The first thing I did after the initial shock wore off was yank my foot out of the melted patch of the floor and dart over to the unconscious woman. Too late, though. She wasn't breathing anymore. Shock? Blood loss? Exploding joints and torn muscles don't really help with keeping the vessels intact. Honestly? I don't know, and it doesn't matter anymore. Somewhere, I'd heard or read that killing someone for the first time is like losing your virginity. Pretty sure that's the kind of nonsense only a complete lunatic would come up with because it's absolutely not true—zero similarities.
I stumbled awkwardly toward the cell door, trembling uncontrollably. Strange that I didn't puke—I always thought that was a mandatory side effect. Although, yeah, I did feel queasy… "Well, dead is dead," I thought, recalling some meme from my past life.
The mix of awe, terror, and utter disbelief in the eyes of the watcher made it obvious who was inside the cell. Jubilee. The worst possible person to witness this.
The thought of how she might recount these events if we managed to escape scared me even more than the layers of blood and brain matter caked on my skin. I could already hear her breathless, overly-dramatic account to the gaggle of young mutant girls gathering around her:
"They shot him, like BAM BAM, with their guns! But he was like, SHA-BLAM! Blood everywhere, limbs flying! Then he's all, BANG! Shattered elbows! Arms dropping to the floor! They were screaming in terror while he stood there over their bloody corpses, roaring like some wild animal! Then one chick starts shooting at him, but he didn't even care—he just stomped her head like a watermelon! SPLAT! Blood and brains everywhere! I SWEAR I saw an eyeball fly past me!!!
And then—and then, girls—he's standing there, covered in gore, and his dick is hard as a freakin' Pisa Tower, with a piece of brain stuck on the tip! AND HE LICKED IT OFF!!! IT WAS SO. FREAKING. EPIC!!!"
Yeah… that was beyond horrifying. What the hell, brain? Why did I even think of that?
"Jub… cough, cough… Jubilee, how are you holding up?"
"Toby! TOBY!!! Oh my GOD, that was AMAZING!!! Like, okay, yeah, totally gross, and maybe a bit much, but also SOOO COOL!!! The way you just—BAM BAM, blood everywhere…"
"Jubes, stop, just STOP!" She was seriously scaring me. What kind of shit had she seen living on the streets that made this look "cool" to her?!
"Jubilee, do you know where the strong ones are being held? Like Raisa, for example?" I had no intention of letting her out just yet—this place was about to turn into a bloodbath, and her fireworks wouldn't protect her from a stray bullet. Better to free someone with real offensive and defensive abilities. As if to confirm my thoughts, the lights started flickering, and the alarm blared. Showtime.
"I saw Raisa yesterday," she babbled. "They took me down to the sub level three for tests, and she walked past—they were dragging her into some room. I chatted up the guard; she said they keep the dangerous 'monsters' down there. But then I got smacked by another guard. Bitches. Haven't seen anyone else—they've only taken me out once."
"Listen, Jubes. It's about to get really dangerous here. I've got protection—you don't. Stay put for now. I'll find the powerful mutants, maybe even Dr. McCoy if she's here. Once it's safer, I'll come back for you."
She frowned, thinking it over for a moment. Then sighed, accepting my reasoning.
"Just be careful, Toby… And kick their asses!!!"
I nodded and tried to smile reassuringly. Well, I think I smiled—more like bared my teeth in some lopsided grimace that probably made me look like a lunatic.
I went back to the bodies and grabbed their guns. Took a few seconds to reload—only one spare mag each, so not much to work with. Now I was just a naked dude with guns, running on a vague plan: Go there, do something. Good old American optimism, right? Heh.
I slinked toward the elevators. Why not check the other cells? Because I seriously doubted they'd keep any real heavy-hitters in these cookie-cutter boxes. Those types are either in special containment or drugged out of their minds. Like Yuriko Oyama, Stryker's clawed bodyguard.
Sub level three it is, then. Preferably via stairs—no way I'm trusting the elevators. Too many action movies.
While I mulled this over, a head poked out from around the corner and quickly disappeared. Crap, I'm about to get shot at.
Sure enough, one woman leaped out, dropped to one knee, and started firing at me. Another stayed behind cover, popping shots whenever she could.
I shielded my eyes with my left arm, gripping a gun, and fired from the hip with my right. Three shots—one hit her in the shoulder, making her drop her weapon. Meanwhile, I took every bullet she fired. Didn't feel weaker yet, so I kept going.
The injured one grimaced, switched her gun to her left hand, but I was already on her. Two fingers to her left shoulder—quick, precise, trying not to make too much of a mess. A hiss, a scream, and her arm went limp as my fingers sank into her flesh like butter. The smell of burnt meat hit me. Gross.
Another swipe melted her friend's pistol, detonating the ammo inside before she could drop it. Shards flew everywhere; a finger whizzed past me as she shrieked in agony.
The first one tried to kick me, but I instinctively blocked with a scorching forearm. She fell, screaming, pants on fire—literally. Judging by the smoke and smell, that was one nasty burn.
Focus, Toby. Don't think about them as people. Later. You can freak out later.
I leaned over the second woman and burned through her knee with a finger. Her scream climbed into ultrasonic levels. Grabbing her hair, I stared into her pain-crazed eyes.
"Where's your boss? Talk, or I'll burn your face off."
She stared back, stunned, until I shook her head roughly and pressed my thumb to her collarbone. Sizzle. Screams.
"Answer me! Where's her office?!"
"Go to hell, freak!" She spat in my face.
Well, damn. Respect the conviction, I guess. No time for this—I burned her other knee and silenced her with a kick to the head.
I turned to the first one, who'd managed to smother the flames on her pants. Fear and hatred burned in her eyes. She wasn't a threat anymore, not with one working leg and both arms messed up.
I smiled—or tried to. With my blood-covered face and crazy grin, I must've looked like a total psycho.
"Do you want to be a full-blown cripple too, or are you going to tell me where to find your boss? I'd love to thank her in person."
Her eyes flickered with doubt, but the shimmering heat from my hand hovering near her good leg sealed the deal.
"Sub-level three. From the elevators, head left. Door's on the right down the hallway," rasped the woman. She then spat venomously, "I hope you die there, you animal."
I pinched the barrel of her gun between two fingers, deforming it effortlessly. "Someday," I replied, "someday, for sure." Then I kept walking. Could she have lied? Absolutely. But it wasn't like I had better options right now. Most likely, she was just part of a patrol armed with popguns, but an alert team was already on its way—maybe more than one. Cameras had surely caught my antics by now, and they were probably recalibrating their strategies. If I didn't hustle, it wouldn't be long before they came at me with specialized weaponry. Luckily, the only thing that posed a real threat to me at the moment was airborne toxins; anything else, I could burn away with my body heat. Speaking of which…
Time to crank up the heat. I turned it on across my torso, sparing only my ankles, and a cascade of ash flaked off me. My hair was already fried—so yeah, cue the billiard ball look—but at least I wasn't caked in crap anymore.
I needed a way to establish contact. Two potential paths stood out: find some powerful mutants and seize one of Stryker's comm devices to get in touch with Magneto and Charlene, or go it alone. But Oyama—now he was a problem. Adamantium claws would carve me into leather straps no matter how much protection my heat or shield offered. Elevators? Nope. Stairs? Jackpot. There was a sign pointing to them up ahead.
I dashed up, the pounding of boots echoing from above. Mentally, I prepared myself for the inevitable: I'd have to kill. I didn't know nearly enough about my powers, and leaving enemies alive behind me on a promise of goodwill? Not happening. Too many so-called "heroes" had died taking that chance. Mercy today, bullet in the back tomorrow. So, it was simple—either bodies or cripples. The two guys earlier? They'd gotten off easy. Civilians, though… well, I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.
Clink. A grenade tumbled down the stairwell ahead, bouncing off the steps. Smooth cylinder, no ridges—not fragmentation. Flashbang. Yep. A deafening pop and blinding flash followed, doing absolutely nothing to me. A second grenade flew in, but I'd already blown past it, my ears catching the second bang in the distance. Ahead of me stood a squad of four soldiers armed with short-barreled, rapid-fire weapons—likely SMGs or carbines fuck if I know but they were spewing lead like fountain. Their bodies, covered with armor and helmets. Bullets started rattling off me, and… wait.
Something felt off. Inside me, it was like… something was draining? Deflating? Damn it, figure that out later.
I tossed my pistols; they were useless in my hands, more props than weapons. I'd trained too little to rely on them. Instead, I poured heat into my upper body. Bullets fizzled out on contact or ricocheted, their impact scattering like glowing sparks. One step. Another. And then… boom. Explosive barbecue. Four chests burst open, and viscera sprayed out from beneath ruined armor. The smell of charred meat and shit filled the air.
That's when I lost it.
I doubled over, retching so hard I thought I'd turn myself inside out. Good thing they didn't feed me was all I could think as I vomited onto what remained of one woman's torso.
Tears evaporated the moment they formed. My head swam, my throat seized with unspeakable horror. Desperation clawed at me, and I grasped at the only anchor I could find: stories I'd admired for years. Imaginary universes where humanity waged eternal war against impossible odds. Fiction? Sure. Unreal? Of course. (Said the guy trapped in Marvel.) But the valor of defenders standing against endless enemies? That was inspiring.
Words rose unbidden, a litany of war stammered from trembling lips: "Emperor, grant me Your righteous fury and boundless wrath…"
"Let me become the storm," I croaked, my throat raw and burning. "The storm that sweeps away those who offend Your sight."
Heat surged across my body. Careful not to melt through the stairs, I kept moving, refusing to look back. This was their fault. They dragged me here. Six bodies? Just the beginning. If drowning this place in blood was what it took to escape, so be it. And it wasn't just about me. The kids… I had to get them out. God knows what these bastards would do next—move from painful experiments to straight-up vivisections? There was no time for doubt. Fear and panic could come later. Right now, it was fight or die.
Maybe this massacre would be the only worthwhile thing I'd ever do. A bitter thought crossed my mind: Moms would be so proud.
"FUCK YOU!" I roared at myself "GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER PUSSY! FUCKING MOVE!"
Sub-level three. Strange, I could hear gunfire behind a door ahead. Reinforcements? Or was someone else trying to escape? Either way, I had to help. I melted through the lock and kicked the door open.
What I saw stopped me cold.
A pile of mangled corpses littered the room, and amid the carnage stood a black-and-red figure. Katana in one hand, massive pistol in the other, carving and shooting through Stryker's soldiers with gory enthusiasm. Deadpool. How the hell had she gotten here? Of all people, I hadn't expected her.
Behind me, boots thundered down the stairwell, accompanied by a chorus of cursing. Someone had found my… handiwork. I turned and heated the walls and steps until they were almost molten—a defensive barrier. No one was getting me from behind. Not now.
I moved into the corridor, sealing the metallic door to the stairs by welding it to its frame. Same for the elevator doors. Taking residual heat from the metal to recharge, I sprinted left. Deadpool had the right flank covered. With my heat, I'd just be in her way—or worse, accidentally scorch her.
Ten meters down, I spotted a fat energy line inside the wall. About twenty centimeters deep. Perfect. I melted through, drained it, and felt my reserves swell. Lights flickered, and equipment in nearby rooms started beeping—probably backup power units complaining.
Two bullets hit me square in the back. I turned to see Deadpool gleefully carving someone into mince, screaming something unintelligible about "don't you fucking dare!" A twisted part of me almost found it touching—was this her way of showing concern? Creepy, but sweet.
Of the remaining soldiers, five were still standing. Two were dragging wounded comrades while the rest laid down suppressive fire, trying to cover their retreat. I turned back to my task. The energy coursing through me felt incredible, reinvigorating. Finally, something pleasant.
"Now, if only I could get a damn shower," I muttered.
Left corridor: silence. The right? Almost silent now. The soldiers were more focused on running from Deadpool's gleeful rampage. Time to check the doors—maybe the captives were here. Deadpool could handle herself.
Pulling away from the energy line, I opened the nearest door to the right. Inside was an office. Papers were scattered across desks, charts plastered on walls, and a whiteboard covered in marker scribbles. Bureaucratic drudgery central. Across the hall, I found a lab. In thermal vision, a single silhouette stood out: a woman in a lab coat, cowering under a table. Fear radiated off her. No weapon in sight. I stepped back and welded the door shut. For now, she could stay put.
A pattern emerged as I checked more doors. Labs on the left, offices on the right. Maybe that soldier hadn't lied after all. Most rooms were empty. The ones that weren't held unarmed personnel. Maybe it was early morning, and not everyone was at their post yet.
Well, praise be to the Emperor and the local goddess. My heart's already pounding like a war drum; I'd rather not go through it all over again. No… if I have to, I will. But if I can avoid more killings and the combat style of "The Flaming Baboon," all the better.
Spoke too soon. A head peeks out from one of the offices, followed by an arm holding a gun. Oh, a Colt Anaconda, just like mine. One lunge, a shot, noticeable unlike any other pistol, and my forehead collides with hers. I grab her wrist. Screams, the smell of burning flesh. The office is empty except for this wailing officer in a captain's uniform. I kick her in the knee: a hiss, smoke, a scream, and down she goes. Then I deliver a good, solid kick to her face for good measure. No heat this time. With a right hand like that and a left leg like mine, she's no longer a fighter.
I rip a chunk of metal from the wall, heating it beforehand, roll it into a ball, and cool it down. I pick up her gun. Melting that ball into liquid is quick work, and splashing it in someone's face would be excruciating. If I run into the clawed one, my only options will be to stun her with a gunshot or burn her face with molten metal. Then it's either severing her tendons (she'll regenerate anyway) or taking Stryker hostage. But ideally, I won't have to rely on the latter. Who knows what orders that bitch might give—she'd probably go kamikaze just to finish me off.
The whole complex shook violently. The lights flickered, and the faintly humming alarm blared even louder. Self-destruction protocol? That was one hell of a blast, though it seems the structure's intact. And it came from above. Maybe my people are storming the place? I need to hurry. If it really is them, the colonel might try to escape. If she hasn't already.
Behind me, where Deadpool was, gunfire erupted again. Reinforcements?
Colt in my right hand, metal ball in my left. That's how I proceed, scanning the signs on the doors. I stop by one on my left: "Morgue." If I'm remembering correctly… that's where they cut up corpses. An uneasy feeling stirs in my chest.
I open the door—it's unlocked. Inside, frantic activity. Two women in lab coats bustle around a wheeled table, packing jars and containers. My blood runs cold as I spot a small foot sticking out from under a white sheet. Not an adult's foot… a child's.
"Almost done. Another minute. Stop rushing us and deal with your own problems," one of them says dryly, not even looking my way. The other glances over her shoulder and freezes in shock.
I aim the monster of a gun in my right hand at her and step closer. On the table lies a little girl covered up to her neck. Red hair, lifeless eyes. It's the same mischievous rascal who always reminded me of my Gigi. She was the one who used to tease me and Kristi. Her mutation was completely harmless: incredible flexibility. Among the kids, she held the title of hide-and-seek champion. A cheerful, funny girl. Now she's dead.
I toss the gun and the metal ball aside. The woman who spoke turns and stares at me in surprise. I grab her face and unleash the heat. Not too much, just enough to sear her skin to a crisp. Her choking sounds are music to my ears. I move to the second woman and strike her chest with my palm. She collapses, lifeless, her chest cavity charred and torn open. The smell of burning flesh and guts fills the air again. When will I finally get used to it, like they always write in books?
I look at the girl, then cover her face with the sheet. I barely knew her; we only talked three times during my entire stay at the school. But she was a CHILD, you monsters!!! I'll burn you all to ashes. Where are you, Colonel Stryker? Where's your cowardly ass? Sweet Toby's coming for you, bitch.