March 11, 2045, 10:33 A.M - UnderCity, Titanâs Fall, Texas, U.S.A.
ââŠKeep your hands up you stupid FUCK.â Came the bellowed words. Two men were face to face with each other in a side alley, dirty air clinging to their skin like slowly peeling paint.
One was tall, with sunken eyes and stringy, greasy hair. His clothes were tattered and ripped, though the comm-link on his wrist was startlingly fresh and new. If it werenât occasionally sparking against his pockmarked skin, it couldâve even been mistaken as brand new!
The other man was shorter, broader than his counterpart, and for someone so stocky, his was a narrow face. His clothes were far less tattered than the taller man, though he had no new tech on him beyond the undercity default. His eyes were glassy, rolling and darting about as he focused and unfocused.
The taller man, once more shouting and waving the long barrel firearm in his hands, shoved the shorter man back against the wall he had him cornered against. âGimme the FUCKING Nitro! You FUCK. Cmon man, cmon! Stupid fucking IDIOT! Took some of MY âglass didnât you?! HUH?! DIDNâT YOU?!â
And the shorter one gave no signs of recognizing anything around him, head lolling back slow and steady as he slumped to his knees. Once more did tall and shouts-a-lot scream, hands shaking violently on the gun he was holding. His eyes darted about, senses just barely taking note of the thumping music from somewhere. The club? Was there a clubâ Oh. He was right beside a club, or, some music house? What the fuck did it matter. It didnât matter!
He took hold of the barrel of his weapon, snaking forward and using a now free hand to begin rifling through the pockets of the little shit-heel on the ground. That Nitro was his! HIS! He worked hard for it, and the Cult didnât take kindly to idiots who lost their merchandise! And by their, he meant his! Because IT WAS HIS, YOU HAVE TO UNDERSTAND!
âWHERE. IS. MY. NITRO. YOU FUCK! YOU FUCKING FUCK! Idiot fucking maggot man WHERE DID YOU PUT IT?!â
His shouts were nearly muffled in the alley, quieter than the hubbub of the undercity around him. His fingertips passed by a plastic-something, coming back and snatching up the repurposed inhaler.
Sweet sweet victory.
The man cackled, nearly jumping with joy as he brought the inhaler up, pressed down, and took a deeeeep breath in. His eyes flutteredâŠ
The world slowed around him, and as he opened his eyes again, his sight was filled with the wide open maw of some hideous monster.
Rows and rows of teeth, a tongue that split into four separate tentacles of spiny horror, and a pair of arms that reached out at him from the depths of a cavernous throat. The arms were skinny little things, covered in as many barbs as the tongue.
His thoughts ran slow for a moment, just a heartbeat. The muscles in his back, his legs, and his hips flexed.
And quick as a blink, the man narrowly avoided having his head snapped up. His mouth slapped open, an otherwise wordless scream ripping out of him.
The unholy lovechild of a crocodile, a centipede, and whatever eldritch nightmare has hands coming from its throat. There were too many eyes, and feathers in place of scales or fur. But most of allâŠ
It was fast. And hell-bent on his life. This was made obvious as he turned, flexing the muscles in his legs to run.
And slipped. On a patch of mud that hadnât been there before.
His face slapped into the ground, his hands moved like twin blurs, pressed on the dirt and trash covered ground, pushed him upâ He was almost free! He was so close! The Nitro was pushing him faster, farther, and onwards! Onwardsâ
And into the grasp of arms that wrapped around his neck. Into the quartet of spined tongues that closed around his head.
âHowâŠ?â He thought, desperation pushing at his very being. âI should have been⊠FasterâŠ! FasterâŠ!! FASTER!!!â
And with a blink, the pop of air rushing to fill a now empty space, and a yelp, the man vanished.
And reappeared at the end of the alleyway.
He cackled with glee again, rushing out into the street with a speed that belied what exactly he had taken. He blinked from point to point, appearing up on the roof of a rough-shod shed. He turned to catch a glimpse of the creature, adrenaline spiking as he screamed his joy. It was gone! He was safe!
His eyes roamed the streets nearby, taking special note of a woman who was walking now inâ Wasâ Was that a fucking Templar?! Holy shit! Holy shit! That uniform was so mythical! No one could mistakeâ
His thoughts came slamming to a halt. There was a numbness spreading through his veins, through his flesh. He looked down, finally, at his chest. At the spike of bone and flesh that was protruding from him.
And at the skewered heart on the end of it, ten inches away from him. Or at least the remains of a heart, ripped and shredded as it was. He made a final hiccup, watching as the spike grew four spines⊠And yanked backwards. His scream was cut short, but no less audible.
And the oily, inky bubble that swirled over where he had been, was easily visible.
The shape that the ink-bubble resolved into; a lanky, relatively tall, bronze skinned woman with luminescent blue eyes, was naked as a baby. She turned and looked over the streets below her, face cold and clinical. Before a swirl of ink pulsed from her skin, and covered her in a pair of brown and gold feathered wings. Then she was dropping out of view of anyone who could watch her.
Temporarily.
J-3 wanted to explore, and now that theyâ Sheâ had had some food⊠She could, and would. To see what the world would offer other than some drugged up muggers. Hm.