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Bashed
a tale of Metamorph revenge
> *** WARNING *** Warning: this story contains strangeness and some rather graphic gore and violence related to sex. It's inappropriate for just about everyone, really. You have been warned. I was in my ninth week of Metamorphism - that dangerous stage they tell you about - where you suddenly realise the powers you've been given, and you're itching to try them out. It's when a Metamorph is in that state when they do stupid things; some Metamorphs get caught by the normals and killed. They all vow that it won't happen to them, but it does. Lydya told me I was possibly the most reticent person she'd ever seen go through the conversion process from normal, common everyday human being to shapeshifting, immortal, hyper-intelligent Metamorph, so maybe this helped. True, I never felt the urge to change into a centaur and parade through the city streets. That would have been undignified. Something they don't tell you outright; something I have come to call the Vigilante Syndrome. You're given these abilities, and you want to correct all the injustices of the world, fight crime and stuff like that. It passes pretty quickly. At least, it passed pretty quickly for me. I was whiling the day away, sauntering through the local supermarket, looking for nondescript human forms to copy (and thinking there was no better place than a supermarket to do it in), when I saw her. You just had to look at her - the bruises, the frightened-animal look -to realise that she was in a relationship with one of those misogynistic swine that treated women like animals. No matter how abstracted being a Metamorph made me, I still felt anger at this. I thought briefly; and then, out of sight of everyone except the store security cameras (and they wouldn't believe their eyes), I shifted shape, losing four inches in height, my hair becoming long, blonde, stringy; I assumed a female form as close to hers as I could without arousing her suspicion. She didn't want to talk to me, at first; she didn't want to talk to anyone. I managed to convince her to join me for a drink in the coffee shop across the road. Sitting across the table from me, I regarded her injuries, sensed her pain, and my prepared speech evaporated. I told her straight out; I was an inhuman shapeshifter, and that I wanted to teach her boyfriend a lesson. She looked at me as if I were insane until I held my hand out before her and grew four-inch claws, like a werewolf. She almost spilled her coffee then; her eyes widened as I altered my form - at that point, quite similar to hers - until I was a perfect copy. I picked up the metal sugar dispenser and crushed it to ping-pong-ball size in one small hand, smiled at her. Slowly, she smiled back. When I entered the unit he lived in, I needed infra-red and sonar to get around; it was dark, the windows covered in newspaper. It stank, too; the lounge-room had been host to the sort of parties where the attendees drank until they passed out, and pissed themselves in their sleep. I'd offered her a safe place to stay, so she didn't have to worry about having to come back here. He was crouched in front of the TV, watching a bad copy of some x-rated film on the VCR. He turned to face me when I came in, and the emotions that were expressed in his look - an unlikely mixture of lust, hatred and surprise - summed up how he felt, without the need to scan him. He hadn't expected her to come back; he still wanted to fuck her, but knew he'd have to hit her again before she'd agree to it. He was in for a surprise; I was going to be a bit more accommodating than his girlfriend. "Did you come back to say sorry, bitch-" he began, but was cut off as I dropped the shopping and kneeled down before him. He goggled at me as I unzipped the front of his pants, tugged down his grimy underpants and drew the flaccid end of his wrinkled little dick into my mouth. That's another great thing about being a Metamorph - selective sensory input. I didn't care to think about what it tasted like. Either he'd been drinking, or he had some serious problems with potency. He'd been watching a porno vid; here I was, giving him a blowjob, and he still had a lot of trouble getting an erection. I thought about the scenarios I'd planned, and decided to go with the `passive' one. Some mildly anaesthetic chemicals -produced by my internal molecular factory, passed through my saliva - ensured that no matter how lasciviously I osculated his prick, he'd still be limp. After a few minutes of this, I sat back on my haunches and said sarcastically, "Is that the best you can do?" He snarled and lashed out with a backhanded blow. I'd softened the bones and fascia of my lower jaw, so a blow that would have merely bruised a normal person had horrific results; my face ripped open, the jaw hanging off by one side, the skin torn open, blood pouring from down my throat. It didn't hurt; my nerves reported the things I wanted them to, these days. The effect was dramatic. He reeled back in shock, sitting back on the couch, his eyes staring in disbelief. I pushed the jaw back into place, blood still oozing from the seams, and said, with a depth of sarcasm that i truly felt, "You are pathetic." It took a few seconds for the words to register, but anger eventually won out, and he bunched his fingers in preparation for another blow. I beat him to it, driving my small fist into his groin just above the pubic mat with enough force to shove him and the couch back two feet, pushing the mess of papers and empty beer-cans with it. His eyes bugged out and he vomited, his breath whooshing out alongside a torrent of half-digested food and beer with a strange kind of burping sound. I stood, picked him up by the front of his shirt, lifted him off the couch and slapped him with my free hand. Each blow shattered bones in his face. I forced him back over the couch and up against the wall, where I broke as many of his ribs as I could. I wondered if I could break every bone in his body, but that would probably kill him, and I wasn't a murderer. I let him drop to the floor, and he lay on his side, crouched over, groaning and coughing. I moved behind, drew my foot back and kicked him between the legs, contacting his balls with enough force to drive a hole through a concrete wall. As his pelvis shattered, he screamed through a mouthful of broken teeth, blood and vomit. I kicked his shoulder, turning him over onto his back. While he stared at me in terror, I allowed my features to morph back to my usual pattern, and said, "If I ever hear of you hitting a girl again - anyone - I'll be back to finish you off." I smiled mirthlessly. "I'll be watching you, you miserable shit," and left. |
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