored the pain. In that moment when she was right there, her weight all in the swing of her movement, he struck.

Both of his fists came down on her, striking her on the back. She thumped into the sand, her knives falling into splashes of blood. He danced back and growled, “Yield!”

She rose to her hands and knees, her eyes fastened on him. He saw that animal wildness again – no, not animal. No animal felt such complete rage – only humans were capable of utterly hating like that. But he knew she was getting up to come at him again, and she wouldn’t ever stop.

With a roar, he closed the distance between them and kicked her in the side. The attack pitched her into the air again, stunning her upon her landing. He leapt after her, landing next to her and putting a foot on her back. She groaned as he put enough pressure on her to keep her down; a moment later she inhaled sand and choked. He gathered his power, stepped back and waited. When she struggled to her knees, he gave her another blow with the Twin Hammers. This time, she went down and stayed down.

Warhammer watched her warily as she moved feebly, but all she did was curl up into a ball. “Now,” he said, his deep voice surprisingly eloquent, “I’m going to explain something to you. I don’t know what’s wrong with you. I don’t know why you hurt and kill people for money. But I do know that if I catch you at it again, I’ll have to kill you. Turn your life around, Morrigan – you have far too much of it left to waste.”

Stifling a groan of pain, he stood up. He looked around for the van, but they were far away from the place where the fight had started. They were closer to the village, and people were coming. With a limp, he moved and intercepted the first of them. “Don’t kill her. She’s no threat.” He stayed only long enough to be sure that the villagers wouldn’t try to kill her; then he left.

He didn’t see the photographer snapping pictures, or the van that arrived soon after he had vanished. He didn’t see the white man who stepped out of the vehicle and gave her a shot before loading her into the back. Had he seen this, he might have understood what he fought today.