Nemesis

Disclaimers:

1) This story is set in the Wormverse, which is owned by Wildbow. Thanks for letting me use it.

2) I will follow canon as closely as I can. If I find something that canon does not cover, then I will make stuff up. If canon then refutes me, then I will revise. Do not bother me with fanon; corrections require citations.

3) I welcome criticism of my works, but if you tell me that something is wrong, I also expect an explanation of what is wrong, and a suggestion of how to fix it. Note that I do not promise to follow any given suggestion.

Part One: Introduction

Consciousness returned, and with it, sensation.

Sensation is overrated. I'll put that out there now. There are many sensations which I could go my whole life without ever experiencing, and I would not miss them in the slightest.

Not coincidentally, I know exactly how quite a few of those sensations go, because I've been right there, enjoying them to the fullest. Fuck my life.

The first sensation to make itself known was pain. A shitload of it, all over my body, but concentrated to a large degree in my right arm and shoulder. How did it feel? My body felt like some maniac with a baseball bat had just now taken the time to give me a grade-A tune-up. I had to give him props for effort; he hadn't missed anywhere that I could tell. As for my arm, it felt like the very same maniac was attempting to remove it, with a chainsaw, at the shoulder, without either sharpening the blades or starting the fucking chainsaw.

Yeah. It felt like that.

The next sensation I recorded - thank you, near-perfect memory - was stink. Rotting garbage, shit, piss and fresh puke. Some of which, I was nearly certain, belonged to yours truly. At least the puke, anyway, going by the minty-fresh taste that did not inhabit my mouth.

Did you know that it's possible to throw up from the smell of your own puke? I do now. Not an experience that I would recommend to anyone. Ever. Even those bastards out there who've made my List. You know who you are. If I ever get my hands on you, even while I'm pulling your tonsils out through your rectums with a pair of rusty pliers, I'll spare you that particular ordeal. Be thankful for small mercies.

So I threw up some more, then passed out for a bit. When I came to again, it was because a rat was trying to eat my face. Or at least nibble at my nose. Well, I'm guessing it was a rat; I couldn't see a thing. All I know is that it had teeth and whiskers; it might have been an emaciated Chihuahua, but I wasn't in a mood to care. I tried to scream, but all that came out was a gurgling croak.

The rat skittered away, thankfully. As did its two hundred and forty-three (I may have over-estimated a tad) cousins, brothers, sisters and elderly relatives, all of which had been doing their best to investigate me more closely than the Customs Service was ever likely to.

That was when I heard the voice. "Hey, what was that?"

Up until then, I hadn't been able to see much of anything. I'd attributed that to it being dark where I was, or possibly me being blind. Now I discovered that it was the former, because a flashlight beam cut through the blackness, splashed over grunge-covered brickwork, and hit me right in the eyes.

When you've been lying in near-total darkness for Scion knows how long, being hit in the face with a pair of police-issue high-powered flashlights feels like exactly that; being hit in the face. Or rather, across the eyes. Probably with the same basball bat that our friendly neighbourhood maniac used to play a tune on my ribs, my kneecaps, and every other important part of my body.

For the first time since I had regained consciousness (I say regained because saying 'gained' implies that this was the first time I was ever conscious, and I'd really rather this not be the case. I'm an optimist that way), I actually moved. You see, up until this point, I hadn't moved, not even to throw up. Apparently you can indeed toss your cookies while lying down. You just can't toss them very far (tip to all would-be prone cookie-tossers; do not be lying on your back when you do this. On your side is much healthier, and allows kind passers-by to place you in the recovery position).

Movement revealed to me a very important set of data. Namely, all the aches and pains that I felt while lying still were as gentle breezes to the howling tornado of fucking agony that grabbed me when I started flexing my arms and legs. Also, that I was lying on my right arm. Which was probably why it hated me at the moment, and was very likely filing divorce papers at that point in time. The cramp that locked on to my right arm from the shoulder down gave me the distinct impression that the maniac with the chainsaw had given his place to an enraged six hundred pound gorilla, who was trying to wrench it from its socket, with some success.

With my right arm unable to do more than a fairly basic impression of a day-old dead fish (with extra smell added in for bonus points) I raised my left hand to shield my eyes against the flashlights.

With my arm straight out, I spread my fingers to try to cut down on the glare, and squinted to see who was approaching me.

I was about to get a really, really good look.

Because at that moment, a jolt of pure liquid flame shot up the length of my left arm, and blue-white lightning blasted outward from the palm of my hand.

It lit up the alley like a camera flash, only it was more like a lightning strike. One that strobed on, and on, and on. Electricity, of course, seeks metal to ground into. Crackling blue-white tendrils attached themselves to dumpsters, garbage cans, fire escapes and stray tin cans on the ground. They also crawled over, curled around, the two police officers who had been picking their way toward me, flashlights up and at the ready.

I saw the lightning hit them; it struck their badges, their flashlights, their guns, their belt buckles, their wristwatches. It clung to them, crawling over them, causing their bodies to convulse, to jerk in a grotesque dance. Then they fell. The closest one had smoke coiling up from his open mouth.

Lightning was still crackling from my hand, still grounding to everything that it could ground to. Convulsively, I snapped my hand closed. The lightning ceased.

I had just killed or badly injured two police officers, with lightning powers I hadn't even known I had. Fuck. My. Life.

I managed to get to my knees, and then my feet, without actually passing out or falling over. Or both. Which tends, in my experience, to follow, one from the other. Carefully, I staggered toward the two downed cops. The first one was either dead, or should be; the smell of burned meat turned my stomach yet again. It was good that I had already emptied my stomach, because that smell would have rung the 'evacuate' bell, loud and clear. As it was, I did gag a few times.

For a miracle, the second cop was alive; or at least, he seemed to be breathing. I went to bend over to check that he was all right …

"I wouldn't do that – villain."

Moving with all the grace and speed of a thoroughly inebriated baboon, I spun around; something slipped under my foot, and I ended up sprawled sideways against the alley wall. My left elbow had landed on a trash can, topped by a tied-off garbage bag. The bag burst open under the impact of my arm, allowing its well-marinated contents to add to the ambient fragrance permeating the alleyway.

But I didn't care about that, not even to retch some more, even while my stomach did its best to earn its yoga merit badge by tying itself in knots.

I was pretty sure it was a guy who had spoken; I was going with 'guy' as opposed to 'chick' because with a voice that deep, if it was a chick, I'd advise her to get off the steroids before too much hair started growing on her balls. The guy in question, just a silhouette in the dimness of the alleyway, hovered some three feet above the ground; the grotty, stinking, trash-covered ground. It was a good trick. I wished I knew how to do it.

It was time for some intelligent, probing, in-depth questions regarding my situation. I gaped at the silhouetted figure and mumbled, "What the fuck?"

There was the sound of soft applause, even as the less crispy-fried cop behind me started to groan and move slightly. "Congratulations, villain," the flying guy told me, his voice soft, but filled with a vicious satisfaction. "You just killed a police officer in front of his partner. You'd better run. Now."

I hesitated; some vague idea crossed my mind of staying, of confessing, of throwing myself on to their mercy. But the trash can rose into the air, wobbling like an ineptly-piloted UFO; before I could move, it smashed into me, driving me backward. "Run!" he shouted. "Before I kill you myself!"

I ran.

God help me, I ran.

I only stopped running when my internal organs set up a unified protest; I was fairly sure that if I kept going, one or more of them was going to vacate the premises. My recently-emptied stomach was complaining the most; it was knotted up tighter than a Boy Scout's practice dummy. Also registering protests were my liver, my kidneys, my spleen, and (I was fairly sure) my pancreas. Though I wasn't really sure where that even was, or even if it existed. The pancreas, I suspect, might be a subtle joke played upon unsuspecting patients for centuries; an organ that doesn't actually exist, upon which doctors can blame all manners of ills. It sounds like a good scam; I'd buy into it.

I slumped against an alley wall and slid down until I was sitting on the ground. Looking around, it was remarkably similar to the one I had just run from. It also sported the same accoutrements; trash cans, dumpsters, and a wide assortment of garbage for the appreciation of the discerning squatter. Even the smell was virtually identical. In only two aspects did it differ from the location from which I had been recently evicted; it lacked police officers, alive or dead, and it lacked hovering, menacing, shadowy figures.

Which suited me just fine, at that moment. My right arm was no longer cramped or useless, but the maniac was back. He'd left his chainsaw behind, and was currently performing acupuncture on my arm. Using knitting needles.

It was time to take stock, and answer some important questions.

What's happened to me? I was sincerely fucked if I knew.

Where am I? In the dark, in a city, in an alley. Further answers were vague to the point of incomprehensibility.

What the fuck is with that lightning shit? I lifted my left hand, which I'd kept clenched rather tightly, ever since the light-show in the other alleyway. Incautiously, I opened it.

In the middle of my palm was a shape like a four-pointed star, glowing light blue. And as my fingers spread open, fire streaked up my arm and lightning burst from the glowing star. Because I make great plans like that.

It didn't electrocute me, which, considering my luck to date, I'd call a cast-iron miracle. But it sparked all over the alleyway, probably zapped a dozen cockroaches without putting an appreciable dent in the local population, and set fire to some of the trash.

I closed my hand again. Dark blotches were dancing in front of my eyes, result of the incredibly bright (pun intended) idea of looking directly into a live electrical arc. Smooth move, Ex-Lax. But I had a partial answer to the 'what the fuck' question. My left hand would shoot out lightning if I opened it more than part way. Which was going to make certain operations very, very tricky.

How I got that particular power was beyond me. In fact, trying to think back before the point of waking up in the alleyway was drawing a solid blank. I couldn't remember a single, solitary aspect of my life that didn't occur post-wake-up. Nor, I realised with a shock, could I remember my own name.

So there I was, sitting in an alleyway, cold and hungry, wearing stinky, ragged clothes, having just murdered one police officer and seriously hurt another, with some flying sociopath on my case. And if that wasn't enough, I was scared to open my left hand in case I incinerated my surroundings or sent up a flare for the cops to come get me. And I had no idea who or where I was.

And I needed a shave, too. I hate the feel of stubble on my face.

Fuck my life.

End of Part One