Chapter Text
- The Siberian -
I dreamt of eating, of crunching bone and tearing muscles, the rich, iron taste of blood colouring admittedly stringy meat. I felt a bone-deep sense of satisfaction running through me, the thrill of the hunt that led me here concluding in my favor.
Tearing a hunk off my prey, I stand, looking down at the body below me. He reminds me of David somehow, face indicating a plain and boring everyman, albeit an seven foot tall everyman with the build of a professional weightlifter, his last expression, insufficiently obscured by a tiny, black domino mask, that of horrified agony, the all to common reaction when a monster, always thought to be too far away to ever possibly harm you, makes an appearance at your doorstep and begins eating your organs, one by one.
He was called Atlas, before he was a pile of meat, and he boasted all the typical Brute boasts; “I’m the strongest, I’m the toughest, I can beat anything”, all coming to naught in the end, of course, as most of them find out, either through me or an Endbringer, they all find out they aren't anything better than meat.
He was having some PR event when I found him, an sidelined role playing the circus strongman to a crowd, lifting people, weights and, unimaginatively, a large globe, trying to show that the people surrounding him were safe, that he was strong enough to protect them. I was here to show them all that he wasn't even close
I am not a subtle monster, I did not hide from his attention, seeking to kill him away from onlookers. I wanted to make sure they saw him die, saw their protector come up short to a true monster. However, I could not simply teleport in front of him, the sport of the hunt would be non-existent, practically boring! So appearing in an unfortunately occupied changing room was the best option. Well, unfortunate for the woman suddenly lacking her eyes at least, as I got to enjoy my favourite snack, and she got to collapse against the wall, screaming in heartfelt agony. I strode out into the open air pavilion, basking in the glow of the afternoon sun, rolling thunderheads in the distance providing an apt omen for the trials to come.
He must have heard the scream, as, assuming it was some smaller crime in progress, he turned around and made direct eye contact with my quite distinctive eyes. I paused for a beat, waiting for that shining moment, that stark terror as he recognized his imminent doom approaching, and, to my irritation, it took him a full five seconds of confused staring for his mind to catch up with what his eyes were telling him, but when they finally widened, I felt that rush of adrenaline as I stalked forward towards him.
To his credit, he recognized his plight and tried his best to flee, deaf to the horrified screams he left behind as I loped through the crowd, lashing out indiscriminately at the mass of people frantically trying to make distance between us, trampling those in the way of their freedom and safety. Those who could not move out of the way fast enough, or those who, amusingly enough, were pushed, were carved apart by the passage of my inviolable body, great gaping wounds torn out of the flesh of those I pass.
While this slaughter was a tempting diversion, I knew my prey and he would not escape. As he sprinted away, he frantically fumbled with a sleek looking phone before raising it up to his ear and screaming into it, begging for back up. Whatever response he got was evidently not to his liking, as he screamed in mixed terror and frustration and, twisting around, threw the phone squarely at my head.
It shattered on impact, tiny electronics and LCD fragments careening off my face as I grinned, an open, sadistic smile, drinking in his obvious terror.
Skidding to a stop, he inhaled sharply and turned, his eyes hardening slightly with the type of death-given courage I have seen so much of in the last decade, the belief that things could not get any worse, that there was no way to escape and the only thing left to be done was to fight.
He lasted for a total of three seconds, one to close the distance with a powerful, desperate lunge, one to throw a wild haymaker that could have torn through steel, and one to die, my outstretched hand thrust through his chest with a wet, tearing crunch. He met my pitiless eyes as I tore open his ribcage and extracted a handful of flesh, eyes tearing up as his last breaths struggled from torn and tattered lungs before finally falling backwards onto the rough asphalt.
I followed him down and began my feast.
- William Manton -
His van is parked in a nearby parking lot, the evening sky threatening rain as day slowly shifts over to night. The tension is thick in the city, seen in the drawn and terrified faces running away from the monsters in the dark, both real and imagined. They bunker down and hope that they will be spared the inevitable atrocities publicized on the news for the last twenty years. The Protectorate has sent out bulletins advising citizens on what to do in the worst case scenario, calmly recommending to run away, avoid attention and stay safe. Everyone in the city knows the advice means nothing, that these well-meaning words won’t protect them, and that they can only hope that it happens to someone else and not to someone they love.
Inside the van however, the mood is immeasurably different, as Manton feels on top of the world, as he always does when he is the Siberian, an invulnerable killing machine, repaying the world for all the hurt it had heaped upon his life, the loss of his daughter, the slow destruction of his scientific career, and the divorice of his wife all leading to the horror of a man he is today.
The Siberian does not need to eat, but William Manton does, the bedraggled truck stop sandwich he had acquired days ago barely serving as the nutrition he needs, but the visceral act of cannibalism provided the sport he most definitely desired.
The Nine have served well as the vehicle of his revenge, a lightning rod to draw heroes to their threat, to bring her more helpless people to kill, to disappoint those depending on their heroes like he was, but they are not worthy in knowing his face, his background, the truth. Jack might still be trusted, as he assuredly already knows the truth of the Siberian, but as he has not made inquiries of this fact and demanded an explanation, so Manton will not offer anything unprovoked.
The rest, save one, are dullards, a fleeting cast of fools craving murder and destruction. All but his darling Riley. She will be better, she has to be. Or else, he doesn’t know what he would do if she failed. He can’t lose another daughter, not again. please
-meltingfleshandscreamingasyouronlydaughterdiesshesiftsthroughyourhandslikesandyoucantholdherwhyisthishappeningncontessayoupromisedwhy-
stop
breathe in
breathe out
She’s still standing out there, and she needs to keep moving, or else she doesn't exist, and if she doesn't exist I have nothing, so keep her moving.
…
…
wait
….
"WHERE IS SHE?"
- Someone Else -
I blink.
I blink again
My hands are red
My mouth is red
People are screaming
What is happening
What do I do