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Project Prometheus (Original Setting Superhero Quest)

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Bitterman said:
There wouldn't be updates for nearly a month if I did that. I've got a cutoff section in my outline right now. I'm gonna hit that point and then upload part one in the next day or two. Then I'll either finish it up in one more big part, or release it in two more parts.

I know it's a long time for a Fill-in Issue, but this stuff is important and I want to do it right.
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And we appreciate it a lot, Bitterman. We really do.
 
In terms of support types I think we may still want a group teleporter if Yara's phasewalking ends up manifesting as dreamwalking limited to herself. Both Faustian and Eidolon saw foes catching us off guard with teleportation, so turnabout is only fair.

The main idea is Memoria + whatever, though with a recent resurgence in Féth builds I think Féth is an ideal combo piece here for the general idea of providing cover to allies in a radius and helping them either get into the fray or escape. The trouble is that Féth + Memoria is costly and tips toward turning teleportation into phasewalking again, but if the build's intent is explicitly for a teleporter then the synergy will probably comply with that wish.
 
Suleverf said:
The main idea is Memoria + whatever, though with a recent resurgence in Féth builds I think Féth is an ideal combo piece here for the general idea of providing cover to allies in a radius and helping them either get into the fray or escape.
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Honestly, the only primary teleporter builds at this point I'd consider generally worth it would either be with Bullet Proof off of Memoria functionally making video feeds to work with or a Xtreme Red Huntress build so it could make a phasewalking Autobiokinesis combat teleporter build to ideally be nigh impossible to put down due to mid fight healing. Both would have other capabilities but would reasonably be able to pull off some level of helping allies get into fights or be pulled out of them.

Teleportation is justifiably high costed but it also means it tends to need to be on fairly high potency builds to not just be very one note, where I do think we want powers that are very good at one thing but can still have proper versatility as necessary, y'know?
 
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Theoretically I think you could use Memoria + Wind Rose, with the constructs as a sort of scrying focus that can be distributed and then teleported between, similarly to the Bullet Proof build LucidProp posted earlier but with more of a focus on the Clairvoyance aspect. Maybe add Hunch to up the information gathering ability even further for basically spy drones you can teleport to.
 
You know, I wonder what language the cast is actually speaking. Horizon seems to be a huge melting pot with a large slice of its population coming from Brazil, so I imagine it's a dialect of Brazillian Portugese with lots of loanwords mixed in.
 
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Fill-In Issue #4: Flight of the Bumblebee pt. 1
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    • [X] Flight of the Bumblebee (Apiary, Scarlet Maturity, The Defiance Unit)

    [X] . . . a great sea serpent, larger than you dare imagine. It moves with slow grace, its power undeniable, irresistible

    [X] . . . a school of colorful fish, in all shapes and sizes. Darting an elusive, part of a whole yet individual

    Body horror, suicidal ideations, unethical medical experimentation

    Horizon, City of Leviathan's Rest—The Apiary—February 3, 2068

    You are Ellie Han. At night, you dream . . .

    You wake up in your bedroom, but it's also not. The walls are darker than you remember, the shadows longer. They move and dance in the corners of your vision, like something is hiding just out of reach. It would be unnerving except for two things.

    One, you're wearing the EXCEED-BEYOND. Your head is exposed, but the rest of you is encased in the armor you keep next to your soul.

    Two, there's a golden child sitting on your chest and tracing the outline of the rose that you've taken as your personal emblem.

    You could easily move and throw the creature off, but . . . well, what's the harm? You owe the thing anyway, after it saved you when you received your armor. So you just lie there and let it do what it wants.

    You're feeling languid and lazily glance at the ARRs you left on your nightstand; you had fallen asleep looking through them after the party. But as you do, you realize something:

    You can't read.

    ". . . am I asleep?" you ask the golden child. It would make sense, given how out of it you're feeling.

    The child nods.

    "I see," you hum. You lie there for a second and ask, "Did you want to talk to me about something?"

    The child nods its head and points at your chest. It tilts its head to the side.

    "My emblem?" you deduce. The child nods. "I chose it after I met Nora. Roses . . . that symbol meant a lot to her, didn't they?"

    The child nods its head again, sadly. It hops off your chest and plops itself on to the bed. You pull yourself up and sit next to it.

    "Do you know why?" you ask. You had your guesses, but would the Apiary actually know?

    Judging by the eager nodding you get in response, it does.

    "Can you tell me?"

    It nods, but then holds up a finger. It looks at a door in your room that's never been there before, apparently waiting for something. You watch the door too and wait with the Apiary.

    After a second, you hear a flush. Then Mona walks out wearing nothing but an oversized t-shirt with a picture of Nora in her armor and pink, fluffy slippers shaped like rabbits. She's rubbing her eyes like a child and you feel such a rush of fondness and embarrassment that you have to look away.

    You're bright red and your lips are twitching. You bit the inside of your cheek to get yourself under control and look back up. Thankfully, Mona is still half-asleep and seemingly doesn't notice you or the Apiary. She walks to the other side of your bed, climbs in, and pulls the sheets over her head.

    ". . . smells good . . ." she mumbles. The Apiary slaps its forehead and seemingly sighs.

    You sigh too, but you can't help the small smile that spreads on your lips again. You lean over and gently shake Mona.

    "Mona, wake up."

    ". . . 'ive more minutes," she whines, "Don't wanna go to school . . ."

    "Mona, wake up. You're not in your bed and this isn't reality. I'm not even sure how you're sleeping right now."

    ". . . huh?" She sees your face and bolts up. "E-e-ellie?! What are you doing in my bed?! A-am I have the dream again?!"

    "No . . ." you say, feeling a little put off by her reaction. She has nightmares about you? "The Apiary brought us here. I think it wants to tell us something?"

    The Apiary nods in confirmation.

    "Oh!" she says. Then she narrows her eyes at the Apiary, "Wait, you! Update my pass! Full-member! I'm a full-member of Justice Unlimited, poohead!"

    The Apiary crosses its arms and looks away. You swear that, if it had a tongue, it'd be sticking it out at her.

    You reach out and touch Mona's arm. She flinches away from you, an unreadable expression on her face. You freeze in place and try to hide your hurt feelings.

    "S-sorry," she says, not looking at you.

    ". . . it's fine," you lie, you swallow and look away.

    The sudden tension is unbearable and neither of you say anything. You don't know what to say. What was that?

    The silence is broken by the sound of the golden child banging its head against a wall.

    ". . . what?!" Mona demands, offended, "Mind your own business! You're a building!"

    The golden child flips her off. Mona gasps.

    "I'm telling Lady Leizi once we save her!"

    The golden child flips her off with both hands.

    "D-double bird . . .?!"

    ". . . please just say what you brought us here to tell us," you sigh, "Or let me go back to sleep. There's . . . so, so much to do tomorrow."

    The golden child rubs the back of its head and crosses its hands over its heart in apology. It runs over the corner of the room and opens a closet that isn't there in reality. It goes into the closet and pulls out a retro-style, tube television as large as it is. It drags the television into the middle of the room and sits down in front of it. It pats the spots on the floor next to it and beckons you over.

    You oblige and sit down next to it. Mona flies over, excited, munching on a bowl of popcorn she got from . . . somewhere. The Apiary looks down its non-existent nose at her, pulls out a remote control from . . . also somewhere, and turns the TV on.

    A countdown starts and, when it ends, you're somewhere else.

    You're someone else.

    * * *​

    Horizon, City of Leviathan's Rest—The Bainbridge Home for Youth—April 16, 2051

    It's past midnight—and well-past lights out—when Mother Superior Roberta finds herself wandering the halls of The Bainbridge Home for Youth. Bainbridge is an orphanage operated by the Sisters of the Lady of Love Everlasting Convent, which cares for children of all ages and walks of life. For the most part, they were loving, obedient children. But the more . . . unruly of Roberta's wards often liked to sneak out of bed and get into mischief when they thought the Sisters weren't watching.

    So Roberta likes to do one final patrol before bed. Just to keep them on their toes.

    She pokes her head into each dormitory and counts each child as she walks by. Let's see . . . Ana is sleeping peacefully after all of those awful nightmares she was having. Luis is snoring—he'll be eighteen soon and have to leave; she'll need to find him work before then. Thomas has stopped wetting the bed, finally, Simone and Davi are as inseparable as always, and Rosemary . . .

    Roberts sighs. Rosemary is out of bed after curfew again.

    The nun could just strangle that girl—Rosemary was sweet as sugar, but truly a willful child. If Roberta had a nickel for everytime she's found Rosemary passed out in her wheelchair after staying up all night reading or playing one of her video games, she'd never need to worry about the orphanage's budget again.

    Roberta shakes her head in annoyance and starts out the door, when her sleeve catches on something.

    The handle of Rosemary's wheelchair.

    Roberta freezes.

    That . . . doesn't make sense. Rosemary had been abandoned on the convent's doorstep as a baby. But she had been left out late at night during one of the rare cold-snaps in Horizon. She had nearly frozen to death then and there, but God had been watching and sent Roberta out for a late-night walk to find her. The experience had left Rosemary frail, sickly, and without the use of her legs.

    But, here she was, out of bed without her wheelchair.

    Roberta is trying to control the uneasy feeling in her chest, when she hears a high-pitch keening from down the hall. With speed to put Lightstep to shame, Roberta dashes toward the sound, only to stop in place when she sees droplets of something red and tacky in the hallway.

    Blood.

    Roberta forgets to breathe as she follows the trail of blood down the hallway and into the bathroom. As she gets closer, the wailing grows louder. Almost as loud as the sound of Roberta's heartbeat in her ears.

    At last she turns the corner, grabs the doorknob, and opens the bathroom door.

    "M-mother Superior?" Rosemary says weakly from the ground, "M-my legs hurt . . ."

    Rosemary is on the bathroom floor, eyes delirious with fever. Her brown curls are disheveled, falling over her eyes. The blood is hers; her clothes are dyed crimson, there's so much. And her legs—

    Roberta's eyes widen in horror. Her lips automatically begin to move in prayer.

    "O-our Father, who art in heaven, h-hallowed be thy Name . . ."

    * * *​

    Horizon, City of Leviathan's Rest—The Bainbridge Home for Youth—April 24, 2051

    You are Rosemary Ward.

    It's been over a week since . . . it started, and you still haven't left bed. Your body is weak and feverish, and you ache all over.

    Buuuuut . . .

    The Sisters moved you to your own room for "your privacy." You're pretty sure this used to be Sister Tina's room; you think she's sharing with Sister Carmen now? Anyway, you've never had your own room before and it's kinda great? You can stay up reading all night without bothering anyone and you even have your own TV. Sure, the game consoles are all downstairs, but you've beaten everything the orphanage owns a dozen times over.

    So, your body constantly hurts and you're terrified, but it's not all bad! And you can walk now. Kinda. Not without bleeding, but . . . okay, you still can't really walk. Yet.

    You are eating a bowl of thin broth and trying to keep it down, when you hear footsteps down the hall. One set is light and sounds like the Mother Superior. The other you don't recognize; they're so big and heavy they shake the floorboards.

    ". . . you for coming." You hear the Mother Superior say as she approaches. They're coming to your room! Her voice gets clearer as she gets closer. "We . . . well, we don't know what to make of it. If there's anything we can do for you . . ."

    "Think nothing of it," a sibilant voice says," I jussst hope I can help in sssome way. I would hate to have wasssted your time. But when I overheard you desssscribing her ssssymptoms—"

    "Now stop it, Christian! It's been some time, but this used to be your home too. You're always welcome, especially if you can help our Rosemary."

    You perk up, interested. Someone who used to live here? And they can help you? And what's with their voice? You're practically vibrating from interest as you hear them stop outside your door.

    The Mother Superior knocks on your door and primly calls, "Rosemary, are you decent?"

    "Y-yes!" you squeak, spilling hot soup all over your lap, "Ow! Ow! Ouch! Hot!"

    The door flies open as you yank the blankets now soaked with scalding liquid off your lap.

    "Rosemary! Are you alright—?!"

    "F-fine, " you stutter as you desperately look for something to cover up with. You lean forward and drape your arms over your legs.

    "What are you doing, you silly girl—oh, Lord in Heaven."

    "Ah," the person with her says calmly, "Yesss, I sssee I was right to come."

    You look up and freeze as the man walks into the room. He's seven feet tall with green, scaly skin. His body is shaped like a man's, though he is slightly hunched over with wickedly sharp claws on each hand. But his face . . . it's elongated, ending in a v-shaped snout. His eyes are a vivid green with a slit-pupil and two sets of eyelids. Instead of hair, he has long spines that run down his neck and back. He gives a slight grin, showing off two rows of teeth the size of your fingers, before he realizes that might intimidate you and snaps his mouth shut.

    You gaze at him, jaw open.

    ". . . coooooooooool," you whisper, reverently.

    "D-don't be afraid, I'm—oh. Um, thank you!" he smiles, once again showing off his teeth. They're like daggers!

    "My name is Christian Sssoler, though you might know me better as the hero, Daggermaw."

    "Coooooool."

    "Uh, yesss. I'm an independent hero, thought ssssometimesss I work with New Dawn—"

    "Coooooool."

    "—thank you—but I also grew up here at the Bainbridge home—"

    "Coooooool!"

    "—and I wasss at the hospital today when I overheard the Mother Sssuperior describing what was happening to you to a doctor.

    "Coooo—wait, hospital? Are you okay?"

    "Oh, yes!" he says, caught off guard, "I'm fine. More than fine, actually. My wife is pregnant—"

    "Congratulations!" you say grinning.

    He laughs and smiles back. "Well, I see your energy is ssstill good! That's a good sssign for what you're going through."

    He glances at your legs meaningfully. The Mother Superior still isn't looking at them. You pull your knees into your chest and look down.

    "S-sorry," you say, "I know it's disgusting . . ."

    He walks over and pats the bed next to you. "Do you mind if I sit down?"

    You nod at him.

    He takes a seat, causing you to bounce as the bed squeaks under his weight. He gives you an understanding look before speaking.

    "Rosssemary, right?"

    You nod again.

    "Rosssemary, do you know what a 'dysmorphic' metahuman is?"

    You tilt your head. "Ummm, people whose powers make them look different? Like you or Marrow Spider or someone?"

    He makes a face at the mention of Marrow Spider, but bobs his head in agreement. "That'sss correct. Technically, there are many metahumans with altered appearances due to their powersss. Novalight, for example, literally glowsss. However . . . there is a class of metahumans whossse physical changesss are more . . . extreme. The technical definition of dysmorphic is a 'metahuman who manifestsss non-human characteristics as a result of their power'."

    He points to himself.

    "I am reptilian in nature. Sssewer Rat resembles a rodent. The villain Hotssstep has fire in place of hair, and . . . well, I believe you are a dysmorphic metahuman."

    "I-I am?"

    He nods. "I didn't alwaysss look like this, you know. I was a typical teenager until I wasss fourteen. How old are you now?"

    ". . . fifteen."

    "I sssee," Daggermaw says, "Then, yesss, this is when it would manifest. I believe it's the explanation for, well, what'sss happening . . ."

    As he says that, you press your head against your thighs before jerking back. You . . . don't want to look at them. But Daggerman sees and places a scaly hand on your shoulder. He gives you a sympathetic look, and so you take a deep breath and look down.

    Your legs had been totally without feeling for as long as you can remember, so it's still surreal to think of them at all, really. But now that you can, you really wish you still didn't have to.

    The skin on your thighs is swollen, red, and angry. In places, it has burst like an overripe fruit. And, under the skin? Jagged spurs of a cool, greyish material that is hard to the touch. Your legs are in three segments now; the toes on your feet have elongated, as has your ankle. And everywhere, your skin flakes off like wet newspaper, revealing more grey underneath.

    Daggermaw looks at it with academic interest. "Hmm, digitigrade legsss, if I'm not mistaken. I'm sorry Rosssemary, may I try giving them a touch?"

    "Uhh, sure?" you say, uneasy.

    "On your anklesss, of course! Nothing untoward."

    You lift a leg—you lifting a leg—and extend it towards him. He touches some of the grey parts, the feeling muted for you. After a second, he nods to himself.

    ". . . chitin," he murmurs, "Well, I'm almost cccertain you're a dysmorphic metahuman now, Rosssemary. I believe your transformation will be insectoid in nature."

    ". . . oh man," you say disappointed, "I was kinda hoping I'd be a dragon."

    He laughs at that. "Think how I felt! Ssso close, yet ssso far . . ."

    He turns to the Mother Superior. "Her transssformation will likely continue over the next few yearsss. My guess is that it's been happening under the sssurface for some time, and Rosssemary just noticed now as ssshe'sss regained the feelings in her legsss."

    "But, what can we do for her?" the Mother Superior asks, lost.

    "Do?" Daggermaw repeats, 'There's not really much to do. Her transformation will be gradual, happening in fitsss and startsss. Hopefully the end result will not be as extreme as myself, but there's no way to tell. The mossst that can be done for Rosssemary is to provide her compassssion and sssupport."

    He says those last two words with emphasis. The Mother Superior flinches.

    ". . . things will be different this time. I promise," she tells Daggermaw. He stares at her before sighing.

    "I hope so, Mother Sssuperior, I hope ssso. Now, I have contactsss at DMU—Dysmorphic Metahumansss United—they might be able to provide further resourcesss . . ."

    Daggermaw and the Mother Superior keep talking, but you kind of space out. 'Dysmorphic metahuman', huh? Does this mean you'll get powers too? That'd be pretty cool . . .

    You knock on the chitin on your leg, and barely feel it. Well, it's, uh, gross, to be totally honest. But, hey, you'll be able to walk eventually? That's gonna be great!

    Yeah! This might be okay!

    You just hope it stops here. You think about what Daggermaw said—your transformation might not be as extreme as his—and you hope he's right. You hope you stop transforming here.

    But you don't.

    Over the next two months, your body keeps changing. The chitin spreads to your chest and arms, and then covers your head. You grow a shaggy, blue fur over your shoulders, waist, and private areas that's a pain to clean. Your toes fuse until there's only two of them, curved on a horned foot. The same thing happens to your arms, leaving you with only a thumb and two fingers on each hand.

    Thankfully you can still hold a controller, but, now, no one will play with you. The other kids are terrified, calling you a "monster" and a "freak". The Sisters punish anyone they hear making fun of you, but you can hear them talking when they don't think you're listening.

    "Mother Superior, why must we continue to care for that thing," you hear Sister Helen hiss outside your door one night, "We run an orphanage, not a zoo!"

    Your heart sinks and tears well in your eyes, until the sound of a hand striking flesh makes you jump.

    "Rosemary. That 'thing' is our Rosemary!."

    "Y-you struck me—!" Sister Helen says in shock, "Y-you—"

    "—will do it again if I ever hear you speaking of one of our children like that again. I remember when you were just a girl, Helen Boyle! You're not too old for me to still bend over my knee!"

    "I-I'm sorry! F-forgive me . . ."

    "Forgiveness is up to God. Pray on this, and ask for His forgiveness. Now, go."

    You hear Sister Helen flee as you try to muffle your sobs. There's a gentle knocking on the door as the Mother Superior comes into your room.

    "M-mother Superior," you say, trying to smile, "H-how can I help you?"

    She walks over and pulls you into a bone-crushing hug.

    "Quiet, Rosemary Ward. I know you heard every word. And I know how hard it's been for you."

    You hiccup and gasp and return the hug.

    "I-I just want it stoooooooooop!" you wail, "They're right! I'm a freak! I'm ugly! I'm . . . I'm turning into a giant bug and it hurts!"

    "I know, child. I know. I-I want it to stop too," the Mother Superior says, her voice warbling, "I pray every night the Lord will deliver you. Would you pray with me to our Mother of God now?"

    "O-okay," you choke out.

    And together you recite, "Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee . . ."

    You start praying every night too. Praying that the next change to your body will be the last one.

    But it never is.

    Your curly, brown hair falls out and you grow two bumps on top of your head that swell and swell until, one night, you wake with a nightmarish headache and realize you can see 360 degrees around your body. The bumps were extra eyes. Compound eyes, like a fly. Your eyes turn blood red with no distinction between the pupil and sclera. You can still see out of them, but they're painfully sensitive to light.

    After another month, Daggermaw comes back. When he sees you, his eyes go wide in horror.

    "Leviathan'sss Blood," he breathes, "It's too fassst. It's only been three months. No one ssshould change this quickly."

    "H-hi, Mr. Soler . . ." you say weakly. You're in too much pain to even lift your head. "H-how's your wife and the baby?"

    "T-they fine," he says, blinking, "Rosssemary, how are you? I've never seen a transssformation happen this quickly."

    "I-it hurts . . ." you admit, tears forming in your human eyes, "C-can you help me?"

    "I'll try. I'll try. I'll make some callsss . . ."

    But despite Daggermaw doing his best, nothing comes of it. DMU tells you that they are completely tapped for resources, New Dawn is apparently unwilling to help, and any doctor you try to see either costs too much or outright refuses you as a patient.

    All the while, you kept changing.

    You grow taller. You hit six feet, then seven, then eight, your body stretching like your on a torture rack. The pain is agonizing as you feel your bones crack and reshape every night until you can no longer fit in bed.

    You feel like you're going to die.

    "We can't care for her!" you hear Sister Helen say one night.

    ". . . maybe not," the Mother Superior agrees, "But no one else will. So we must."

    That night, you lie on the floor, praying to God with all of your heart for it to end.

    But it's not God who answers.

    A few weeks later, Daggermaw comes back with another man. But he's not his usual, friendly self. He looks uncomfortable, almost guilty, as he introduces you and the Mother Superior to the impossibly thin man in a pinstripe suit.

    "Rosemary, Mother Sssuperior," Daggermaw says, "This is Chrissstopher Massson. He . . . might be able to help."

    "Charmed," Mason says. His eyes are dull and empty, like doll's eyes, but they come to life when he sees you.

    "My. My, my, my . . ." he says, bending down to look at you on the floor, "What do we have here? Fascinating."

    Daggermaw grimaces, but says nothing. The Mother Superior steps forward, hand on her hips.

    "Excuse me," she says sharply, "But how did you say you could help again, Mr. Mason?"

    But he doesn't respond to her. "My, what a wonderful change you've undergone, Ms. Ward. How does it feel?"

    ". . . it kinda sucks," you say shakily.

    "Ah," he replies, "Yes, it must be painful. But evolution often is. I know it may not seem it now, but you are fortunate. You have been spared a mundane existence and been given the chance for something . . . extraordinary."

    He smiles with thin lips and stands up. "I envy you, Ms. Ward, believe it or not. Not everyone is given an opportunity in life. And this opportunity is the dearest thing a person can be awarded: the ability to truly choose. You alone may choose if your transformation is a blessing or a curse."

    "W-who are you?" you ask.

    "How rude of me. Mr. Soler gave you my name, but not my title. I am Christopher Mason, head of Research and Development at Dominion Security Concerns. And I would like to extend an offer to you, Ms. Ward."

    "What kind of offer?" the Mother Superior says, eyes hard as steel.

    "The kind she needs," Mason says, unintimidated, "Dominion has long sought to property study the phenomenon behind dysmorphic metahumans. It's part of the reason we provide generous donations to DMU, which where I first learned of your situation."

    Daggermaw reluctantly nods in confirmation.

    "Ms. Ward," Mason says, "I would like you to accompany me back to The Logos, the headquarters of Dominion's metahuman team and our primary metahuman research facility. In exchange for allowing us to study your transformation and agreeing to participate in testing, we will be more than happy to provide you room, board, and medical care at no expense."

    "And she's to remain in your custody indefinitely then?!" the Mother Superior demands, "She's to be a lab rat for the rest of her life?!"

    "Not at all," Mason says. He holds up three fingers. "Three years. Three years is all I ask. And when Rosemary turns eighteen, she will be a legal adult and free to do as she chooses. I'll put it in writing, if it would make you more comfortable."

    "Yes," the Mother Superior growls.

    "Very well. Rest assured, I adhere very closely to my contracts," Mason says. He turns back to you, "So what say you, Ms. Ward? There will be several stringent NDAs, so if you have goodbyes, best get them out of the way now."

    You look at his almost eager expression. You see the Mother Superior trying to hide her exhaustion, her fear. You see Daggermaw's shame and resignation.

    "O-okay," you tell Mason, "I'll do it."

    But, as he smiles at you, you can't help but feel like you've made a deal with the devil.

    * * *​

    Horizon, City of Leviathan's Rest—The Logos—August 7, 2051

    Your new life begins right away. The next day, Dominion sends a fleet of vehicles to transport you across the city, including one that has been modified to fit your new proportions. The other kids are wide-eyed as you drive off, but none of them come out to greet you. Only the Mother Superior and Sister Carmen so much as say goodbye, and only the Mother Superior hugs you.

    You climb into the car, shut the door, and are whisked away to your new home.

    The Logos.

    It's a white marble building, stark in its simplicity. It's a block of white stone, hewn from the earth and towering into the heavens, thrown up in the middle of the North Docks. You're taken to a back entrance where you're escorted into the building, which is also completely white with blinding lights everywhere.

    The intake process lasts for hours, most of it involving signing reams and reams of contracts that cover everything from what testing will be performed on you, how regularly, when you can and cannot leave the premises, and a non-disclosure agreement forbidding you from sharing anything you learn with anyone . . . for 99 years.

    You try to carefully read over everything like the Mother Superior told you to, but it's mind-numbing. After three hours, you're just signing what's in front of you so you can go lay down. But, even after you finish, you cannot rest.

    They take every measurement they can think of—your height, weight, the circumference of your head, they test the vision in all of your eyes, they make you jog in place, they draw blood, snip your fur, scrape off samples of your chitin, and a dozen other examinations that all blend together.

    After another few hours you're finally, finally allowed to go crash in a sterile room with a bed big enough for you. You're so exhausted, you're asleep the second your head hits the pillow.

    Then, the next morning, they do it all over again.

    And the next day.

    And the next day. And the next day.

    Life at The Logos falls into a predictable rhythm. You wake up at the same time everyday to the same white walls. A parade of never-ending scientists come into your room and have you perform all kinds of seemingly-random tasks until it's time for lunch. You never learn any of their names; they all wear masks and are careful to never speak to you more than absolutely necessary. Mason—during one of the rare occasions he's both present and you notice him—tells you it's to "preserve the integrity of the experiments".

    Whatever that means.

    The upshot is that you're usually free to do whatever you want in the afternoons and evenings, so long as you stay on base. Which is fine with you? You have nowhere to go anyway. Plus, they're more than happy to give you all the books and games you ask for, and even your own computer! You have to sign another lengthy NDA to be allowed to go online, but, once you do, you're free to browse the internet to your heart's content!

    . . . Sister Carmen was right. It is mostly pornography. Sadly, the condition of your body leaves you with little interest in that sort of thing. But it's cool to see?

    Of more interest is streaming. Hundreds of people, just playing video games online and chatting. Like they're just hanging out or something. Some of them don't even show their real faces—they have virtual avatars that move with them and they play little characters. It's fun! You find yourself with one on at all times; the noise is soothing and makes you feel less lonely.

    Which is good because your body keeps changing.

    You wake up from a vivid dream of all your flesh peeling off to realize you can't close your mouth. It's like your lips don't fit together any more. You carefully stick a finger in your mouth and feel around, only to learn that, yep, your face has been split into four, uneven quadrants. You can move each independently, and pull them sideways. You don't have a mouth anymore—you have mandibles.

    The scientists find you on the floor, sobbing the next morning. As far as you can tell, they're delighted.

    As disgusting as it is, it has no effect on your appetite. In fact, you're hungrier than ever. You are constantly starving, and at night you wake up with an empty pit in your stomach. They begin to restrict your diet to see how it affects your growth, but there doesn't seem to be any relation. It doesn't matter what you eat; you're still changing. And if you don't get enough food, all that happens is that you faint.

    It's during one of those dizzy spells that you meet your first real friend here.

    Three scientists take you outside your usual testing area to a large gymnasium bigger than the Bainbridge home was. They have you stand on a metal platform with several dozen metal bars overhead connected to a hydraulic press. They then have you lift increasingly large amounts of weight. It's around when the weight is a literal ton when your arms and legs start shaking.

    "E-excuse me!" you say. A female scientist looks up in surprise. You're normally as silent as they are during testing. "I-I can't lift this. I think I'm gonna pass out!"

    The woman doesn't respond so you repeat your complaint to the other two.

    "H-help! Turn it off!"

    "Continue testing," one with grey hair says, "Your vital signs are within acceptable tolerances."

    "But it hurts!" you shout, your muscles protesting, "I-I-I c-can't—"

    "Continue—"

    "Continue my ass!" you snap back. Then you realize what you said. "Sorry! I just really, really need a snack or something."

    Your arms are visibly trembling and you can't breathe. Your vision is spinning and darkness is creeping in at the corners of your eyes. The

    "Continue test—"

    "Levithan's Blood, shut up," a voice booms, "And turn that infernal machine off. I can't listen to this whining anymore."

    You can't see who's speaking, but their voice is like a physical presence. One scientist quivers, while the senior-most turns to address whoever it is.

    "We are carrying out testing of—"

    "I don't care. You're ruining my training time, is what you're doing."

    The figure walks into your view and you gasp. It is an impossibly muscular man, slightly taller than you at around ten feet, with bulging muscles, red veins in his body, and red spikes of some material breaking through his slate-grey skin. His head would look too small on his frame if it wasn't for the two, prominent horns jutting out of his skull. He takes one look at you and recoils.

    ". . . the dysmorphic metahumans we're seeing are just growing more and more extreme, aren't they? Fascinating." He walks over and, with a single finger, lifts the press. You fall to your knees, gasping for air. "Tell me, what powers do you have aside from your changed appearance?"

    "T-thanks . . ." you say, "And, uh, nothing? I get other powers?"

    "Huh. So you're not even finished yet. I see. No wonder Faust has you marked for 'Fish."

    "Leviathan's Blood, don't say that," you say, panting as your rise, "I can't handle changing anymore. I-I just want it to stop."

    You notice his appearance as you stand up, and a question strikes you.

    "D-did it hurt for you?"

    "What are you blathering about?" he says, confused, "Did what hurt?"

    "When your body changed?" you ask, pointing at him, "Did it hurt for you too?"

    He's silent for a long time, and doesn't look at you.

    ". . . yes. It did."

    "S-sorry," you say, feeling bad, "I'm just . . . a little desperate here. I was hoping you had advice. Do you know Daggermaw?"

    "The lizard? I know of him, yes."

    . . . well, that seemed rude. But this is the longest conversation you've had in months, so you'll let it go.

    "Well, he said there's a point where I'll stop changing. I just don't know when it is."

    The man rolls an arm and scrunches his brown. "Hmm. A fair question. And an actually useful point of research."

    He says that last bit at the scientists, who have been too intimidated to interrupt.

    "If I had to guess, it won't be until your other powers manifest," he says, "Dysmorphic metahumans are not limited to the natural advantages of their altered forms. They gain powers like any other metahuman as well. Daggermaw can sense bioelectricity from his snout, for example."

    "Oh. So I will get other powers!"

    "Yes. Likely related to however your appearance changes."

    ". . . so I'm gonna keep changing until my other power shows up. Yaaaaaaay."

    "Be grateful you have any at all, unlike those simpering fools other there," he says, sneering again at the scientists, "I've grown weary of them and their 'leader'. Children hiding in their mother's skirts, all of them."

    At that, the nicest person you've met here—and isn't that sad?—turns to go. You leap after him.

    "Wait, don't go!" you shout. He turns around.

    "What is it now?!" he demands, "I was in the middle of something!"

    "Oh, beans, sorry! What was it?"

    "What?"

    "What were you in the middle of that I'm interrupting?"

    ". . . training."

    "Oh. Can I join in?"

    "What?"

    You look at the scientists behind. "Please? I need a break from . . . everything. I'll just watch if you like."

    ". . . no. It's, uh, private."

    "Actually, wait. I don't see any equipment out? What were you doing—?"

    "I'm leaving now."

    "Wait! Don't go!"

    "What now?" he roars. But he didn't actually move any further away from you. And currently isn't. In fact, he looks kind of interested.

    Maybe . . . maybe he's not that busy after all?

    "I'm Rosemary," you say trying to smile, but remembering how freaky your mandibles make it look now, "W-what's your name? We never got introduced."

    ". . . I am Scarlet Maturity."

    "Oh."

    "What?"

    "Nothing! Just . . . not what I expected! Is that a family name?"

    "Family name . . . ? No! I have no family—"

    "Me either!" you gasp, "I grew up at the Bainbridge Home for Youth."

    He stares at you.

    "It's an orphanage!" you explain, "The nuns from the Lady of Love Everlasting Convent run it?"

    He huffs. ". . . I suppose times really have changed. And, no, I am a 'hero'—"

    He says that four letter word like it's a different four-letter word.

    "—'Scarlet Maturity' is what I am known as on Hero for Hire. My name is Christian."

    "Oh, what is it?"

    ". . . Christian."

    "Yeah, I get that it's a Christian name, but what is it? John? Peter? Paul?"

    "It's Christian—You're doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

    "Sorry!" you laugh, "It's just . . . this is the most fun I've had in months!"

    You twiddle your fingers. Suddenly you feel shy as the giant looks down on you and tries to decide if he's offended by your joke or not.

    "Do you . . . umm, like . . . video games?" you finish lamely.

    ". . . video games."

    "Yeah! Like, um, fighting games? I've been playing New Dawn v. Capcom 3 and, uh, it's really fun?"

    "What in the world do I care if—wait. Is that the game where you can play as Fantastic Metal?"

    "Oh yeah, the purple lady?" you say perking up, " Yes! But, umm, only if you have the DLC."

    He blinks at you.

    "Uhh, 'downloadable content'? Extra stuff for the game you have to pay for. You can play as Fantastic Metal and some other old heroes if you pay for them."

    "Well, have you?"

    ". . . yes?"

    "You are a terrible liar and I expect it to be purchased by the time we arrive. Now, where are we playing this blasted thing?"

    "You'll play? Yippie!" you shout, "Okay, uhh, I think you're too big for my room—"

    "You are a child and I do not need to see how the youth live. We will use one of Power's conference rooms. Come to the third floor in half an hour."

    "She can't!" the eldest scientist says, "She still has—"

    "To eat, yes. Fine," he tells you, "Come in an hour."

    He turns back to the scientists and sneers. "Tell Faust I'm borrowing his newest toy. If he has a problem with it, then tell him that he can deal with Heracles himself."

    He grabs your arm and pulls you away.

    "I'll show you the mess hall. Now, tell me more about this 'DLC'. Why is it not just part of the regular game?"

    "Maaaaan," you say, still giddy with excitement, "Don't get me started."

    * * *​

    You wind up gaming with Christian for several hours. Turns out, he is incredibly competitive and an incredibly sore loser. He also refuses to play any team without Fantastic Metal, despite the fact that she's kind of bottom-tier.

    "Then I will master her weaknesses and learn how to play her well!"

    Eventually, he has to go, but your gaming sessions in the Powers lounge become a semi-regular thing. His schedule is weird and he does missions all of the time, but every few weeks he will interrupt your testing and hang out with you for a while. The scientists are all too scared to argue with him, and he is more than happy to let you talk about whatever while he listens.

    So, you tell him about your favorite games, your favorite books, people you know at the orphanage . . . whatever comes to mind.

    Eventually, you get worried he'll stop hanging out with you if you run out of things to say, so you start telling him a little bit about what it was like growing up at Bainbridge. You tell him about how you never met your parents and you wonder what they're like. You tell him how you wonder if you were wanted, and, if not, then why were you born? You tell him how you couldn't walk until your body changed, but now you just wish you were back in your chair.

    You tell him all kinds of personal stuff, stuff you've never been able to share with anyone else before.

    Then, to your surprise, he starts telling you stories about his childhood. What Horizon was like before the Ladder was finished. How he thinks Valiant Red was "exceptionally overrated" and King is "a pencil-necked nerd with dreadlocks". How he was obsessed with metahumans as a youth, and would follow hero teams around for hours just to watch them use their powers.

    Sometimes you don't even game; you just spend the day talking. It's nice. Really, really nice.

    In your private moments, you wonder if this is what having a big brother is like.

    It's a bright spot in an otherwise dark time for you.

    * * *​

    Horizon, City of Leviathan's Rest—The Logos—August 16, 2052

    A year at the Logos comes and goes, and your body continues to change.

    You are hungry all the time now, absolutely ravenous. You eat and eat and eat, but it's never enough. Then, one day, you wake up to find little nodules under your armpits. They are solid lumps of swollen flesh that are soft and tender to the touch.

    Over the next several months, they swell and grow and grow some more, until they are the size of your shoulders. Then they started to grow out, chitin and bone stretching and then layering over with fibrous muscles. The scientists are delighted, documenting everything every step of the way. Meanwhile, you have to constantly hold your arms out while awake and sleep with them above your head; the slightest touch of the growths is agony.

    Your memory starts to grow fuzzy. You ache constantly, and you have a high fever more often than not. The days and weeks blur into a constant haze of misery.

    Then, the protrusions split and become jointed. Then they keep growing until they are the same length as your arms, and then the jagged ends begin to weave themselves into claw-like fingers..

    It is then you realize you are growing a second set of arms.

    In this final period the process is so painful that you often are confined to bed for days, if not weeks. Your fever comes back, higher than ever, and you become delirious.You lose your ability to focus on anything long enough to distract yourself; you can't muster the energy to read, the light from video games or your computer gives you a migraine, and you start missing all of your your hang-outs with Christian.

    The worst, however, is your stomach. You are unendingly nauseous, but your body still craves food to fuel the growth of your new appendages. So, now, you eat until you burst and then regurgitate nearly all of it.

    It is hell, day in and day out, with no end in sight.

    You stop praying to God. Either He was unwilling to help you, or this is what he wants.

    Just as it nearly becomes . . . too much, someone comes to help. Not someone from Powers or one of the scientists, no. It is someone new.

    You are lying in your bed, trying to find the strength to use the bathroom, when the door to your room opens. You turn your head to see who's there, but there is no one in the hall. Then you hear a high-pitched scream and a person is thrown inside with the door slammed shut behind them.

    "OhLeviathan'sBloodI'msosorry!" the person sobs, still face down on the floor, "Am I being punished?! Is this for all the sin?!"

    ". . .uhh, n-no?" you say weakly from bed.

    "Oh, good," the person says, jumping to their feet, "Because I'm not sorry about the sin. Sin rules."

    They stand up and dust themselves off, their hands shaking like leaves. The person is tall and willowy, wearing a white lab coat and red and white mask over their mouth. They itch the back of their head, and you see their brown hair is even curlier than yours used to be. They turn to look at you.

    "Okay, so I got handed a big bag of money and then I was kidnapped. I was told to 'fix her' . . . which I'm guess means you—holy fucking shit!" they exclaim, "Are you okay? Because you seem nega-okay. Anti-okay. 'Okay' in the sense that I was 'okay' when my last partner dumped me for having 'the most disgusting superpower'. Leviathan's Blood, I still miss her—"

    "N-no . . ."

    "No, I definitely still miss her. It's fucked up, I know, missing someone who treated me like shit that long. But they dynamics of abusive relationships are—"

    "N-no," you sob, "I-I'm not okay."

    How long has it been since . . . anyone asked you that question? Not asking you to report on your physical condition or evaluate how you feel after a test, but just asking how you're feeling? Not since you've come to The Logos, you think.

    You cry and sob and shake and shiver until you realize the person is stroking your head. Then you sob harder, a year of pent up pain and terror bubbling to the surface. They're saying something, but you don't know what. Their words are soothing and you find yourself drifting off to sleep.

    When you wake up you realize two things: one, you feel amazing. The aches and pains are gone, your fever has broken, and your stomach is no longer roiling. Second, there is a horrifying grey thing on your chest that's bonded with your exoskeleton.

    "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!" you scream, leaping.

    "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" the person from earlier shouts, jumping out of a chair, "Holy shit, don't do that to me! I forget that other people can talk!"

    "What is this thing? What is this thing?!" you scream, pawing at your chest. The person runs over and grabs your two primary arms.

    "It's worth several million dollars, that's what it is! Do you have any idea how many people would—and have—kill to get one of these? I do! It's why I'm a fucking hermit!"

    "S-sorry," you say trying to calm down, "I-it just scared me. It's, uh, err . . . scary?"

    "You can say it: it's a horrifying freak of nature," they say, "I specialize in them! Name's Alice Lawson, they/them, but you might know me better as Mendicant!"

    ". . . oh! Neat."

    "You have no idea who I am, do you?"

    ". . . I'm sixteen?"

    "Well, that's horrifying!" Alice says, sitting down, "Man, I know superpowers are a lotto, but did it have to be kind where you get stoned to death? Sweet Christmas, kid, I've never seen someone's body change this much. This just isn't your regular, everyday dysmorphism. This is advanced dysmorphism. "

    "Geez . . . thanks," you say, trying to hide your annoyance. They did help you, after all.

    "Sorry, this is why I never finished med school—my bedside manner sucks. That and, y'know, superpowers."

    "It's okay . . ." you say. Your stomach growls and you actually think you could keep down a little food. "And, uh, thank you. For real, I mean."

    "Ohhh, you are too cute!" they say, rubbing the back of your head, "And think nothing of it kid! Like I say, I was kidnapped by an anonymous party who paid my fee and threatened to murder me if I "broke client confidentiality". I literally didn't have a choice!"

    "Oh, sorry."

    "Nah, it's cool. Honestly, the isolation was starting to get to me. I was beginning to take up baking. Baking! Who am I, my mother?"

    "No?"

    "Well, I'm not an alcoholic committing infidelity with everything that has a Y-chromosome and a pulse, so, yes, no!"

    ". . . what?"

    "Talking to people is hard, it's been a while since I did it. Oooooh, is that NDvC3?! You wanna play? I call dibs on Morrigan!"

    "Yeah . . . actually. That sounds great!" Then you freeze and narrow your eyes at her. "Wait. Morrigan?! You're not one of those people who only plays the meta, right?"

    "Pffft, no! I just like staring at her butt!"

    ". . . I got the swimsuit DLC just for that."

    "Hell yeah."

    You play for a few hours with Alice before the door mysteriously opens up again and they run out. But not before you friend each other online so you can keep playing. Alice says they've got your "flavor" now, so they can whip up another symbiote if the pain ever gets to be too much again. But as for the transformation itself . . .

    "Sorry, kid. This is what your body thinks it's supposed to be doing. I have no idea how to stop it."

    Still, it's enough to know that someone cares. Two someone's actually: Alice and whoever hired them. You never find out who your benefactor is, but, as Alice leaves that day, you swear you hear familiar, heavy footsteps stomp down the hall.

    * * *​

    Horizon, City of Leviathan's Rest—The Logos—January 4, 2053

    What ends up being the final stage of your transformation is what nearly breaks you.

    Hot. Bubbling. Sharp. The pain in your spine is all-consuming. You can't walk. You can't stand. You can't even lie down. It's somewhere between your shoulder blades and in your lumbar area as somethings grows.

    But that's not what shatters your resolve. No, it's the hunger.

    Meat, fruit, vegetables, grains, lentils, dairy, starches, fats, sweets it doesn't matter. You need to eat. You can't stop for a second or your stomach will roar and grow and drive you mad with how empty it is. You eat over your body weight in food every day and it's still not enough. It's this instinct, this urge, this impulse that's pressing on your brain and screaming "hungry, hungry, hungry!" over and over again.

    The thing on your back swells and grows, but you can't think about that. You can't think about anything but filling the void inside of you. You eat until you pass out and then you wake up to eat some more. This becomes the whole of your existence. You slip into a fugue; you're distantly aware of the scientists coming and going, but it's like experiencing something in a dream.

    Or a nightmare. One you can't wake from.

    You think it's been several weeks of this, when you hit your next lucid period. The food stops coming and you snap, screaming and destroying everything in your room, trying to find something, anything to eat. You shred your bed to pieces, smash your computer, and destroy the pictures you have of yourself with the Sisters. You claw at the door until your hands bleed, but it's no use. You're starving to death and they won't feed you.

    Finally, when you've totally exhausted yourself, Mason comes to visit.

    "Goodness, goodness," he says as he walks in. He inspects your destroyed room while you lay in the fetal position on the floor. "Seems we've developed a bit of an appetite, have we?"

    You don't answer as your stomach gurgles.

    "I saw the expense report for your . . . caloric intake, but I didn't believe it until I saw you myself," he says, finding an intact piece of your mattress and sitting on it, "Neither could I believe the other report I read."

    He crosses his legs and beholds you with glittering eyes. The corners of his lips twitch upwards, like he can't contain his mirth.

    "Did you know?" he says conversationally, "That you have lost weight over the last six weeks? Even account for your new, ahem, addition."

    He points to your back and you follow his finger. Then, for the first time, you feel them. One is a set of limbs on your back. Another is something on the base of your spine you can make twitch. You scramble to your feet and run to your mirror, but you broke it in your rage. Mason obligingly takes a photo of you with his screen and lets you see it.

    You take one look and start to giggle hysterically. You . . . you guess you don't just look like an insect now.

    On your upper back is a pair of massive beetle-like wings. When you spread them, each is twice your body-length. But what's on your lower back is what scares you. There sticks out an abdomen, like you'd see on a spider or bumblebee. It's enormous; you have no idea how you've never noticed it before. It narrows to a point where there's some kind of tube and spinneret. You laugh again.

    D-do you have two butts now? You fall to your knees and clutch your head with four hands. You see yourself in a shard of mirror, and you can't recognize who's looking back. When did all of this happen to you? What are you? A year ago you were a normal girl and now you're . . . you're this.

    Your laughter turns to sobs. You hate it. You hate it. You hate it, why did God do this to you?! And worse of all: you're still so fucking hungry!

    Mason watches you impassively. You look up at him from your knees, helplessly.

    "Yes, well . . ." he says, straightening his tie, "It's apparent your body has been set into a state of hypermetabolism. There was some hope that it would end when your wings and abdomen finished developing, but it has been three days. That hope appears baseless."

    "S-so, what then?" you ask, "When does this stop?"

    "Why, Ms. Ward, how should I know?" he says dispassionately, "It may be that there will be no end to this. Your transformation is unprecedented, even among dysmorphic metahumans."

    His eyes sparkle again.

    "Perhaps, this is just the beginning."

    "N-no, no, no!" you sob, shaking your head, "I can't take it anymore! I don't want to change anymore! But it won't stop. W-what do I do?!"

    "Well," Mason says, standing up, "There is a more . . . extreme option on the table. However, it's not covered by our current agreement. We would have to reach a new accord . . ."

    "Anything!" you scream. You can feel the hunger clawing at you, eroding your mind, "A-anything, whatever it is!"

    He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a metal canister. He holds it in front of him. "This might be able to stabilize your transformations. However, the cost of using it is . . . great."

    You crawl towards it, but he holds it away from you.

    "Now, let's not be hasty. As I said, a new agreement is needed. A new contract."

    "O-okay. Okay. Please," you beg.

    He stands up and walks to the door. It opens and he beacons you to follow him.

    "Very well. Come right this way then."

    You stand, trembling, and follow him into another room, secure and private. Your new contract is waiting for you. You reach for it, but Mason stops your hand.

    "Ah ah. Some of the information in this agreement is confidential at the highest levels," he tells you, "Before you may even read it, you must sign a new NDA."

    He pulls out yet another document from somewhere and places it in front of you.

    "The conditions of this NDA are somewhat special, I'm afraid," he informs you, "Should you review our new agreement and reject its terms, you will agree to not remember what was contained in it."

    "Not remember?" you repeat, "I don't know if I can just forget something on command . . ."

    "Not to worry," he says with his thin smile, "The contract is self-executing. Now, shall we begin?"

    You swallow and nod. You read the NDA, but it's just what Mason describes. You're to not remember the contents of the new contract if you don't agree to it. It's an odd thing to require, but . . . you're desperate.

    You sign and turn to the second agreement. Mason gives you an approving look. You swallow again and lift the paper to read it.

    H-how bad could it be?

    * * *​

    "No! No! What is this?! What is this?! What is this thing?! Get it away from me! GET IT AWAY! No! NO!"

    * * *​

    You reject the contract and go back to your room, shaking uncontrollably. As you agreed, your memory of its contents dribbles out of your mind like water out of a leaky faucet as soon as you leave.

    You can't remember why, but you know you'd rather die than ever sign it. But the hunger doesn't stop. Your body keeps changing, the chitin growing thicker and studier.

    You break two more times and ask to see the contract before rejecting it again. But it takes you longer and longer to say no each time.

    Your willpower is giving out. You can't go on like this. You're losing yourself. The periods where you're lucid and aware are growing more and more infrequent. It's only a matter of time until you disappear for good or you sign the contract.

    And Mason knows it. You can see it in his eyes every time you crack and ask to read it again.

    But you can't. Something about it scares you more than anything. More than any more changes to your body. More than dying.

    So . . . you stop eating.

    The hunger is still there, a primal want in your blood, but eventually you grow so weak it doesn't matter. You spend your days sleeping. They try to force-feed you, but you fight and claw until they stop. Mason appears to tell you that he "admires your resolve" but tells you that the contract will be waiting.

    And you know it is. A temptation as you rot and starve. As your body starts to eat itself, you wonder why you're suffering like this.

    How bad could it be?

    You wish you could just give in. You wish this wasn't happening to you. You wish . . .

    . . . you wish someone would come save you.

    * * *​

    Horizon, City of Leviathan's Rest—The Logos—January 4, 2053

    The next day Christian comes to visit. You hear your door open and struggle to raise your head as he stomps in.

    "You look pathetic," he says in his blunt way.

    You don't say anything back. You don't have the strength.

    "I'm disappointed in you, Rosemary," he says, "You're just giving up without a fight? Lying there, waiting to die? Pathetic."

    Something inside you snaps.

    "What else am I supposed to do?!" you scream, "I hate this! I hate everything! I wish I was never born! Why was I allowed to live, if I was just going to suffer like this?!"

    You tear at your head and scratch your face open, but you're past the point of caring.

    "How do I make it stop? How do I make it stop without signing that contract? I . . . I can't even remember what's in it! But I know I don't want to sign it!"

    ". . . you don't, if it's what I suspect," Christian agrees, "There are few fates worse than death. That is one of them."

    "Then what do I do?! I can't live like this but . . . b-but . . ."

    Christian crouches down and peers into your soul. "Say it, Rosemary. I want to hear you say it."

    ". . . I want to live!" you sob, "I want to see the sun again! I-I want to make friends! I want . . . I want to be me!"

    Christian closes his eyes. There's a slight smile on his face. "Very well then."

    He reaches a hand through his chest and into his heart. There's a wet squish as he digs around, searching for something. As he does, his body rapidly heals around his hand, forcing him to cut through muscle and flesh everytime he moves. Eventually, he finds what he wants and pulls his hand out.

    There's a spray of blood as he does. In his fist, he clenches a glowing ball of red energy, the size of an apple. It's so dense that it almost looks solid. He holds it out to you.

    "Your body will stop changing once your metahuman ability manifests," he says, no signs of pain in his voice, "So, we will jumpstart it. You and I will reach an accord of our own."

    "W-what?" you say, unable to tear your eyes away.

    "I will loan you the power you need. But one day, the debt will come due. When that time comes, I promise you oblivion. Until then, you will be free to live as you choose."

    You reach a hand out to touch the ball before pulling it away. "T-that's it? No other strings."

    "No other strings," he confirms, "Other than you will tell no one else of this. Especially Faust."

    "Uhhh, who—"

    "Christoper Mason, who else?" he says, rolling his eyes, "Now, do you accept?"

    You eye the power in his hand. He's "loaning" it to you. And, when it comes due . . . you'll . . .

    You don't know. You don't know if this is any better than what Faust—really? Isn't that a little on the nose?—is offering, but it's Christian. You can trust him, right?

    You look him in the eyes. And, when you do, you see a calm determination, a sad resignation, and, most important of all, fear.

    Yeah. Yeah, you can trust him. You nod and take the ball from his hand.

    You swallow it whole.

    * * *​

    Horizon, City of Leviathan's Rest—The Logos—January 15, 2054

    "My, my, my," Mason—Faust—says in his paper-thin voice, "Your power is quite the intriguing one, isn't it, Ms. Ward?"

    "Yeah . . . It's trippy, alright," you say to him. Only, you speak in two voices from two bodies in two different places. You stand in front of Faust, your four arms crossed as you focus. But, at the same time, you stand behind Faust in a smaller, doll-like body that you made with your power. You can see and hear from it as well as if it were your regular body, and you can even move both yourselves at the same time. It's like a part of your brain partitions off to control both without any trouble.

    Like you said: trippy.

    He turns around to inspect your secondary body. "I thought your ability to ingest organic matter and convert it to a uniform material through your abdomen was a unique power. Then, I was amazed by how you could freely shape the material you excreted. But, now, this . . ."

    He touches your secondary body, and you pull away from him instinctively.

    ". . . this is truly something special. The ability to create life? To change matter into material for you to mold? And to be able to face destruction without risking true death? Why, Rosemary, you take after the Looming God, don't you? Are you certain you won't consider my offer?"

    "No," you say firmly, "My contract is up in a few months and then I'm out."

    If your first two years at the Logos were nightmarish, your last one was exhausting. Christian saved your life. After his "gift" your body stopped changing. The hunger dulled. And your power manifested, much to Faust's delight.

    You saw a lot more of him after that. He seemed to find your ability endlessly fascinating, and delighted in making you experiment with it for hours and hours on end. He probably understands what you can do as well as you do.

    He's made an offer to add you to Powers on a permanent basis, but you turn him down every time. You're eighteen now, and you want to try living life on your terms, not anyone else's.

    And at least one person seems to approve. Christian enters the room and sighs upon seeing Faust.

    "Again, Faust?" he rumbles, "Your obsession is growing wearisome. Some might be concerned by the way you hound this child."

    Faust smirks. "You know I have no interest in prurient pursuits. I merely have a client who would be delighted to retain Ms. Ward's services."

    "Well, inform your 'client' that Rosemary has given him the same answer I once did. And the results will be the same if he presses the issue. I might even take offense to such a thing."

    "It's not like you to get attached," Faust says to Christian while eying you, "Are you truly so lonely?"

    Christian grabs you by the arms and pulls you out of the room. "No. Merely interested in the fate of a kindred spirit."

    Christian drags you away, toward your usual lounge to play video games. You hope to keep with his long strides before you remember you can fly and start hovering off the ground.

    "Thanks," you say, "I don't know what's up with lately, but Faust has been extra pushy."

    "You've caught his eye," Christian rumbles, "And you've caught his client's eye. That is not a good thing."

    "His client? Who's that? He's mentioned them before . . ."

    "You're safer not knowing," he says with such a tone of finality, you don't argue, "And when you leave The Logos, you will need to be careful. Faust believes in soft power, but his associates are less gentle. If they covet you, then they will not accept 'no' for an answer."

    You gulp. "So, uh, I can't go back to the orphanage?"

    He raises an eyebrow. "Aren't you eighteen now?"

    "Oh, right. Darnit."

    "The best thing you can do is to disappear for a few months, years if you can. Wait until their attention is drawn elsewhere before you venture out in public again."

    "O-oh." You think about Daggermaw and DMU. Maybe they could help you out . . . ? Or New Dawn? They employ a lot of heroes right? You have a pretty good power . . .

    "What part of 'be careful' was ambiguous, girl?" Christian roars when you give voice to your thoughts, "Faust is watching DMU. That's how he found you in the first place! And New Dawn . . . I cannot say what they would do. They're as likely to treat you as a threat as they are to help you."

    You blink at that. "But they're heroes . . . right?"

    Christian snorts. "There are no such things as 'heroes'. Only those who are honest about their power and those who bind themselves with meaningless rules for fear of it. New Dawn is the worst of both worlds: they seek to impose their rules on others out of terror."

    ". . . I feel like there's a lot of projecting going on there."

    "Then fly yourself to the Zenith and see what happens," Christian says, rolling his eyes.

    You wring your hands with your second set of arms. Come on, New Dawn can't be that bad, right?

    But . . . maybe you won't go there right away. You've been living under someone else's control for the last three years. You kind of want to try living on your own terms for a bit.

    Yeah . . . yeah! You can make your own rules! Do what you want! You can, uh, go camp in the woods for a bit? You can probably steal wifi from somewhere . . .

    You reach the lounge with Christian, humming to yourself as you think. You don't know what your new life will hold, but it will be yours. You can't wait!

    * * *​

    Horizon, City of Leviathan's Rest—Takashi Takeda Memorial Park, The Worker's Mitt—September 8, 2054

    Lonely. As it turns out, your new life is mostly lonely.

    The day your contract ends, Faust comes to give you your severance package and offers to extend your stay again. And Christian comes to escort you away from him again. He walks you out of the front door of The Logos, growling at anyone who gets too close. He repeats his warnings to lay low, and then you're on your own.

    When you first step outside, the sun is blinding. The world is lit with an ethereal glow, and the breeze on your face is fresh and filled with the scents of the outdoors. Tears stream down your face as you stand in the front plaza, just basking in the touch of the sun and wind on your skin.

    Three years. It has been three years since you've been outside. Never again. You will never go this long without stepping foot outside again.

    You don't know how long you stand there, but eventually your stomach starts to growl and you take to the skies in search of food.

    You find a burger joint nearby and promptly freak out the proprietor by ordering your weight in fries and greasy meat. You take the food to go, find a tall building, and then eat until you feel like you're going to be sick. When you're done, you lie back feeling like you're about to burst.

    It's the best meal you've ever had.

    As you lie there, you plan your next steps. Christian was a lot of things, but he didn't believe in wasting words. If he thought Dominion would try to capture you again, you believed him. You need to hide out for a bit until they lose track of you.

    The only problem is . . . you look like a giant blue-grey bumblebee. So, uh, you kind of stick out. If you stay in a hotel or something, you'll be pretty easy to find. Plus . . . you don't have that much money. If you stay in a nice place, or even a not-nice place, you'll run out in a month.

    So you get creative.

    You go to a camping store in the Arabale Band and buy pots and pans, a mini-stove, a flashlight, and a cheap screen with a data plan. The cashier, when she gets used to your appearance, asks if you need a tent, but you assure her it's fine. You pay for it and then fly all the way to the Worker's Mitt. It's a relatively safe borough, but Powers and Dominion don't have much of a presence there. You find a nice big park where you can get lost, and you settle down.

    The first week or so is great!

    Takashi Takeda Memorial Park is big enough that you can find a densely wooded area and set up camp without having to worry too much about being found. You spend that night . . . uhhh, converting some trees and building yourself a little house. You make two small, extra bodies to help with the labor and then split up to start foraging. It's satisfying catching your own food and cooking it yourself—plus, you can eat pretty much anything now so it's super easy!

    But eventually, the novelty wears off. You try to hide during the day and only come out at night; if anyone caught sight of you, then rumors about a "bee-monster" would quickly reach Faust's ears. So you don't see anyone most days. And the thing about living by yourself in the woods is . . . you live by yourself.

    Eventually, you start feeling lonely, so you turn to an old standby: streamers! You fall asleep most nights watching folks like Mrsha and Meimei. It makes you wish you could play games too, but you won't have a set-up for a while.

    It's then that you first hear about them.

    You're mindlessly browsing the web when, suddenly, every major news site switches to a live-feed being broadcast by an anonymous metahuman. Like thousands that day, you clicked it on out of idle interest.

    Little did anyone expect.

    The feed shows a doctor in his office, sitting at his desk. His clothes are of the highest quality—he wears a tailor-made suit underneath his white lab coat. On his wrist is a solid gold watch inlaid with diamonds, and his face has the tell-tale artificial quality of someone taking anti-aging treatments. He lounges back in his chair, chatting on a screen. There's a self-satisfied smirk on his face; he has the world in the palm of his hand and he knows it.

    ". . . just make sure the money hits my account by tomorrow," he says, "Hey! Not my fault if prices have gone up. No, you listen to me. Without me, you'd have zero access to these patient records, none. All those claims you get to deny for preexisting conditions? Out the window! I'm risking my ass making the changes, so you can make it worth my while!"

    He examines his nails, nodding along to the person on the other end of the line.

    "Uh-huh. Yeah. Okay, fine. I'll backdate the diagnosis for before the policy took effect and you can cancel it. Yeah, well, I'm saving you millions in treatment costs! You can float a few more G's my way. Uh-huh. Yep. Alright! I knew you see it my way!"

    The doctor finalizes some other details before hanging up and then lighting a cigar. He seems very pleased with himself.

    You . . . barely followed any of that, but this guy is messing up people's insurance claims? That's terrible! Couldn't that get people killed? Someone should do something!

    Also . . . how is this being broadcast?

    As if to answer your question, a metahuman walks on screen. He pulls the camera back, revealing that the scene of the doctor in his office is being shown through a . . . photograph? The metahuman wears a dark green bodysuit including a full-face mask that covers his head. Over top of that, he has a bright green and gold jacket with the hood pulled up. He clears his throat and speaks.

    "My fellow citizens of Horizon!" he shouts, "My name is Memoria! And what you have just witnessed is but one of the thousand indignities heaped upon you behind closed doors!"

    He gestures to the photograph.

    "Dr. James Laroach has been collaborating with Intellihealth's insurance division for years! When a patient's treatment grows too expensive, he alters the medical records to give Intellihealth a pretext to cancel their health insurance! Thousands have died, fighting for the healthcare they're entitled to!"

    The camera zooms out further and shows he's standing with four other people. One is a tall man dressed like a vampire. Another is a figure dressed head-to-toe in tactical gear. There's a woman in a crimson dress wearing an opera mask, and the last one is a man with no mask at all. He has greasy-blonde hair and wears black pants and a duster with no shirt.

    "Intellihealth does this because their bottom line is more sacred to them than human life! Well, today, we are here to tell them no more! Dr. Laroach does this because he believes no one will care, and, if they do, the most he will receive is a slap on the wrist. For far too long, he has been correct."

    Memoria looks down, his voice suddenly thick.

    "My . . . my sister was one of his victims. She was caught in the crossfire of a battle between Global Justice and the Supplicants. As was everyone in her bar. She . . . she could have survived. But the surgery would have been costly. The odds were low. And, if she had pulled through? The physical therapy alone would have cost millions. She had the coverage . . ."

    He looks back up.

    "Until her records were changed. Until Intellihealth canceled her policy. Until they sacrificed her life on the altar to Mammon!"

    He's shaking, trembling really, but his voice is steady.

    "No more! Someone will hold them responsible! Someone will give a voice to the voiceless!"

    He holds his arms out. The vampire, opera singer, and blonde man pose with him. The soldier doesn't move.

    "We are The Defiance Unit! Those parasites who would prey on the vulnerable, beware!"

    The photograph showing the doctor expands until it fills the room. The Defiance Unit links hands and Memoria pulls them through the picture, into the room. Dr. Laroach sits up, terrified at suddenly being surrounded by five metahumans.

    "Who are you? What are you doing here?! Get out—n-no! Help! Help me—    "

    The soldier pulls out a gun, points, and fires.

    You jerk back and drop your screen from shock.

    They . . . they killed him. Just like that. An execution, live online.

    You pick your screen back up, but the stream's been banned. You don't get much sleep that night.

    * * *​

    Horizon, City of Leviathan's Rest—Takashi Takeda Memorial Park, The Worker's Mitt—September 23, 2054

    You're both amused and annoyed to learn that you've become an urban myth.

    "I'm gonna find him! He's real!" a bedraggled woman shouts, traipsing around your woods, "The Mothman is real and I'm gonna prove it!"

    "Mom, is this why dad left?" a preteen says, following her.

    "No, that was because he had another family," she replies, "Now, come on! You like the woods!"

    ". . . I liked having two parents too."

    "What was that?"

    "Nothing!" the preteen sighs, "It's not your fault . . ."

    You follow them around with an auxiliary body until they leave, and then you realize that's the most human contact you've had in weeks.

    Leviathan's Blood, that's sad. Almost as sad as the fact that you've made a half-dozen more bodies just to fill your house. You, uh, might be going a little nuts.

    You've been raiding the lending library every chance you get, but it's mostly children's books and bad erotica. The honest truth is: you hate being alone.

    So you start getting more daring with your walks, you make smaller drones, you try to watch people as much as possible. Until one day, you find another tent in your woods.

    It's a tiny little thing, not really hardy enough for the elements. It's more of a toy than anything. As you get close, you hear someone sobbing inside of it.

    You . . . you should probably just leave, right? But, it sounds like a child and it's dark out. You can't leave a little kid all alone.

    So you poke your head in and meet the cutest little thing. And then she begs you to take her to her mom and you kind of cave and take to the sky.

    To your surprise, her mom meets you there. She's a metahuman too. You both drop to the ground and you give her daughter. She babbles her thanks and sobs with the little girl. Then, when they calm down, she takes a look at you.

    She does a double take, but then, to your surprise, she hugs you.

    "Thank you," she whispers, "Thank you so much."

    She's soft and warm, comforting like the Mother Superior. Or maybe . . . just like a mother.

    "Please, is there anything I can do to repay you? Anything?"

    You're about to tell her it's okay, but then your stomach rumbles. After that, there's no stopping her from dragging you to her house to feed you.

    You learn her name is Han Yu. She's Heavenly Astrologian. From New Dawn.

    She asks you where you live. You're honest with her.

    "Let me help you, please," she begs. There's no duplicity in her gaze. Whatever Faust is, she's the opposite. You feel safe.

    "O-okay," you tell her, "I . . . I'd like that."

    She tells you to stay the night and promises to take you to the Zenith in the morning. You fall asleep on her couch that night, legs dangling. You try to sleep, but you're too nervous. Or excited?

    Tomorrow, you meet the heroes in Horizon.

    You remember Christian's warning about New Dawn, but honestly. How bad could they be?
     
  • Threadmarks
    • I TOLD YOU IT WAS LONG.

    Oh man, this one hurt to write. Because of the subject matter, because of Rosemary's eventual fate, because this is one of the foundational things in the setting and I need to get it right. It might been a three-parter. We'll see. It's all outlined, so it should be quicker to write.

    In unrelated news, I think I'm going to open a Patreon for this story on February 1st. Contributing to it is not mandatory. You will still have the same voting power, updates will come at the same time, you can still submit candidates and DNA profiles. This is to given me the opportunity to justifying expanding Project Prometheus in ways I've always wanted to.

    $1 will get you access to the Discord. $5 will let you vote on a monthly art commission of a secondary character (as opposed to just being the metahumans of JU for now). I'll throw up the original chapter of Leviathan's Rest I have (it sucks), and, if we can hit a threshold, I'll start doing monthly Elseworld chapters.

    How would Faustian have played out if you were Radiant Silvergirl? What would Kintsugi be like for PC!Nora? What if you were Uiara and Project Prometheus was public? That's the kind of thing I want to explore, but I'm spending all my free time as it is keeping the regular story updating.

    tl;dr: Money, man. Root of all evil.
     
    Man fucking novalight and honestly as sad as ending will be SM ironically save Apiary life and atleast let her have a family in Nugen.

    Edit: Also you can kinda understand his disdain for heroism in that every genuine heroic or kind act he does just kills people he loves in the end.

    Also both Wulong and Han yu definately paid for it but you can understand why they went all im on forming nugen to get Apiary out.l of wonderland.
     
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    Bitterman said:
    A-am I have the dream again?!
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    Bitterman said:
    She has nightmares about you?
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    :V :V :V Hahahahahahahaha god I love these two.

    Bitterman said:
    No wonder Faust has you marked for 'Fish.
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    Hmmm, he's been looking for Fish for a while, huh? Maybe that's a counter argument against it being Uiara, shrug.
    Bitterman said:
    "No! No! What is this?! What is this?! What is this thing?! Get it away from me! GET IT AWAY! No! NO!"
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    ...This is probably Hand, right?
    Bitterman said:
    "Let me help you, please," she begs. There's no duplicity in her gaze. Whatever Faust is, she's the opposite. You feel safe.

    "O-okay," you tell her, "I . . . I'd like that."

    She tells you to stay the night and promises to take you to the Zenith in the morning. You fall asleep on her couch that night, legs dangling. You try to sleep, but you're too nervous. Or excited?

    Tomorrow, you meet the heroes in Horizon.

    You remember Christian's warning about New Dawn, but honestly. How bad could they be?
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    Oh. Oh no. :(
     
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    Bitterman said:
    "No . . ." you say, feeling a little put off by her reaction. She has nightmares about you?
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    She is so dumb. I want to throw up.

    I know I asked for this, but I'm regretting and relishing it in equal measure. Truly a monkey's paw.

    Bitterman said:
    The silence is broken by the sound of the golden child banging its head against a wall.
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    You and me both, Apiary.

    Bitterman said:
    You wind up gaming with Christian for several hours. Turns out, he is incredibly competitive and an incredibly sore loser. He also refuses to play any team without Fantastic Metal, despite the fact that she's kind of bottom-tier.
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    More Scarlet Maturity basedness?!?!

    Bitterman said:
    In your private moments, you wonder if this is what having a big brother is like.
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    :cry::cry::cry::cry::cry::cry::cry::cry::cry::cry:

    Bitterman said:
    "And think nothing of it kid! Like I say, I was kidnapped by an anonymous party who paid my fee and threatened to murder me if I "broke client confidentiality". I literally didn't have a choice!"
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    HE KIDNAPPED MENDICAT FOR HER!!! How did you turn a one-dimensional battle-hungry berserker into my new favorite character (excluding Earthen Owl ofc) @Bitterman?!?!

    Bitterman said:
    . . . you wish someone would come save you.
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    Bitterman said:
    The next day Christian comes to visit.
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    Bitterman said:
    You look him in the eyes. And, when you do, you see a calm determination, a sad resignation, and, most important of all, fear.
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    He didn't want her to die, but by giving her his power he guaranteed it. The only person he cares for and the only way he could help was by ensuring her inevitable end by his own hands.

    Bitterman said:
    The day your contract ends, Faust comes to give you your severance package and offers to extend your stay again. And Christian comes to escort you away from him again. He walks you out of the front door of The Logos, growling at anyone who gets too close. He repeats his warnings to lay low, and then you're on your own.
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    HOW! CAN! HE! BE! SO! AMAZING?!?!?!

    Shaq I owe you an apology Blank Template - Imgflip
     
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    LET'S FUCKING GOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

    More seriously, fantastic update! Absolute fire as always. I love Rosemary to death and and expect to be a sobbing wreck by the time her story comes to an end. I especially love her developing relationship with Scarlet Maturity: that guy has an unexpected amount of range.
     
    Man, no wonder SM is so broken.

    And no wonder he is trying to cling to Mona ... she's immortal, on the same power level, and isn't destined to be consumed by him one day.

    So... someone killed SM, and Rosemary was consumed to revive him, per his power. And JU only knows a fraction of it, and likely assume that SM killed her and somehow drained her to get stronger, rather than the honestly much more tragic truth.

    I suspect hearing this is going to cause LL to shortcircuit. Because, like, that is a whole lot of rage that needs to be redirected to someone else. Probably one of the Hours. Unless the defiance unit somehow managed to kill SM. (extremely unlikely, though it is possible, if so that would explain why they all actually died. He was enraged by Rosemary's death)
     
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    Okay, a lot to talk about, but the big thing to me...

    so, rereading the profiles of the Defiance Unit now: Zeno was stated to be the ace in the hole and the biggest threat (at least, in terms of control and defense), but never, at any point, was he said to be the 'leader'. Soldier X was field commander, but it's increasingly looking like Memoria was the one with the drive and vision in the group, the one with the great sense of justice and ideals he was fighting for, the one who got all of the others teamed up with him.
     
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