The Worthy Enemy

"Imp!!"

Vayger ducked under Dawson's shield as the helmet plates slid back into place, once more concealing her face behind the mirrored visor. She looked up and saw two war trucks had positioned themselves above at the far side of the canal's edge. They had spotted them and taken their time to line up a shot while Dawson and Vayger were being friendly.

"I'm alright," Dawson said from the speakers, "Trauma spray stopped the bleeding. Be gone before the police get here."

Always good advice. Vayger made for her bike and flipped the switch to turn the engine on. She was speeding away as Dawson was jump-jetting up to the top of the canal's edge, where the Bloody Tusks drivers soon realized they'd picked a poor target at which to take pot shots.

= = =

Vayger was a set of disappearing tail lights in the distance when something new ambled into the shadows of the overpass. A crease in the fabric of the world had unfolded close to the site of the go-gang clash, admitting something that in the years to come would be academically classified as somewhere between a shedim and a nomad, provided there were academics left to study them.

Vaguely humanoid in shape, it was all flesh without features, smooth and unblemished save for a thin line in the face where it seemed some alien surgeon had tried to cut a mouth. Tall as it was broad, the horror's limbs ended in stubby talons that tread about the concrete of the canal with a kind of listless uncertainty.

For it was blank. It had been made blank by design, all extra flesh and matter and the potential to morph into a complex form the moment it tasted such a thing. It had been made with a hunger, not for flesh but for essence, and aside from this hunger it knew nothing of itself or its purpose and it never would... Until it fed.

From the moment it came into the world it had picked up the scent of the essence it had been crafted to hunt. Bodies of creatures freshly dead, their blood just starting to cool, littered the canal around it. Some glinted with metal and reeked of little essence; others were more appealing to it, but there was a scent of something which was to its senses sublime. It followed this scent away from the scene of the battle and thus away from the police who were just starting to survey it. The same police who would surely have opened fire on the creature at first sight, filling its form with holes through which its potential would have escaped in fluids and guttural cries.

This was the first time the scent saved it. It was not made different. It was not special or unique or somehow inherently better or worse than any of the others of its kind that had been summoned into the world. It had merely sensed the lingering traces of strong essence and shambled after it, heedless of all other meals the world put forth.

When it found the source it seemed a paltry offering indeed. A mere splash of color it had no eyes with which to see, across a wall. But to its sightless mind which brimmed with potential, even this small splash of still-warm sweetness shined brighter than anything it had ever known before. Compared to this, the dim embers of the bodies it had found before were like starvation.

Some creatures of the dark cannot abide the courage that burns in the hearts of the soul. Some shadows are driven back to their pits to languish in seething disdain, waiting ill-tempered for another chance to exact their chthonic designs.

But others are drawn to that light. They hunger for it. To have it. To consume it.

Its something like a mouth opened wide and its something like a tongue emerged, thick as a human arm and positioned between sharpened teeth that could rend flesh with ease. But there was no flesh here, no bone to break. Only blood, and the trace of a radiant essence. Even this trace, even this fragment was a feast compared to the emptiness it had been crafted with. It lapped at the concrete as if it were dying of thirst and this was the only oasis in all the sixth world. It lashed, and shuddered, and gasped at what it tasted. Ecstasy. Agony. The full spectrum of what the human animal was capable of feeling, all at once. It felt love. It felt hatred. It knew the elation of another's complete trust; it knew the desolation of being a monster.

The bouquet was intoxicating beyond its comprehension. If there had been more, perhaps its development would have occurred properly. But there was only a little. Only a flash of who it hungered to be.

But to a creature with so much potential, even a flash was enough to begin the change.

In the shadow of the overpass, in the same space where just a dozen minutes before an elf and a human had flirted, the creature huddled to the ground and began to melt. Its flesh roiled and rippled and squirmed, processing the snippet of DNA it had tasted from the wall. Stretching the fragment of essence it had tasted into a simulacrum of the whole.

And then, after its transformation was complete within its shell of flesh, the parts of it that were not it sloughed away to reveal the creature it had now become. A body of corded muscle and hard angles, forged in adversity and sharpened by constant physical conditioning. Broad, and tall for a human woman, dark of hair and fair of skin. Cool gray eyes opened for the first time and saw a world that was almost familiar, a place that it almost recognized. Had someone else been here a moment before? If so, who were they? Their fingers had been on her--yes, it was a her--face just a moment ago. Then there was pain, but nothing it had not felt before.

She stood up, briefly unstead on new legs. There was a puddle of something foul around her, but she was able to avoid touching it. She looked at her hands, flexing them. It felt good; skin and nerves felt good. She felt powerful. Healthy. Like she could right the world's wrongs, if only they were made known to her.

Is that what she wanted? She wasn't sure.

"Where am I?" she whispered, her first words. Then, more severely, "Who am I?"

I'm like stone, she observed. No. Yes. No, not anymore. Once she had been made of stone but not anymore. Now there were cracks in her. Time and introspection had eroded her hardest places and new things had made a home in the gaps of her armored heart. Soft, beautiful things. Mercy. Forgiveness. Hope, and love. These things weakened her. But they also made her stronger. It was difficult to rectify.

But who was she? She knew, didn't she? She had to. How could someone not know who she was? When she looked within there was a whole life that stretched behind her. A life she knew almost perfectly. There had not been enough; it had only been a taste and without more it couldn't be made clear.

More of what? She remembered the essence... the radiance... But now that memory felt strange. Hazy. Like a dream, rather than any sort of reality.

She remembered people. Names, faces, feelings. She could find one of them. One of them could tell her who she was. Remind her who she was. All she had to do was use her mind. Gather clues. Put the picture together. This mystery of who she was could be solved like any other, she just had to set her mind to it.

She stretched, working out the slight stiffness in her limbs. Had her tongue always been this long? Her teeth always quite this sharp? She supposed they must have been; she would have remembered if they were something else, surely.

The creature which had been before blank by design climbed out of the canal and into the glow of the street lights on 22nd. She had no shoes but her feet were tough; how did she end up here? Was she in a fight? She seemed to remember as much. For a moment she considered clothes, but she was not especially concerned with the prospect. Her body was perfect, her past modesty entirely false. She could admit that now, easily. Everyone else was fortunate to witness it. She shouldn't have to hide it.

She knew this city. After a moment of deliberation, she picked a direction and started walking. The one thing missing from her body was the back tattoo of a winking demoness positioned directly above her flawless ass. Aside from that, the creature that walked down 22nd street looked exactly like Impulse Dawson.

= = =

Candles settled into the front passenger seat of the Delorean and groaned. The round he'd gotten in the lower back as they were fleeing towards the cargo elevator hadn't pierced his suit but it had damn sure dented it. For a moment he didn't move, instead only breathing heavily through the filter in his helmet's mask. After a minute or so he reached up to the neck straps to start undoing the small buckles. That was when Patricia opened the driver's side door and all but collapsed into the seat. She was soaked with sweat from the top of her two-point mohawk down to her belly, tactical vest dark with the grime and moisture. The datajack in her neck looked like it was throbbing from biofeedback that had nearly killed her when they'd forced the third security door.

After another minute, Candles spoke. "That was fucked."

The elf ran her right hand through her hair as she replied. "That was completely fucked. From start to finish."

"I was not in control of that situation at all," the ork admitted. "Not at the first minute and not at the last."

"I am shocked we made it out of there," Patricia said, twisting her head in the seat to look at him and shaking her head in disbelief.

"I don't think we were supposed to," Candles commented. "I think the Johnson sent us in there knowing another team would show up at the same time we did."

Patricia dragged a hand across her face. "And that Killbot! One of the new models from Leviathan Technical."

"One of those things is worth more than the tech we were sent in there to destroy," Candles observed. "I know they are."

A rear passenger door opened up and Donny scrambled into the back seat. The dwarf pulled off his goggles, revealing a 'clean zone' around his eyes where the chaff from the grenade that had gone off next to him wasn't caked to his face.

"That was fucked," Donny said. "Really fucked."

"Completely," Patricia concurred.

Donny shook his head, half-laughing and half-groaning. "Candles I don't know how you're not dead. That fucking killbot shot you right in the back with an anti-material round."

"I probably should be," the ork admitted. "If it weren't for that corpsec goon who got in the way and slowed the bullet down it would have come right out of my stomach."

The other passenger door opened and Frank dropped into the back seat next to Donny.

"Ho-lee fuck," Frank said. The facial hair on the left side of his face was still stained with honey that was only just beginning to dry. "What the ever-loving fuck was that?"

"Candles," Donny said, pointing towards the building three blocks up. "That whole place is on fire."

"I know."

"It's going to spread to the other buildings. It's already happening."

"I literally did not have a choice," Candles said, shaking his head. "The airlock had already shut by the time we got off the elevator. Burning a hole in the wall was the only way for us to get out. It wasn't until after we were through that I realized the adjacent room had a bunch of oxygen tanks in it."

"That prick threw a jar of honey at me," Frank marveled. "Can you believe that? I'm going to have to shave my face now. I'd have rather he just fucking shot me."

"We can't keep doing this," Candles declared. "The lunatics that run the megacorps are fucked in the head at the best of times but the last month has been genuinely and truly insane."

"How are they making money this way?" Patricia wondered. "Nothing is getting done. The gangs out here on the street are more organized right now."

Candles shook his head firmly. "I'm making it official. We're out of the marketplace until this pissing contest of theirs is over."

"I'm not complaining," Donny said quickly. "I been running the shadows for twelve years and it's never been this bad."

Frank was less certain. "Well, are we going to get our cut for this?"

"We got the paydata," Patricia confirmed. "The Johnson will have no choice but to buy it."

"If he doesn't," Candles muttered, "We just sell it back to Gulfstar."

Scratching his chin, Frank asked "You think they'll buy it back so soon after the run?"

"They will if I give them a description of the guy who hired us to steal it."

Donny sat back in his seat and started to scrape the metal flakes off of his face with one gloved hand. "San Francisco is a fucking mess right now. I'd go back to Bakersfield but I hear it's not any better."

"Sacramento is just as bad," Patricia warned. "My cousin is in Mother Earth and she said one of the corps just detonated a nuke in another's underground lab. It's like they're trying to wipe each other out."

"I love to make money," Candles sighed. "You guys know that. But right now the game being played is russian roulette and it's being played with a clip-loading pistol."

"I'm all for bowing out," Donny said.

"Me too," Frank agreed.

"Then let us get the fuck out of here," Patricia said, starting up the Delorean.

About an hour and a half later, Candles shut the trunk of the Delorean and slapped the top to let Patricia know it was alright to head off. He shouldered his fuel tank, checked that the burner was in its holster on the side and then started walking towards his South Beach apartment building. The street lights were out but that was common for the neighborhood and Candles preferred it that way since it made him more difficult to identify at a distance.

As he passed the alleyway between his and the adjacent building, something stirred in the garbage just past the mouth. Randolph's eyes quickly moved that direction and his free hand went to the gun holstered on his hip. He'd been expecting a number of things: a chiphead coming down off of a simulation, a go-ganger looking to kill him for his credstick, maybe even an animal digging around for something to eat...

The last of those was certainly the closest. Rising from the trash and detritus of the pitch-black alley, the creature unfolded itself until it was nearly twice Candles' height. A kinder heart might have kept their gun holstered and a keener mind might have known it would do him no good but Randolph Macguire had never really considered himself to possess either one. So when the towering figure with its long, thin arms that ended in sharp sickles advanced towards him on legs not unlike those found on a spider, Candles drew the weapon, pointed it at what seemed to be center mass and began pulling the trigger repeatedly.

Over the next seven seconds eight ten-millimeter rounds went into the mass of flesh and blades shambling towards him before Candles processed that it wasn't stopping. He dropped to one knee just in time to avoid the swipe of a bone scythe aimed to take his head off, rolling backwards into the street and dropping his fuel tank beside him. He had barely lit the burner when the creature spun around and bore down on him again, stabbing straight down towards his head.

Throwing himself back, Candles ended up almost on the opposite sidewalk with his fuel tank sliding behind him on the asphalt. Randolph Macquire had no class, terrible taste in everything save music, little discipline and as orks went was not particularly good looking. But one thing he had in spades was grace under pressure.

So even though a horror from an outer realm was noiselessly reaching for him with edges sharp enough to split molecules, Candles had the presence of mind to open the safety valves at the base of the fuel line and just behind the burner with a twist of his gloved fingers, calculate the distance and wind factor to adjust his aim, and then pull the trigger.

A stream of blue liquid napalm jettisoned out of the tube he was holding in both hands, ignited by the small flame just in front of it and lashing out in the manner of a serpent brought to life for the singular purpose of incineration. No creature of flesh, regardless of how resilient, could abide by fire; the horror was no different, reeling back and scraping at its burning body with its claw-like appendages.

Later when recounting the experience to his associates Candles would mention that as frightful as the encounter was, it would have been less so if the creature had screamed while it was burning. Instead it was silent, the only noises the unnatural cracking and flexing of its arms and the sizzling of meat being turned to char.

By the time the tank was running empty Candles had regained his footing and the horror was a twitching cinder with bones protruding at random angles. One limb lashed out in his direction, prompting him to dart backwards well out of its reach thereafter the blade sank into the asphalt nearly a full meter.

If this had been an isolated incident, one sole instance of a creature from beyond manifesting in the world for a truly random act of hateful violence on a passerby, it would not have been recorded by history in any meaningful way. Candles would have told it several times as a story while clubbing and any who cared to comprehend it would have dismissed it as a tall tale or a complete fabrication.

But Macguire was not the only person attacked that night, and not everyone carried a military grade flamethrower with them everywhere they went.

= = =

The sign named the minimart as Cranby's. The wiring in the letter n was faulty and occasionally blinked. But it was the first place she had come upon that was open; everywhere else was closed for fear of what might arise in the night if they kept their doors open.

On the street corner one block in front of the shop a trio of loitering street punks noticed her approach. It took a few moments for it to dawn on them that she was entirely naked, dark hair swaying in the cool coastal breeze. First they were silently stunned, then they grinned deviantly in a mix of amusement and appreciation.

The two male punks, who she would later come to designate as Shaggy and Stubble, roamed their eyes over her body without comment. The female one was a little braver, whistling as she passed.

She turned her gray gaze on the young woman and let the full weight of her attention fall, a leaden blanket that had made many criminals confess for fear of what her eyes had borne witness to and what else they might see should they refuse to cooperate. The punk squirmed in her denim jacket, keeping further sounds to herself.

The doors slid open to reveal the interior of Cranby's minimart. Outdated fluorescent lighting illuminated several aisles of junk food, legalized chemical vices and a booth full of discount trideos and simsense chips that might have been new two years ago. It also displayed quite prominently the three gangbangers who were holding up the store. Their impractical nighttime sunglasses, business suits with the sleeves torn off and UCAS dollar sign bicep tattoos with knives for the strikethroughs marked them as being affiliated with the Cutters.

Her hands balled into fists. As if she hadn't gotten enough of them in New York.

One was standing at the counter, an arm behind his back and the other hand pointing a Colt America L36 at the store's nighttime attendant, an older man of Japanese descent. His hands remained raised but his attention shifted towards the door as she walked in, prompting the thug holding the pistol to pull back the hammer.

"Full attention, emperor," he said. "I don't want this robbery to become a murder unless it's absolutely necessary."

The other two cutters were busy ransacking the shelves, shoveling anything and everything that would fit into duffle bags. There could hardly have been a pettier crime than stealing pepperoni and soy-chicken chips.

"Armed robbery is three years," she said out loud. The gunman's head immediately twisted in her direction.