Shift (Rewrite)

 

Over there, everybody you meet is either an enemy or an ally. There is no middle ground whatsoever. Plus, who is an ally today may be an enemy tomorrow. And vice versa.

After we Returned, some of us came to believe the symbiotes might be the cause of that line of thinking, but when we were over there, it didn't matter. When the entire planet follows a philosophy like that, you either do it yourself or you die.

Needing that mindset to survive, you make it an integral part of yourself, and when we got back home where that was no longer true, some of us never found our way out of that mindset.

So please keep in mind that Zip is no different from any traumatised war veteran and needs our help and understanding. Not to be hunted down like a rabid dog.

― Deposition of Joined "Meister" #R42MHM217505 during Operation 'Breaking Point'. August 15th, 2012. - Cycle R42

 

***

 

"Looks like somebody had quite a tussle," The figure sitting on one knee in the brown longcoat said gravely.

"You can tell that just from looking at the piles of alien dog corpses, empty bullet casings, and bomb craters?! Wow, can you teach me to read signs like that?!" Claire said in the most astonished tone she could fake, then rolled her eyes at him.

"Freya, you real-"

"My name's Claire, not Freya," Claire interrupted the man before he could finish.

"You might want to take a gander at-"

"Use normal English, Jerry," Claire interrupted him again before he could go off in that faux-western language he'd picked up from somewhere.

"I prefer Mal," Jerry said in exasperation, "Just like Merlin prefers Merlin."

The third member of their group -the Party with a capital P, according to the two men with her- stood with both arms extended palms-up above his head while murmuring the Latin of his 'spell.'

Mo -whose actual name was Mohammed- nodded sagely. This half of the manchild duo wore long blue robes and a pointed blue hat, making him look like a midnight blue version of Gandalf.

Claire rolled her eyes at both of them.

Jerry and Mo -she refused to refer to them by their stupid codenames- had known each other before they were taken and had, in her opinion, been the most passionate geeks on the planet.

She'd met them two days after she had descended into this hell, and they had been together since then.

Of course, that was before they each jumped into their geek-ness with both feet and decided that they were superheroes, so they needed an alter ego with a codename.

Jerry had chosen to name himself after a space insect or something; she'd tuned out his explanation, and Mo decided he was King Arthur's wizard.

The two manchildren had dragged her along while wasting a day finding clothing they considered good enough for a superhero costume.

They had finally succeeded in the phonebook's third 'fancy dress and costume' shop they went to; this one was the first one not wholly obliterated.

The boys had solidified her opinion that they'd never talked to an ordinary woman -ever- when they tried to get her to wear some skimpy Amazon costume so she'd 'fit in with the Party's theme.'

As if she'd wear something like that.

Especially in English weather, that was just asking to die from pneumonia.

"If you don't like Freya, how about LeeLoo?" Jerry asked with a grin, "Can you say 'Mul-ti-pass'?"

"No. I saw that movie. I won't parade around in costumes calling myself fancy names like a five-year-old."

"It is a small mind which cannot look at a subject from different points of view," Mo said in a horrible fake upper-class English accent, then continued his Latin chanting, and she rolled her eyes at him so hard she thought she might be in danger of them popping out.

Also, if the 'spell' he was using needed chanting to keep the rain off them, how the hell could he interrupt it just to spout some so-called wisdom?

Both boys were oblivious to her eye-rolling and nodded to each other as if Mo had said the most insightful thing ever uttered out loud, and all Claire could do was groan.

She groused a lot about their cosplaying, but if she were honest with herself, what had happened with them was bat-shit insane, and the boys actually having fun with it was sort of making her feel better.

She'd never admit that to them, though.

"I reckon they headed further south," Jerry said, motioning towards a wet bit of pavement that looked like any other to Claire. Still, no matter how sarcastic she'd been before, Jerry had proven to be an almost adept tracker.

"I'm not so sure finding other people is the right thing to do," she spoke up with her concerns, "everybody we've met until now has tried to kill us, and none of them had guns and explosives."

"'Tis always a risk, but we require allies and transportation," Mo said, halting his stupid chanting again, still using the faker-than-fake accent, "You must remember, many a stranger is just a friend you have not met yet."

"Don't worry nothin', darlin'," Jerry returned to using his faux western drawl, "I protect me and mine."

Claire sighed. They weren't wrong; the three of them needed allies.

And that meant that, apparently, they were going looking for people with guns and explosives or explosive abilities.

On the bright side, whatever they ran into couldn't be more painful than listening to the fake accents.

Even if it got them killed.

 

***

 

With one hand wrapped around the soldier's neck, Ben casually lifted the armoured man's bulky form and pinned the pathetic weakling against a wall. The desperate soldier clawed at Ben's arm and kicked at his chest.

The giant former security guard watched impassively as his victim slowly turned fascinating shades of red, purple, and blue.

"Brother Ben."

Ben glanced at the priest holding a piece of rebar up for him and grinned.

The former security guard adjusted his hand slightly so the soldier wouldn't pass out. The giant then took the rusty rebar from Brother Jeremiah and very slowly pressed it against his victim's armoured shoulder.

The dark metallic armour plate held briefly but quickly buckled when Ben increased the pressure. The soldier screamed when the rebar punctured flesh, and his tormentor's smile widened.

Ben took the time to savour every moment as he slowly pinned the soldier to the wall. It wasn't unlike how a disturbingly malicious kid would pin a living insect to a board.

When the soldier finally passed out while pinning his second shoulder to the wall, Ben's interest in the man disappeared, and he quickly finished shoving the rebar into the wall instead of savouring it.

Brother Jeremiah waited serenely, but Ben could see that the priest of Purity approved of how he handled the unmistakably Unclean soldier.

And through Brother Jeremiah, God showed his approval.

Ben was verified Pure, his ancestors checked and proved Pure, and his family had raised him in the Church of Purity's ways.

Over the years, Ben had realised that the many, many sermons he had listened to came down to the fact that God had created the different races of man and blessed them each with one or more specialisations.

None were inherently better or worse than the others, but the Lord had made each race better at doing certain things than the other races. Each race had their place in His plan, and He had made sure they fit in what he wanted.

The only way you could offend God was either not devote your life to what he had planned for you, or, the worst of heresies, spurning His divine plan by mixing the races and siring Unclean ones.

The proof was blatantly obvious once you started digging for it: the worst atrocities in the history of mankind could be traced back to Unclean births and their effects. Pot. Ishii. Hitler. All of them had different races in their family trees.

It was simple and unmistakable when you examined the facts, and he had learned how to find the evidence hidden in plain sight at a very young age. His teachers had even praised him for his talent in finding the hidden truths.

Ben had done his best to follow God's plans; black men like him were naturally more athletic, physically imposing, and downright better protectors than other races, so he applied to the police academy. He was certain he could help them find the truths of the worst crimes.

And even when God tested him by having the police reject Ben's application for inane reasons, he didn't stop.

Ben persevered through many rejections in similar professions for comparable nonsensical reasons until he finally accepted help from another one of the Pure and became a lowly security guard.

It was... it was an embarrassment.

Ben was born for far more; He'd been the best at uncovering the Heretic's lies in history books, newspapers, and school lessons.

He knew he was created to find heretics and unclean, like an agent of a modern inquisition.

As a security guard, Ben had been forced to work with the Unclean, defiling himself by allowing them into the building he was protecting. He knew he was following God's will, and He had a plan, but Ben was revolted by what he was made to allow every single day.

But now he finally knew why he'd been tested so drastically.

God had shown him the vile infestation and horrors walking around in even a simple company to teach him that the Unclean and the Heretics were everywhere.

And then the Lord had finally rewarded him. He had given Ben everything he deserved so that he could fulfil his Divine purpose.

Ben had grown close to half a meter in height and half that in width in the days after he had been implanted. The giant had been stronger and more durable than anybody else the moment he was released.

And he had only grown in power and size since then.

He literally and figuratively looked down at the native soldier he'd pinned to the wall, the Unclean's boots dangling a meter from the ground, and pride welled from within.

"G," Ben spoke, his voice booming from his immense physical size even without him raising it.

A slight shimmering line appeared next to the giant before the world twisted in on itself, and the shimmer seemed to rotate in every cardinal direction simultaneously. Ben ignored his flip-flopping stomach's reaction to seeing the world being abused.

Both the giant and the priest felt a soundless whoosh of displaced air when the shimmering oscillation blinked out and now showed a Latino man holding a large rifle with a view from the upper level of one of the buildings overlooking the square they were standing in.

"What's up, Boss?" the Latino man asked as he swaggered from the building. The portal behind him became another shimmering oscillation as it reversed the method of appearance and winked out in a fraction of the time it took to appear.

"Good catch on the soldiers," Ben first complimented his most effective ally. Just like the benevolent leader Brother Jeremiah was teaching him to become. The effect on G was visible when the far smaller - but still average size- man puffed up.

"No sweat, Boss. What's next?"

"Any news on the hunt for the traitors and the other Unclean?"

G shook his head, "I woulda told ya. Terry and Red-eye are still on it. We'll find 'em, don't worry."

Ben already knew the answer, but he would keep pressuring the seven other Gifted to find the traitors because an example needed to be made.

Of course, his primary purpose was to find the Unclean who had been taken and Gifted at the same time as he was and then do the Lord's work.

 

***

 

Thomas stumbled down the gloomy streets so like -and unlike- the ones he had grown up in. He ducked into one of the dark alleys and pressed against the wall, panting from his exertions.

Had he lost them?

He counted his breaths, and a tiny spark of hope blossomed before it faltered a moment later when he heard the men and women taunting voices telling him to run rise in the streets around him again.

He turned to continue down the alley to flee from his pursuers when a man in a suit and an old-fashioned top hat stepped into sight, blocking his escape.

Thomas glared at the figure.

He'd been played.

Alex had lured him in by being kind and supportive. He's shown Thomas a form of civilisation in this hell-world, and Thomas had thought of him as a friend who could help him get home, but that all changed when Alex learned of Thomas' so-called Gift.

Alex's guards had ambushed him less than an hour later, but blind luck had him turning his head at precisely the right time, and the club had grazed his head instead of knocking him out.

He fled and ran for hours, ducking into and out of every side street he saw, but they kept finding him.

He wouldn't escape. He had to fight.

Alex. He was the leader. Thomas needed to show the man he wasn't to be toyed with and scare off all the others following him.

It was the only way.

Thomas forced his so-called Gift into action, and his long hair and beard exploded outwards with static electricity. Then, with a roar that might have been a moan, Thomas rushed towards his tormentor. With each step, electricity started to spark and roil over the Joined's body.

All he had to do was touch the bastard, and it would be over.

He was ten meters away from his would-be victim when he felt the first impact in his chest. He looked down as he ran and saw another metal cylinder impact and stick to his chest to join the first one.

Thomas stumbled.

His legs weren't responding like he wanted, and then he was facedown on the cobbled street. He tried to get back up but could only flop himself onto his back.

Alex and his men had closed around him, and darkness started encroaching on his vision. His Gift has sputtered out. There was nowhere he could go, even if he could get up.

"Why?" Thomas slurred, blearily looking up at the men surrounding him. Before his eyes wholly lost focus, he recognised that all their eyes were emotionless. Dead. How hadn't he seen that before?!

"It is your purpose. Your destiny," A malevolent smile spread across Alex's face, "we need power, and you can supply it."

 

An hour later, the flickering streetlights consistently burned brightly again, and the gloom in the walled city was banished.

 

***

 

He watched the blonde woman sit underneath the tarp. The rain beating down kept her from effectively standing guard while the others of her group slept.

Instead, she had hunkered down with a tarp wrapped around her head, cutting off most of her peripheral vision and allowing him to close in on her.

She was objectively beautiful: long blonde hair, bright blue eyes, a soft oval face, and perfect curves. Even the implant replacing her spine didn't detract from her alluring looks.

And that was what spelt her doom because when he first saw her a week ago, she had been as bald as the rest of them and as mousy a woman as he had ever seen.

While surreptitiously observing her, he had noted that she was far stronger than she should have been given her body shape, and after testing her with a trap that cut her foot a few days ago, he was certain that she healed even faster than the other Joined.

He had stalked her afterwards, but this was the first time the blonde had presented an opportunity for him to strike without her group being sure to jump to her defence.

HUNT.

He crept forward slowly, the rain masking even the whispers of sound he would make until he was right behind her.

He lifted his heavy metal club, targetting the side of her head, and slammed it home with all his might.

The woman didn't even react and went sprawling across the rain-slicked tarmac. Her Gift showed its strength when she groaned in pain and flailed a bit while trying to get herself up.

He didn't give her the chance to gather herself and brought the club down on her head twice more. Both times with as much strength as he could muster.

GROW.

She went down bonelessly, and he pounced.

The tarp was violently ripped off, exposing her implant. He didn't hesitate a moment and bit the top part connected to her skull.

His own implant got to work, and the sharp whine of a drill cutting through metal sounded through the night. He kept his mouth closed around the woman's implant to dampen as much of the sound as possible.

He had taken other precautions to stop her group from interrupting them, but the man wouldn't take any more risks than needed. There was no need to get sloppy just before he got what he needed.

 

***

 

"Sir?"

Defence Commandant Marcus Stein looked up from his tablet and saw one of his Lieutenants standing at attention before his desk.

"At ease. What is it, Lieutenant?" He repeated the exact words he'd used what felt like thousands of times since Agna had died months ago.

Stein kept his face passive when the pangs caused by his Second's absence suddenly assaulted him again.

Practicality told him he needed to promote a new Second to filter the reports before they reached him, but he kept putting off the choice.

Nobody was good enough to fill Agna's boots, and he didn't want to settle on anything less than perfect.

He considered the man in front of him for a moment before discarding the idea of simply taking him as an assistant instead of finding and training a replacement Second.

"Sir, you wanted the report on Harvested retrievals at oh-seven-hundred."

Stein held out his hand and was promptly passed a tablet. He flipped it right side up and scanned the content while Lieutenant Klein summarised. Agna had ensured his Legion was well-trained in how he preferred to be informed long before she died.

"We have retrieved seven Harvested who have achieved Completion and have confirmed nineteen failsafe failures."

Stein grunted and scanned the failsafe failures; none were unusual with the amount of Harvested they'd unleashed, so he signed off on the report without ordering any additional actions taken.

He tapped on the tablet to bring up the list of Completed Harvested: two Double potentials and four Triples. None of their manifestations were exceptional in any particular way, but bodies were bodies. He signed off on transferring and storing them.

The last Completed Harvested on the list, however, was flagged.

Stein already knew what it meant, but he opened the file anyway.

The Harvested was a triple, with Kine, Bine, and even a Gine manifestation. That would have been more than worthwhile, easily the most useful of the entire batch, except the Harvested had Taken from an Anathema.

"What a waste," the Commandant sighed, then signed off on the destruction of the Harvested.

"Anything else?" Stein asked, feeling slightly annoyed at losing such a useful Harvested.

"No, Sir," Lieutenant Klein answered and took back the tablet he'd given Stein.

"Dismissed then, Lieutenant."

 

***

 

The Zyn scanned the area a final time and confirmed the two dozen of his brethren guarding the streets and roofs around their Enemy's eviscerated torso.

His brethren would ensure that nothing could approach without them knowing, but they had made a mess of the remains.

After a reasonably quick examination, the Zyn could deduce that it had once been a female. It took him considerably longer to determine that his brethren didn't cause her death but that she was killed with a human weapon.

That meant her killer had been another Enemy or one of the few remaining natives. The only others in this city were his brethren, and he was the only one in this part of the human city who'd use human weaponry.

The Enemy being killed by her own might explain why the fetter hadn't destroyed its occupant and why, even if it had been detached from her body by his brethren, the Enemy's head still looked intact.

After all, the Enemy exclusively didn't destroy when planning to take what should only be freely given.

After examining the dead woman's torso, the Zyn stood up, slowly picking his way between chunks of shredded limbs to Enemy's head.

His brethren were very good in what they were spawned for but were governed by instinct. Seeing an Enemy, even a dead one, spurned them to unmitigated violence.

Of his brethren the ones the Enemy called Category Two, those unlike him had a severely limited capacity for logic. Not that he was even close to his more intelligent senior brethren, but he was able to reason instead of being a slave to his instincts.

He knew he shouldn't be too proud because he had nothing to do with it. It was simply the result of his spawning purpose.

Still, he couldn't help but consider himself 'better' than his brethren. Some of the Enemy's thoughts and pursuits had tainted him long ago, and he couldn't stop being what he was and fulfil his purpose.

He figured it was his burden to debase himself with their ways so he could finally help end them all.

Silf-pitying martyrdom.

The Zyn scoffed, another foolish notion the Enemy's ideas had planted in his head. He shoved them from his mind and knelt beside the corpse's head.

Most of the face had been ripped off by his brethren's passionate assaults, but the back of her head still had part of the fetter attached. The Zyn immediately noticed part of a perfectly round hole in the hated metal.

Not a native, but one of the Enemy, he confirmed. That made his next step clear.

The human skin of his left arm split open, and his forearm muscles wriggled out like a mass of worms with one end connected to his bones.

The myriad of wormlike things ended each ended in either sharp bone knives and needles, lamprey mouths, or tiny suckers.

The tool-tipped appendages shredded meat and bone in seconds before the lamprey ones latched onto the corpse's brain and devoured it. When the organ was gone, the human-looking creature discarded the Enemy's empty skull without another thought.

The Zyn grunted in pain when bones started to move under his human-looking skin. His lightly tanned skin rippled from the things moving below it, slowly turning into a much darker tone.

The entire process completed within a few minutes, and the Zyn cracked her neck while she sorted through what she had learned from the Enemy's memories.

They were interesting. And useful. So the Skinslip released her hold on the relevant ones and brought the Enemy's personality to the fore.

Then she smiled widely, showing her teeth to the world like the predator she was.

"Oh, you fucking half-bred cuntdrip," Clara growled, "I'm going to fucking rip your skull out through your asshole and let it hang there like a crusty dingleberry.