NARRATOR POV:
The day has begun in Brockton Bay—a... let's say not-so-nice city.
A city of superheroes and villains toeing the line between civility and an all-out war between the thriving gangs and the lackluster force the heroes can muster. Little do they know such things were by design!
Usually this is where I would say, "How would such a threat to the order of HEROES be undone? Rot cleaned from the system for them to finally know justice? PREVAIL ONCE AND FOR ALL!"
But of course, this story isn't about that—shame really. This story is about someone else: a child reborn from his old world, brought there by mysterious forces outside both worlds' realities.
As I would like to cover such a plot, my story, so to say, is with this young really a child who is stuck in this new world, in a new body, and maybe with some help from his new powers, he can embark on a new adventure.
Before such beginnings can happen, the worst evils are already knocking on his door: THE GOVERNMENT, as he's currently being "adopted" by his distant family. Seems like his new life is already catching up to him as he lives by hims— wait, how does that wo— you know what, I'm not even questioning it. The narrator segment has gone on too long. Should've become a writer instead like Ma told me, or a doctor like my father said. Time to get into the meat of things. Let's see w—
"AAAAAHHHH— UUHGH, God, what the hell?" I said in pain from my fall. I wondered where I was before I sat up, sore from the cushioned blow that mysterious carpet stopped. Groggily, I looked around, my head thrumming, vibrating with an insect-like buzzing. As my clouded vision cleared, showing the empty but homely place that I had been taken to—a rustic cabin—deer-themed carvings littered the walls, each showing large amounts of detail like every singular blade of grass was taken from the forested floors and shrunken down and plastered on the walls, capturing it in the wooden house.
The empty house I observed from bef— no, not empty. My eyes must have missed the small knick-knacks and odd things littered throughout the rapidly concerning place that I had awoken in. An odd sense of calm was taking place in my mind as I stared at the items scattered around, and I found a sense of familiarity in each wall, couch, TV, the table it rested upon, even the spoon on the couch hanging off the edge, wet with something. Have I been here before?
"I— no, how d— I was not taken, no. I can remember that much, but HOW did I end up here? God, my mind is hammering with those damned vibrations."
No matter, I think. Pressing thought he the drumming of my skull I continue looking around, looking at the deer-themed everything—all of it, from the empty bowl in the living room (I suppose, considering the TV, but the size of it is too small to really call it that). Anyway, the deer-themed bowl by the small single-drawer stand with an old lamp—oil-based from the looks of it. Importance and safety I feel...
"What the fuck? Where the hell am I? God, I cannot think. How did I end up here? I was at my home, not this place. I think it was a different place. I— I remember the house, my family, the PC, my games. I— I REMEMBER IT, GOD DAMN IT! I REMEMBER EVERY LITTLE THING! MY MIND—IT HASN'T BEEN THIS CLEAR IN AGES! SO TELL ME, GABRIEL, HOW DID WE—I—ME—END UP HERE? YOU COULDN'T HAVE FORGOTTEN! TELL M— I— ME, DAMN IT! WHER—"
I fall to the floor, face red, jaw tight as I shake my limbs, vibrating each joint rapidly, rubbing against each other. The squeaks, my pain in my back, my own lack of flexibility—GONE. I DO NOT KNOW what has happened, how I got here, but simply the cutoff from my bedroom, my memories, then I get up looking around, feeling an odd discomfort at the buzzing. It's growing, but so is my memory—the shaving of ice, no, static that is being broken from my mind, my ever-now-so-clear mind, breaking each chunk as I realize how things are going the fuck down. Before I even realize it, I'm standing up, shaking again—no, buzzing—just an uncomfortable truth as the fuzz, static, the webbing of cotton stuck within my cranial folds melts away. I KNOW and start to realize what happened last night and the choices I made.
"No, no FUCKING WAY! THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING! OKAY, I— me— the people— I mean I— ME— THE GABRIEL THAT WAS NOT THIS could not have happened to this fucking joke!"
My words slip, sentences wrong, as I feel the OTHER memories broken, only being fed pieces to start my new life—nothing concrete but to help me out, so to speak. Anger filling myself at such crap, barely helping me with starting a new life. You say broken pieces of memories—
Before I start to spiral again after the last two spirals of thoughts, darker than the last in the back of my mind as I yelled and wondered in this... quaint spiraling at my recognition of the CYOA, my eyes were assaulted by a piece of pa—
"FUCK MY EYES!""Damn you, me!""Damn you, Rob? Me?"
"No."
"Yes?"
"Yes? Yes, it was."
"It was me. I know of it now."
I grab my eyes and fall to the floor, the limp paper falling from my now bruised eye—red and webbed in thickening palpebrae and veins irritated by that piece of paper. My answers further in this place by the hall as the paper has slid there by the dark hallway.
"Nothing could possibly go wrong with this. God, I hate this."
I say more tiredly than angry at all of this—my own and MYSELF'S decision.
I walk and walk slower. It seems as if everything is bigger now that I notice it?
No matter, I must get my answers now.
DEAR ^&^@GFu^u or new name Gabriel
"Bastard took my name."
I crinkle the paper as my grip tightens slightly. No use getting mad for now—I must get my answers. Later, I suppose, I'll break down. "Hehehehe..."
A faded laughter left my lips as I continued reading this note.
It's I, you, I guess, or you as a Rob. I used you and your CYOA for my own entertainment. Have fun with your extra memories.
Signed: bootyspanker69
"...FUCK!" I yelled out repeatedly and continuously, leading to the final and dragged-out "fuuuuUUUUUuuuuck."
I drag out the curse as I walk back and forth across the red oval, surprisingly fluffy carpet that saved me earlier from bruising from where I fell, as I start to think what in God's name is gonna happen.
"Okay, me, you made the forsaken CYOA. One of the things was a paper with the— AHAHA! YES! THE PAPER!"
I start to pat myself down frantically and wearily as well, stained by embers of some positive emotion as ME hasn't completely left me to dry. At least the CYOA he used wasn't a 40K one, wasn't it? God, I hope not.
I start to thoroughly check each pocket, patting myself down before looking upon my attire—a classical priest outfit with a black, shiny cross of Jesus on the, well, cross hanging from my neck. The upper part has a separate coin-shaped part connected by the loop, hanging heavily on my neck—a picture of the Mother Mary, I think, as recognition remembers the name of the mother of Christ. The gloss of the ornament was the only thing giving its extremely detailed form an outline from the near-abyssal black, the light shining over the glistening outer shell, so to speak, making a tapestry of artwork.
I remember the slip, the other answers and powers I'm supposed to have. Maybe I shouldn't have so many questions? Nah.
"Oh, thank God," I say as I look upon the note. I find a hidden pocket in the inner breast of my heavenly robes—my impeccable drip.
I smooth my crinkled collared priest overcoat thingy and the weird ribbon hanging around my neck and down my chest—those weird ribbon things priests have on their dress coats or whatever. It's called as I think and remember it, clarity hitting me once again.
"Stole! Yes, a stole—it's what it's called. I mean, that's what it's called. Looks like clarity can't help me not fumble my words, nor remember better—just remember what I can pull out of my head."
I look upon the outer coat again as the glossy designs of roses, each detailed like it was crafted by the Holy Spirit, each flower holding scriptures in their outlines, each speaking to me that I—me—himself—one who wears this is one loved by God, all before and after. I take it off that I am loved...
I was never a pious lamb in the flock of God, but I suppose times have changed. It is nice to be loved. It helps, I think... but no matter. If such love is woven in this, then wouldn't there be other things woven in the detailed and ornamental roses? No, not ornaments.
"Who the heck puts this much detail in one rose, and light, or God's love unto it where you feel it? No, this is important. I think the note should have answers of the choices I have made—the rest of them, at least."
As I look up, the rose design begins to diverge, receding, showing a cross across (heheh) my chest with my collar having a barely visible collar of thorns and petals, beautifully designed, all faint without the nearest bumps to dignify the GLORIOUS DRIP... Each emblem scattered across my holy outfit has the thinnest of gloss signifying it was there, giving the outfit a majestic, humble, and well-woven look as well as making me feel that I am being held once more.
"God damn, this is the best outfit I have ever worn, but I cannot continue looking at my drip."
I finally begin to read the note that I put off for an elongated time. Maybe I'm fearful that it's one of my worse CYOAs that I've chosen for better plots in my stories. Maybe I'm fearful I never put a happy ending in this story. Maybe I'm fearful that I may live in hell while being forced to save ungrateful people lying and stabbing me and my trust in the back through the entire story. Maybe I'm fearful it won't be enough—that even with powers, I cannot be enough...
No matter. I made my choices for myself, and myself has made the choice for me. I shall do what I have and live not for others but for myself. Even in fear, I will hold myself in love—it is the least that I can do for myself. Isn't that in the Bible? Lord, I need to get one, even if it's to ground me in this cesspit of a world, I think as I finally read the note, skimming over the obvious perks like Blank, Invictus, and mental barriers—a relaxation, a feeling of something has fallen off and been replaced by peace, by safety. I let out a sigh as I sit upon the couch I've been pacing in front of—comforting and quite big? Anyway, getting to the good stuff, things that will help me in this world.
The basic things that myself—no, I—have picked up are my skills. Most of them I can simply remember: the days in some place, walking, mapping some areas of a yellow room—infinitely, seemingly alive rooms as I wandered, hunting, tracking, and recording THINGS that live there, the yellow rooms. No food, water, and a stale dampness I smelled in there—still smell. An odd sensation of remembering and not remembering something that has imprinted on you so deeply you can feel yourself in those empty rooms, the buzzing like the one in my skull from earlier, not blocking memories but an empty promise of silence and loneliness that I was the only one there...
Stealth—I felt urgency when I remembered my skill at hiding down dark corridors, a smiling thing best not remembered. Few instances I faced them. Few times I shot them. A marksman, I say myself. A gun? No, rifle—a German-made gun, custom-built by me, a Luger top-based mechanism to shoot and filter through the empty shells, the arm-like structure popping out of it over and over like an elbow popping from a window or from the peripheral vision of your eye, your coworker's elbow breaking the bolts of an unknown machine, something you've never worked on, over and over and over again, again, again, and again.
I remember my training and crafting of the gun—basic metalwork, most of it bought, other things made: a wooden stock, self-made bullets in the basement where I worked with someone?
No, the clarity hit once more—a woman, a woman I made mother, or Fawne...
"Why am I crying?"
Tears dripped from my eyes as I tried to stop them as I remembered my other skills that I had painstakingly worked for. I will come back to the woman—was she my mother?
"No, continue on, me. We have no time. We must get our answers. God help me if we end up in the wrong CYOA, me."
I force myself on as my remembrance of what could happen to myself if I do not have the strength to protect myself. The other skills that I have crafted: the cleaning and caregiving taught to me by the lady, the craftsmanship detailed in many ways, life-like deer sprawling across the fields onto wooden walls, helped by her.
Tears drip from my eyes again.
Mechanics and critical birds, basic coding—all such things I made, have done, in there, the basement.
I cry some more. Why the basement? Why did it happen to her?
Doctoring—a PhD I had? No, have I— somewhere, somewhere.
The biology and chemistry lessons making me all the more potent. I smile.
"This is good. At least I can play myself off as a biotinker—1-2, maybe three if I'm lucky or unlucky. I don't have a Cauldron potential."
I smile and laugh, feeling hopeful of what I can achieve in this world. The roses feel comforting on my soul.
I couldn't save her with my skills. I saved her—not saved, but I did. No, I saved her. That's what I did. No, you didn't save— no, you didn't— I... miss her.
Occultist—I quickly remember, pacing through my memories like a book I was flipping through. Easier it got not to remember her.
Sound imitation—guiding threats to other places or convincing the people in yellow all was fine. They were not people.
"No, they were not."
Brewery? Is a questionable one.
"Maybe it explains the substance drawback? The memories are not there—seems the fragments broke off there."
I thought it's your fault, your fault, your fault. Simple enough skills, I guess? Maybe I can sell it.
I think and giggle to myself, the roses feeling tighter like a hug? I am fine, I suppose, but I won't dismiss a hug once more.
My powers, though, through the book of me—I have an arcane alphabet of symbols, effects, and basic magics, more eldritch rituals than magic. I ponder about it, the runes and such, as well as the fragments the ME have given me.
Is the rooms—the layers of infinite mazes that I have wandered—related? It feels related, I think, as my leg bounces up and down on the couch, making the leather creak over and over, and the fold reappear and disappear as my leg bounces over and over. I stop. I see the completely indecipherable ritual to create homunculi—manpower made into rituals? Not good, I suppose. The memories, the connections—all related. What games are being played here? The anxiousness welling at the bottom of my gut, filling it up like a dam on a rainy storm week. I read the rest of my powers, remembering some before I reach where they are—one important memory, of course. It is you did this ritual, this macabre of revival and life, to bring her back. You couldn't. A facsimile sits there.
A flipping T-Doll, maxed out—no extra bodies? I can make many, I guess, but the dummy body restriction confounds me.
"Odd that's there. Maybe the... rituals have effects on the mind when you split them, but why would myself nerf, so to say, this part of the T-Dolls?"
A conundrum, a linking feeling that I know it makes the anxiousness swell up heavier now. I flip through the pages—my memory isn't connecting, it's stopping something. I don't want it to stop. What's blocking? What's stopping the thing in my mind? I do not know why, but the feeling simply is.
I sag in the couch, tears falling. Why are they falling? I think as the tears fall from my face and onto the paper, staining it. I let them fall. I do not stop. I continue reading.
"The Thorns... partial upgrade. They hibernate—no such luck in turning the Nazis into soldiers. Maybe I could have controlled their shard. A funny thought, I suppose."
I say apathetically, the tears still streaming. Why are they streaming? Why are they streaming—
I look at the paper.
I smile as my leg—no, legs—both bounce from the soles to the tips of my feet, off and on the hardwood floor, my toes booted and contained, the tips of my shoes hitting the carpet by the couch. Thump, thump, thump. I cannot stop smiling as I read upon what could save me.
Bioshock.
The tech tree now endowed in rituals and other things that worry me, the anxiousness swelling u— haven't I felt this? What I— no, I must finish my answers.
I say, finishing my thoughts out loud to a filled empty house.
"Jesus, I'm shivering right now. If I could make a Vita-Chamber, I'm basically free of most threats in this world, all having only one option in the face of them: death. HAHA! Finally, I'm safe-ish. Hell, with all those plasmids, I'll be unstoppable to most parahuman threats. I think—I do not know if shards can access my plasmids. Better not give parahumans any, I guess."
I feel comfortable, less stressed, I think, as I sit back in the same couch once more, relaxed that I have a chance at living, at least, as I think upon the rest of my powers, all ingrained in me. No note needed. I smile as I throw it to the floor.
"No note needed, hehe."
I whisper to myself, my lips barely touching as a wisp of air leaves my mouth as I lick my now dry lips as I just sit, tired. The stress of everything, the memories, the connection I— I just think upon the physicalities of my power imbued with afterimages—punches that punch once more: 1, 2, 1, 2, 3, BANG. I try to be more happy, the roses hugging me, helping that feeling. My mind is jumbled. I cannot think, so I speak.
"Reminds me when I stayed up late at night and wrote my first times were gibberish as a child. Hehehe HAHA! Oh God, what I wrote was pretty cringey as a child—even worse at 3 AM. God, it was a mess. At least I had myself supporting myself? Maybe ME helped my stories to find which scenario to find, the ones I made," I say, looking up, eyes closing on the couch as I lean to the side, resting on the cushions, head sinking inwards. "Maybe the real friends we made are the ones we literally made, or were."
I lay on the couch, mind unfocused, as I think and begin to talk out loud again, keeping me from slumber.
"I'm... happy, I guess, with what I have had, I suppose."
I sat there, tired, content. I sleep.
Narrator:[subtitles: snoring_sfx_snotbubble_pop]
"Uh, whAAHT?"
[subtitles: oomph or other sound effects—I don't get paid enough]
"Wha— what the hell? OH GOD DAMN IT, DID I MISS THE FIRST EPISODE? GOD, I'M GETTING FIRED! FU—"