Legacy

I've needed to take a small break from Marked. It's been preying on me, a bit, the writing, the editing, the research of both source material and what I've already written, because my notes are haphazard and unorganized and a phone really just doesn't do the job when it comes to large scale organization of documents. I've spent about a week on Reddit reading and doing writing prompts, something to bring back my enjoyment of writing, and I've written something there that I actually think I want to explore, a little. So I'm posting the original here, and I will be posting a chapter here and a chapter there as the muse strikes me and the work is finished. I'm still working on Marked, but it's slowed a little more while I dabble with this. I'm hoping to have the next chapter of Marked out by February 1. 

Enough babbling. 

Legacy: Chapter 1. "Lucky Thirteen"

As  I turn over the boss's steel mask in my hand, it feels heavier than I  expected. From the outside, it always seemed like... well... armor  plate. But the interior is lined with sensors, diodes, and braces. From  the outside, armor. But the inside... like technology.

Fusion  has had a career spanning decades. Driven away, thrown into retreat,  comebacks. Each time stronger than before. Never captured, never killed.  Until today.

My eyes drift to  Fusion's cooling, stilled body. I try not to think too hard about the  gaping wound in the left rib cage, torn through armor and costume,  person rendered into mere flesh and bone. And I can't help but look  anyway. Torn, bruised, no burns. Not Pulsar, then. His beams punch, but  also leave burns, scorches. Charring.

Not Animus, either, too large a wound and his lance is sharper than any razor. And Animus is too slow to wound Fusion anyway.

Empyreon? Strong. Fast. Would a clean punch have done this? Perhaps. If he landed it just right.

'Fusion is legendary,' Fusion had said. 'And Legends do not die.'

I  know what we have always fought for. When criminals become world  leaders, they write laws to favor their crimes. When laws are written by  criminals, being honest, being compassionate, these become the only  crimes that are enforced. We fight to bring down the criminals that have  weaseled their way into leadership.

Fusion  is the glue that binds our resistance together. Untouchable.  Invincible. Inevitable. The bane of tyrants, the ender of corruption.  The last hope against the corpos.

I know what I have to do.

I lift the mask to my face, feel it secure itself, mold to my features. The interface powers up.

Interface reestablished.
ERROR! Unauthorized user. Scanning area.
Registered user located. Life signs null.
Registering new user. Amalgamation initiated.

My mind spins, and the room with it. Memories assault me, invade me. Knowledge. Powers. I feel my own powers, enhanced reflexes and perceptual accuity,  suddenly accompanied by... more. Desiccation field. Flight. Enhanced  strength. Technopathy. Super speed. Pyrokinesis. All the powers that  Fusion is known for. All inherited. And now I understand why every base  is staffed with one of us. One of the empowered.

Amalgamation 25%

I  have to dispose of the body. Fusion made it back this far, but he was  dying. A journey he's done... eleven times before. Sometimes to primary  base, sometimes to a peripheral hideout, like now. And I know now what  happened. Typhoon... And Empyreon. The driving rain and winds infused  with mud, clouding vision, inhibiting mobility, just enough... just  enough for Empyreon to land a single, clean blow. Hard enough,  catastrophic enough, to overcome Fusion number 7's toughness and 4's  regeneration.

Amalgamation 50%

Empyreon's laughter as Fusion 12 flailed weakly, impaled on the corporate 'hero's' arm.

"Finally got you, you wannabe Robin Hood."

Fusion  12 had issued a mental command to the mask, taking over vocoder access.  The return voice was steady, with none of the pain or uncertainty 12  had felt... that Empyreon WANTED. "Inconvenient... but not  insurmountable. Catch me if you can, lapdog."

A  field of water and mud surrounding me, preventing any exercise of  pyrokinesis strong enough to matter, but electrokinesis is another  matter. Fusion 12's power, held in reserve since taking over from 11.  Plenty of electrolytes in common sand and dust, more than enough to make  the rain and mud in the air plenty conductive.

Amalgamation 75%

Lightning  flashed in all directions. Empyreon's arm pulled free, taking something  meaty and drippy with it, but that didn't matter now. Empyreon spasmed,  Typhoon was slowly falling and the cloud of mud and rain was thinning.  Fusion fled in the only viable direction, the only hideout near enough  to make it before he bled out. But radar sense pinged, and Fusion could  tell that Empyreon was recovering. Not as fast as Fusion, not fast  enough to catch him... but fast enough to follow. Perhaps even track  Fusion down.

Amalgamation 100%

Empyreon  is coming. No, scratch that. The concrete floor of the based vibrates  solidly as something, or someONE, smashes through buried kinetic  dispersal slabs rated for tactical nukes. A thought, and my dessication  field shrivels the body of 12 into dried husk. A kick, and it crumbles  to dust. I begin fitting plates from 12's armor onto hardpoints of my  uniform.

No time to come up with a  technological solution... but even if Typhoon managed to keep up with  Empyreon, my enhanced perceptions and reflexes mean that little combo  trick of theirs won't work twice.

Fusion Mk. 13 online.

Footsteps echo down the hallway. One set, two feet. Around two corners, about thirty meters.

I  wait until only one corner separates us, finishing attaching the armor  plates. "Empyreon. Lovely little stunt you pulled there. Very clever,  more innovative than I'm used to from corporate lapdogs. Actually needed  a couple minutes to regrow my stomach. My actual stomach organ, you  psychopath, not the colloquialism used referrentially to the human  abdomen. You have any idea how much that stings? I'm going to have  indigestion for at least forty eight hours."

"I'll  just have to pull a little harder this time," Empyreon says as he  rounds the corner. "You think if I pull you apart in two pieces like a  wishbone, I can make a wish?"

My...  No, 12's... blood streaked with mud covers his forearm to the elbow. A  lucky blow. But I am 13... and Empyreon's luck has just run out. "You  know, ordinarily I like to play nice. But I'm still a little put out  with you for the straight out murder attempt, and I believe in practical  forms of therapy. So I'm afraid you're all out of wishes, corpo."

Five  minutes later, the bare bones staff in the hideout is evacuated. I  leave the base, and Empyreon's corpse both burning. It's not a longboat,  but at least 12 will have an honor guard.

And Fusion lives on.