Chapter 17: C16: Bakersfield (2)
A/N: Has anyone put on rainy video to sleep and just wake up to Anakin Skywalker screeching 'Obi-WAAAAAN!' on 'Death is no more' as background music? Scared the shit outta me.
Oriksgaming: Fair enough. When paragraph isn't lining up, I tend to mash them together. No idea why, it just bothers me, I'm trying to fix it. I'll return to edit the earlier chaps when I have time. And yeah, I need to rush it up, just doesn't feel right to skip entire years though.
The point of the MC is someone with little to no ambition, hence why he was where he was. When I wrote it I wanted to convey the sense of awkwardness and unbelonging, the whole 'He wants to rule' thing is more about having ambitions than any actual desire to rule on his part—you know, kinda like how Magi hypnotize themselves to enact Mysteries?
He knows he can just sit home, smoke his days away and he'll still be powerful, but it doesn't feel right from his perspective, that is why he kept trying to focus on things that he believes is 'great'. Thanks for letting me down easy, though. Around chapter 30 is where things begin to pick up if you wanna stay that long.
— — — — —
"2:45..."
Oswald mutters through a mouthful of burger, his gaze fixated on the mansion across the street. Leo the Superhuman, has been gone for over an hour now. Still not enough time to set off any alarm bells in the detective's head, but it is close.
The detective knows all too well how arduous and time-consuming surveillance can be.
On average, it's hundreds of mind-numbing hours before that search warrant finally arrives and he gets to knock on the suspect's door.
Taking another bite, Oswald grimaces slightly at the greasy taste which he washes it down with a swig of sweetened cappucino. To him, it doesn't really matter how unhealthy the meal, he needs sustenance to operate and he wants it cheap.
His irritation level from sleep-deprivation is bad enough without starvation and thirst added to the list.
"C'mon... Show me something, Leo..." Whispering, he throws on a pair of binoculars he bought off cheap off the Net, tongue running over his lips in an attempt to rid his skin of the oily texture... Something Oswald fails on the first try, the one after and the one after that, unfortunately.
Oswald's mind is already tense like a pulled hamstring, still reeling from the surreal circumstances he's been thrust into with the introduction of the young partner he's been saddled with. This is only the straw which breaks the camel's back. Frustration spiking all of a sudden, the detective angrily wipes the greasy residue from his lips with the sleeve of his blazer.
Logically, Oswald knows he should maintain a cooler, more level-headed approach as someone with—in theory, at least—the highest authority in the area, legally that is.
But Leonis has made it painfully clear just how murderous and unhinged his 'kind' can be.
No matter Oswald's status as a seasoned detective, he doubts it would save him from a crazed psychopath with a penchant for splitting people open to see how they tick. And frankly? The detective has absolutely zero interest in confirming it for himself.
His duties extend to murderers, killers, human traffickers, drug rings, and the like. But nowhere in his job description does it mention 'superhumans.' The government certainly doesn't pay him nearly enough to deal with that kind of problem either. "He'll be fine… Kid's got one Hell of a grip."
Detective Oswald tells himself, words he's unsure if even he believes in as his heart races inside his chest, followed with anxiety and self-blame which seem to whisper constantly in his ears about how much of a disgusting coward he is… Fingers coiling—tightening around the expensive, leather-coated steering wheel, he mutters once again to convince himself. "He'll be fine, right? He gotta be."
Meanwhile…
"Seems I've made a grave mistake," The Magus grunts, cradling his wounded stomach as spikes—nay, quills—erupt from his forearm in sharp, menacingly glistening rows.
"Of trusting a barbarian to have the ethics of a proper Lord! Allow me to demonstrate how real Magi do battle!"
Charging at me, the Magus first tries to backhand me, a blow I easily block, until the quills get launched, that is. Freeing a hand to catch the flying projectiles, I let his blow carry me up and away, mainly to buy a little more time for me to catch my breath. "You are not the only one with tricks up his sleeves, you little rat!" Contrary to expectations, fighting isn't just about going on the offensive.
While it's true one rarely wins battles defending only, none but a hotheaded fool would stubbornly and blindly rush an enemy without regard or caution.
Fighting is about gains and losses—small victories and even smaller setbacks. I've been able to strike the Magus in several places, and although no major blood vessels have been severed, just 2 liters of blood lost can make someone feel lightheaded. Time's on my side, not his. Twirling the quills I caught towards him, I saturate them with an overwhelming amount of Mana, causing their physical shapes to twist and morph—lined with crooked cracks which shine cyan.
With a quick motion, I conceal any abnormalities beneath my sleeve before sending them flying towards him. "Child's play!"
For someone who looks like he's been inside a blender after only first clash between us, Bakersfield seems to really enjoy strutting about. It will be quite gratifying to see that smug grin wiped off his face when the already destabilized quills finally explode right next to him. As predicted, the Magus bats the quills to the side, causing the Mana-imbued projectiles to detonate in a rain of shrapnel which tears his left arm to shred.
"Argh—!"
My heart pounds eagerly as I watch the fool cradle his bloody, mushy stump…
Likely the same joy a cat experiences when playing with its toy, I imagine.
His test subjects also howl and shrill upon witnessing the scene, their primitive brains reacting chaotically to the scent, visual, and the reverberating cacophony of the explosion that still lingers, echoing like maddened screeches of the foulest Demon down the hallway, or is that just Bakersfield?
I can't really tell, far too caught up in the moment to care—my ego; the most primal instinct for violence I've tried so desperately to bury beneath tons and tons of regulations to prevent accidental harm or fatality, clamors at the cage, tugging at the chains which bind it. The primal instinct—the 'caveman' DNA craves the total annihilation and humiliation of its foe;
It ongs to pound its fists beside the shattered, mangled body of its adversary…
Or maybe, I simply enjoy winning?
In any case, it is inconsequential.
Nothing matters other than victory, and I refuse to lose ever again.
But then, consumed by power, a prickling sensation tingles in my fingers.
Glancing down, I notice black veins creeping from my palms, inching towards my wrist. "Venom?" I hiss, glaring at the Magus, "He… Hehe!" Who errupts in a round of boisterous laughter while clutching his bleeding stump. The spikes recede into his skin as a new one begins to regrow. "How do you like it? That venom was engineered from 50 different snake species! Some no longer exist!"
The scene would have been amusing if it weren't for the small detail that I've been poisoned. A searing burn moves up my arm—it's akin to being stabbed and having a hot iron inserted in my veins at the same time, yet it is nothing compared to what Kirei or Kiritsugu have done to me. The first breaks my bones on a daily basis, and the latter has force-fed me poisons for the past 5 months to build up my resistance.
Regrettably, my body's natural defenses can only go so far…
I know my own limits, and without the antidote, soon, the venom will make its way to my heart.
I have neither the desire to discover the what would follow, nor am I inclined to find out.
'He has the antidote.'
If he didn't, Bakersfield wouldn't be wearing such a delighted expression. "Guess I'll have to beat that antidote out of you myself, then."
Propelling myself forward with a kick, I rocket towards Bakersfield, who swiftly leaps onto the surgery tables where his 'patients' are strapped to still, before shoving them in my direction.
"You can have fun with my pets, little rat!"
So much for having 'class' and fighting the 'lordly way.'
So it is true what they say: 'People show their true colors before they die.'
Bakersfield's are quite unsightly.
My own death might've been just as unsightly, but at the very least, I faced my end with grace.
With a simple click, the restraints magically disengage. Surprise, surprise. Initially, I assumed that his test subjects possessed enough awareness to identify their true foe. However, upon observing the snarling human-jaguar hybrid, its black-speckled skin stretched taut as it snarls, jagged and crooked fangs coated in saliva as it lunges at me, I realize just how sorely mistaken I was.
'No worries…' Hand shaped like an eagle claw, I grab hold of the creature's neck, while the hefty table hurtles towards its back, knocking the wind out of the hybrid mutant and leaving my wrist throbbing from the impact. Still, the beast continues to ferociously howl, driven by a pain-induced rage as the rest of the 'patients' grunt; growl; groan, making noises no human should be making. 'Killing is just a part of life.'
Humanity has thrived through conflict. We honed our spears first against beasts, then against each other, and within every person—every man; woman and child—that instinct still exists, merely dormant, dulled by the comforts civilization has brought us.
Mine, on the other hand, is alert, and primed to demonstrate to these mutants in details how Humanity emerged as the dominant species… The sole Deity of the Earth, bravely seeking to conquer Nature in ways unexplored by any other on the planet.
Oh, look at that, maybe that vegan-Redditor was right!
I am a human supremacist, after all. If there's one argument which I can agree with the Bible, it is the idea that all other species and animal are at our mercy, as might dictates what is just, and none are mightier than Mankind.
While it might not have been their intention to abandon their Humanity, but they are no longer human, so a part of me cannot help feeling justified in ending their suffering. Perhaps if I had known them beforehand, my feelings may have differed, but as they are, the mutants are little more than a bunch of mindless monsters to me.
Drawing my hand back, setting free the mutant at the precise moment to give myself enough time to clench my fist, I swiftly end the beast in an instant, my knuckle stained red as bits and chunks slide down my skin.
Batman was right…
'Killing's just too damn easy.'
I wonder if I will feel the same way if they had looked a little more… Human?
Although the slimy textures of blood and half-pulverized flesh feel awful on my skin, it is no more than playing in the muds as children.
Regrettably, the jaguar hybrid was not the only entity set free by Bakersfield.
All the other experimental subjects have also been released, and they—understandably—do not look very pleased.
In fact, a few have already begun to engage each other, snapping at the other's throat and clawing at skin.
Their blood quickly floods the room, staining every inch of the room with bloody hand and footprints.
Nothing has been left untouched, including myself, as four of the mutants charge towards me while Bakerafield retreats to the gate, nearly grabbed by his manic creations several times trying to seal the metal door behind him. "Not so fast, motherfucker!"
I exclaim, grabbing one of the mutants and hurling it at the gate. These doors were designed to withstand the force of a nuclear explosion once closed, but upon observing their functions earlier with [Structural Grasp], it's clear that Bakersfield has seen Indiana Jones.
When faced with an obstacle, biological matter in particular, the doors will stop functioning.
It's strange that he never added a key to it, but he must not have completed setting up his Workshop yet.
In simpler words, I've caught him with his metaphorical pants down, or as the kids say these days, 'lacking.'
"Sir, do you have time to talk about our Lord and Savior?!"
Sure enough, the door halts just short of splitting the mutants in two, but that's sure to leave it bruises for the days to come, if not outright broken bones. Driven to madness by the pain, the mutant clamps down on the Magus' leg, drawing a sharp cry as a sizeable chunk is torn from his calf. "Argh—Fuck!"
The remaining mutants make a desperate attempt to leap at me, but their heads are swiftly reduced to pulp as the sheer impact of Senza Esitazione tearing through their skulls pulverizes their faces. "Hey! Don't run from the Lord!!!"
"'But I say unto you, love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you', Matthew 5:43—!"
Scarcely has he uttered the words when I pounce on his back, one foot pressed against the nape of his neck, the other on his tail spine, as the room descends into absolute chaos behind us. "Wrong religion, motherfucker! My God teaches to slay the xenos and purge the heretics, numb-nuts! For the God-*mper*r of M*nk*nd!"
Was I just censored? Or was that merely my imagination?
Is some no-name author genuinely concerned about his subpar story drawing attention and potential legal consequences from a major studio with far more pressing matters to deal with and bigger fish to fry? "Erk!" The Magus cries as he desperately tries to scramble away, his fingers clawing at the ground. "You fucking freak, get off me!"
Spikes erupting from his back, Bakersfield attempts to get me again, but to no avail. Having learned from my previous experience, I have already detected the moment the spikes begin to emerge, leaping up to evade the sneak attack while my free leg sweeps over his back in the opposite direction, breaking the quills.
While most are torn from his back, causing severe lacerations that resemble the claw marks of a massive beast, a few remain lodged in place, and despite their rather unassuming appearance, these are far more sinister of wounds. "Open all the locks!"
His scream is followed by a robotic voice that's neither male nor female whispers, "Voice Recognition; Mana Fluctuations—Accepted. Have a pleasant day, Lord Bakersfield."
"PLEASANT YOUR BEHIND!" Bakersfield screeches in agony, nearly eliciting a chuckle from me. 'Poker face, Leo… Poker face!'
I mentally remind myself, as my muscles coil, preparing to unleash a bloody maelstrom upon the room.
"Taste my Spell: Gen Z Breathing—[Safe Space]!"
"I don't want to talk about your Lord and Savior! And that wasn't a Spell either!"
The Magus shouts, outraged as he squirms beneath me. "That's just you whirling your spear at high speed! What even is Gen Z, you fookin' aussie-wannabe?!"
I gasp, slamming his head against the curves. "It wasn't fucking optional! And don't you dare compare me to those emu-slaves!"
Ever since the 'Great Emu War,' Australians have been automatically assigned second-class citizenship in the eyes of the world. The emus rule now, just as cats do across the East and Western worlds. At least cats are adorable and not spawns of Satan with knives for claws and an extremely punchable face.
Sad to say, but it seems the apex-predator has been domesticated…
I kick the severed head of a mutant, slamming it into the one holding the door open, pushing it back and trapping the remaining mutants.
"Where's the antidote?" I demand seriously, unleashing a torrent of punches upon the Magus, controlling my strength so he doesn't get the Soul knocked out of him. After the fifth fist to the face, causing his to bruise and swell, Bakersfield begins to laugh instead, coughing out mouthfuls of blood and saliva; wheezing as if on his last leg as he stutters. "The-There is no curreee—!"
I frown, eyeing the veins crawling up my forearms.
The poison is produced by his body, and he's been stabbed like I was.
Either he's hidden the antidote within arm's reach or his body can create the antivenom.
Patting him down, I find nothing out of the ordinary and grimace. 'Looks like it's the second possibility.'
Grabbing his collar, I hiss, "What's your blood type?"
Maybe if I replace my blood with his, it will solve the problem, or at least reduce the venom concentration to give my body a fighting chance. "O- O negative!" He laughs. "It is fookin' incompatible with every other blood type, you emu-worshipping freak! You're dead. Dead, I say!!!"
I narrow my eyes and growl, "We'll see about that," Before knocking him out cold.
My blood is AB positive, which is compatible with many types. I just need a donor. Briefly, I consider the mutants, then discard the thought instantly.
I may be reckless, but I'm not stupid.
Who knows what their blood could do to me physically and mentally?
I've heard having the wrong type transfused can cause feelings of impending doom and severe depression; physically it causes death. I won't take such a risk. "Oswald…"
"Leo?! You alright? What in the actual fuck is this place?!!"
I spin around to find the detective, his face etched with horror as he clutches his gun. "Speak of the Devil, huh?" I remark, though I can't say I'm surprised he's shown up.
"Is that—?" He begins.
"Our serial killer, yes." I confirm, nudging the unconscious Magus gently with my foot. "Y- You alright?"
He stammers, watching as I systematically break Bakersfield's limbs. "No complaints about war crimes?" I inquire, noting the shift from shock to fury on his face.
"The bastard deserves it," He spits. "Is this how all your kind operate?"
"It depends on the individual."
I respond lightly. I didn't cripple Bakersfield solely for kicks and giggles, of course. The Magus could regenerate, so it would achieve little for me to simply incapacitate him—I had to make sure his limbs wouldn't heal properly, lest I risk him becoming a threat again.
"Some are unnecessarily cruel, some more so out of necessity, and some have hearts. We're no different from humans, Detective Oswald… We are human, albeit with something special." I reiterate.
He glances around, his lips thinning at the sight. "A human wouldn't—"
"Oh, come now,"
I interrupt, staring at him with half-lidded eyes as sweat trickles down my forehead. "You're a detective, surely you've been taught about the various serial killers throughout history." I can list off 10 at the top of my head.
"They're small percentage of the population, Leo! And their 'masterpieces' don't come close to this! That- That goddamn fucking monster's worse than a Nazi, and you are telling me there are more of them out there?!"
The detective retorts vehemently—spitefully, his voice tinged with anger; hatred; helplessness. I'm not even sure I can tell which emotion out of the bag is ruling him due to how completely mixed up they are, but I can assure you Oswald's anything but pleased. "Oswald…" I start, before doubling over to bite back a grunt as the venom works its way to my shoulder. "I- I need antivenom."
Although it's uncertain if normal antivenom will help, it can't hurt to try.
For a moment, I see emotions warring on his face, then the detective's eyes suddenly harden, backing away to the entrance. "You—!" I scrunch my nose in anger. While I can't say I've inserted myself as his new best friend in the last weeks, I've done enough to cement my position. The jokes; the banters;… Although we are not the duo Jackie Chan and Chris Tuckers were, he wouldn't betray me, right?
'It's- It's like molten lava's coursing through my veins.
I was mistaken… This is a whole new kind of agony neither Kiritsugu nor Kirei could have inflicted. One moment my arms feels like someone had inserted searing hot rods in it, the next it'll constrict, following with sharp pricks like tiny, icy, minus 50°C needles have been stabbed into different sections of my arm.
Shifting needles—painful, sentient needles worming their way up my blood vessels while the detective continues to backtrack, his face frozen in indecision. "O- Oswald!"
The agony is excruciating, leaving me completely debilitated as I drop to my knees, my head pressed firmly against the ground. Arms relentlessly beating the ground, hoping that by piling on more pain, it will somehow alleviate the rest. But it's futile—it only adds to the existing torment. "Damn it all! Damn you, you piece of—Argh!"
I curse in frustration, to no avail while the detective whirls around and starts sprinting full-speed to the entrance.
"I trusted you..." I mutter through gritted teeth, my fist clenching tightly around my bicep in a futile attempt to cut off the blood flow and hopefully slow the venom's spread. I know it's futile—the venom has likely already infiltrated my entire system, but I need to contain as much of it in my arm as much as possible, if only to allow my body a fighting chance.
Frantically, I crawl towards Bakersfield, searching his belt and pockets, but it seems he was telling the truth when he said there is no antidote. Suddenly, the world slows to a halt as the [ToI] appears. Now that time has frozen, and my body trapped in a motionless state, I've been granted more time to find a way out of the predicament I've landed myself in.
First, my train of thought shifts to the [ToI] itself, but the System can only give me time, and staying frozen like this isn't the solution either.
Having ruled out one option, I quickly hurry on to the next.
Going to the hospital is out of the question as well. I doubt I can even make it to the entrance without fainting, let alone make my way out of the mansion.
'Think... Think... Think.' I chant to myself repeatedly. There's just one more choice left, one that I've been trying hard to steer my mind clear of. 'Fuck.'
I curse, gaze glued to my throbbing arm.
The silver lining in this situation is that the venom doesn't replicate within my body like a virus or bacteria.
If I eliminate the primary source with the highest venom concentration, my body's natural defenses will either be relieved or strained by the blood loss. There's a 50/50 chance it'll be either. 'Fuck it.' That's about as good an odd as I can possibly get. Exiting the Perk Tree, I tear Bakersfield's coat to fashion a bandage that I tie around my shoulder and armpit.
It was 2010…
The Walking Dead just got aired.
It's the talk of the whole school, before its popularity eventually faded. By the time Merle returned as a character, I was the only one in my class still following the show, and boy was my second favorite television redneck's new bayonet-arm the coolest fucking thing young me had ever seen in a live TV show. I'd prefer to keep my arm, still, one has gotta look on the bright side, right?
Aligning the edge of my spear against my arm, I take a deep breath, wishing I had taken a cigarette from Oswald earlier. It wouldn't have fixed anything, but it would have boosted my bravery for what lies ahead. "Stay sharp, Leo, stay sharp."
Suffering the loss of an arm during my debut mission may tarnish my records, but if I can secure Bakersfield's research, maybe I can replicate his ability to regenerate limbs.
"There's still hope." I reassure myself. Admittedly, even I have doubts about my odds. "It's do or die, Leo… Do or die."
Stoking the flames of anger, I yell, if only to give myself the power to slice my own arm off.
Just as I'm about to go through with the act, someone bursts into the room. "Oswald?"
"What the fuck are you doing?" He shouts at me, carrying with him what looks to be a survival kit. "Chopping my arm off, what do you think?!"
"Are you fucking stupid?"
He rushes over to me, exclaiming. "Why on earth would you do that when the antivenom is right here?!"
"Well, excuse the shit outta me for assuming you have ditched me! Could've at least let me know you're getting the antivenom!"
Despite my harsh words, a wave of relief washes over me as he produces a bottle and a fresh syringe. "Afraid of needles?"
I give an eye roll. "Just do it, for goodness' sake! I'm dying here, literally!"
After being administered the antivenom, I can't contain a contented sigh.
The pain's still there, the venom still wrecking me, but at least the symptoms have subsided.
"We gotta get you to the hospital!"
"Not officially." I hiss.
These things leave traces, and I can't allow myself to be tracked so soon in the early game.
"Are you fucking kidding me? Is your secret worth more than your life?!"
"Just get me to a black market doctor…" I could tell him, but Oswald wouldn't understand, not until he gets to see for himself the threats which lurk under the peaceful façade that is the world of man.
"Tell them I need a blood transfussion… My blood type's AB negative."
Or so this body's medical records have shown.
Thankfully, the compulsory tests the CPS forced Kirei to take me to were meant for speed, not details else I'd have a bunch of governmental agents at my door.
"Whatever… Let's get outta here. This place makes me feel like someone's chafing a stainless steel sponge against my brain."
"Don't worry, it's normal symptoms. Should go away in an hour." Bounded Fields are meant to chase people off, after all. It'd be pretty hard to explain if people just drop dead in the vicinity of a Magus' Workshop.
Although it does come as a surprise he possesses the willpower to overcome its effects.
Probably due to the fact he has spent nearly a month with me trying to locate Bakersfield.
His feelings about this case are just too intense for a Repellent Bounded Field to work, much less one as weak as this. Limping towards the exit, I ask, genuinely confused. "H- How comes you have antivenom prepared already?"
Oswald shrugs. "Was on a mission in the local Chinatown a few years ago. Some of the Triad members had a love for venomous snakes… I got bit thrice."
Bursting in laughter at his response, we stumble outside to be greeted by the harsh glares of the Sun.
Usually, I hate the heat;
I disdain the light for blinding me;
But today the Sun feels oddly pleasant against my skin.
"About that psycho—"
"He won't be going anywhere." I reassure. "I need him alive for interrogation, but if it tickles your fancy, you can put a bullet in his head… Consider it payment for saving my arm."
"I'll be sure to." The detective mutters darkly. "Once I've gotten you help. Just hang in there."
Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
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