I read The Legacy of Luthor Strode by Tradd Moore and I just had the thought to write an AU with Talented people instead of superheroes.

[Trigger Warning: Extreme Violence, Mentions of sexual assault, foul language and OOCness]

My name is Taylor Hebert and I was just shot nine times. Seven in the chest and twice in the leg.

The red haze disappeared and It felt like waking up from a particularly vivid dream.

My breath came out rough and ragged, a chortling wheeze forming in the back of my throat each time I inhaled – like a whistle as I struggled to keep it together. Mom's aviator jacket was overstretched across my chest, the sleeves were a slight bit cuffed and the collar had been shorn off entirely by a stray shot.

It hurts.

It fucking hurts so goddamn much.

I flicked away a chunk of brain matter from my hair, then ran a hand across my chest, along the creases my unbound breasts formed and cringed in pain when I ran a finger across an open, and bleeding wound.

I know the bullets are caught in my muscles.

I can feel them, lodged inside as they are.

A bullet wound. One of nine, If I recall correctly – and I did, my memory has been rather impeccable of late.

Impossible, right? I know… I know – believe me, I don't… rather, I didn't believe it myself either at first.

I trailed my finger away from the wound, moving on to the Clavicular head region – the bundle of muscle that ran just below the shoulder blade, where two more bullet wounds were. Then again, lower – rather, further up, along the ridge of my left breast where the side had been glanced by the fourth shot, which had consequently lodged itself before the lateral lip of the intertubercular groove (six inches above the elbow, and two and a quarter below the shoulder - the bicep essentially).

There were others – one, possibly the most painful, lodged directly into my right breast.

A cluster of three on either side of my torso, one to the left side just beneath the lowest rib and two on the other.

… then two more in my right thigh.

They all hurt.

I can do a lot of impossible things. Like…

I tensed my body and flexed. Muscles bulged and squirmed like a bag of worms as I squeezed the bullets out.

…this.

One by one, they all popped out and fell to the shag carpeted floor of the studio apartment. As the last spurts of excess blood squirt out, I stood with my arms against my waist, Dad's old hockey mask sticky against my face, bloodied and dirtied as I surveyed my handiwork.

My name is Taylor Hebert, and I have certain…

The lamp to my right cast an orange glow to the room, like the glow of a hearth and it gave the surrounding décor a sense of warmth, purposely contrasting against the cream of the walls.

Though, the lamp served no purpose anymore.

The room had been painted red.

Eight men laid dead before me.

The first one I'd ripped in twain – quite literally. I'd severed him in half with my bare hands, separating his upper body from his lower body. I'd thrown him aside and he'd apparently landed on top of a desk, back against the wall, sat upright with his gut literally spilling to the floor.

I hadn't completely torn him in half I realized. There was a thin string of stomach lining, perhaps the small intestine that connected his upper body to his lower.

His name had been John Clancy – African American, thirty-seven years old, no wife or children, and he was a budding SoundCloud artist with a small following and two notable songs to his name, a gangbanger, a rapist and a murderer.

Next to John laid Scott, Mateo and Shinji. Last names unknown, ages indeterminate and no known ties.

Scott was missing the entirety of his lower jaw, his tongue and larynx; and he had a hole that went through his throat all the way down into his chest cavity. A fist sized hole I'd punched through.

Mateo had both of his arms removed and was missing the upper half of his head after I'd cleaved it clean off using his own severed hand as a bludgeon.

Shinji had a hand stuffed into his mouth, the fingers poking though the underside of chin and eyes bulged out.

Scott played guitar, Mateo did vocals and Shinji had been the tech guy in charge of editing and their social media. Scott was also a rapist/murder, as was Mateo and Shinji.

Above, and imbedded into the ceiling – again, literally imbedded into the ceiling was Nagi. Seeing is believing the saying goes, and I heartily agree – words cannot describe Nagi's fate, for I lack my mother's diction to describe what can only be rightfully mistaken for a video game glitch.

Nagi was the hanger-on. The leech of every friend group, the third wheel as it were.

Happy to participate in his ftiend's atrocities. Anything for a good laugh, anything to fit in.

Near the door were the last three. All sprawled out in various stages of undress, dead and eviscerated. They were Nicolai, Daniel and Valentine.

Nicolai's face was blue, his eyes were popping and leaking amber tears, with a downside-up whiskey bottle that I'd stuffed down his throat sticking up from his mouth. The bottle was half full with amber liquid(whiskey), and a milky red(blood) with chunky bits of bile floating about inside the concoction that he'd vomited into the bottle when he tried breathing.

He'd been my first hit, and I hadn't given him much time to react thus he was still facing dead ahead, remote still in his hand and still seated against the love couch.

Daniel, I'd simply bludgeoned with his own SMG then emptied the clip into his head. All that remained of his head was a fine red mist coating the entire west wall, dripping down the autographed poster of the Godfather and covering the cabinet with the various Transformer figurines.

His body laid prone, stuck on his knees with his rear end facing up.

Valentine had been my human shield for most of the fire fight… at least before I found out I was somewhat bullet-resistant, after that I'd snapped his neck then tossed him aside into the adjacent bathroom where he'd hit his head against the ceramic toilet bowl and caved his skull in.

If dead could have been any more dead, Valentine surely would be it.

Nicolai was the camera guy and Daniel the property owner – the apartment was his, the recording equipment was his and the record label was in his name.

Valentine on the other hand was the face of the crew, and I dont mean that figuratively - he was the most photogenic of them all with a square-jawed aesthetic, dark skin, a somewhat muscular build and sporting snazzy cornrows.

If I drove stick, he would've been my first pick of man... if looks were all that mattered that is.

Nicolai was no rapist, nor was Daniel and Valentine – but they were murderers, enablers and bystanders. The fact did not absolve them – their suffering was well-deserved for their association with serial rapists I felt.

… Talents.

I walked over and past the prone bodies, making my way to the second-floor bedroom were my last… victim was hiding in a closet from the sound I could hear.

A woman and perhaps the worst offender out of the whole group.

She didn't participate, but she was the keystone of the operation. She was the 'talent scout' as it was, the one responsible for luring in young girls, sometimes boys, with the promise of starring in their music videos.

She was, in a way, the defacto leader of this particular outfit of ABB.

"…Yan," I called her out as I made my way up the stairs, each step a thundering footfall followed by a yawning creak. Half of that was on purpose, I could already hear Yan's pounding heart and the elevated rush of blood as well as the panicked motion of someone trying to stay still at all cost – the fear factor.

The other half was just my sheer bulk against the flimsy mahogany stairs, a full-figure of pink-muscle is surprisingly heavy – who knew, right?

"I just wanna ask you a question Yan?" I said, leaning into the door a little. It creaked, and I heard the sound of a click – the cocking of a gun.

"I just wanna ask you something about a friend of mine…. Her name's Emma – you'd know her, I think. She's a third year at Winslow. Red hair, round face – she's got her mother's figure, a real bombshell, well, she's a redhead, so… spitfire, I guess."

I walked in and closed the door behind me.

'..oh god… oh god, oh god,' she whispered.

… and closed the windows too, as I paced around.

"… thing is – I just came back from Summer Holiday -from my Gram's place. Went there for a bit of healing – a little time away from this gang ridden shit-hole of a city to mourn a little. Three months of nothing but positive vibes, a bit of exercise and good eating all around… its good for a girl y'know."

I made a show of looking around, taking a peek under the bed, under the covers and the bathroom inside the main bedroom – seemingly ignorant of the walk in closet.

'… oh fuck…. No, no, no, no, no, no.'

"Imagine my surprise when… instead of being picked up by my best friend and her dad, I had to go see one at the hospital – ears cut off, eyes scratched blind and severe trauma, physical and mental. Assault the doctors said. Then I had to bury another father - I had to attend another goddamn funeral, the following week."

I neared the closet…

"She didn't… couldn't speak of what happened but when she did – she said your name Yan. She called you out by name and described you by features - freckles and all. You and your pose. Anne recognised you from a YouTube video you made, so~," I drawled, "… here we are now."

'…oh god… oh god… oh god.'

And stopped right by the opening, looked into the dark where she was hiding and peering through.

"God can't help you Yan," our eyes met, and I felt more than I heard her heart skip a beat.

"God didn't help Emma from you Yan – he didn't help uncle Alan, or the thirty other girl your boyband cornered, gang-rapped, mutilated then killed. If he didn't help any of them, what makes you think he'll help you?"

'…,' silence was her answer. Rightfully so, I felt.

"Get out," I demanded.

Yan scrambled from the cover of cloth and shoes; a small revolver shakily held in her hand pointed my way.

I let her keep it for the time.

"Sit," I took the fainting chair near the foot of the bed and pointed to the bed itself for her to sit on.

She was a quivering mess as she sat at the foot of the bed. Her skinny jeans had a wet spot running down to her ankles, and her makeup was coming undone from the profuse sweating she was suffering from.

"… I know you remember, Yan."

Her eyes betrayed her, as did her body. I'd kept note of how her body reacted as I talked about Emma – there had been reactions consistent with recognition.

She knew exactly why I was here.

"… what do you want?" she asked, gun still pointed at me and hands still shaking.

"... I want you to make a choice."

"… a choice?"

"The very same one you gave Emma. Pick one of three…," I reached out my hand and she tensed.

My hand wrapped around the revolver and she jerked back, rather, attempted to but failed to overwhelm me. I pinched the barrel and felt the metal give, bending like putty in my grip.

I let go, and she pulled the trigger the moment my hand retracted.

The gun fired.

There was a click as the hammer fell, a bang when the gunpowder ignited and a crack when her wrist snapped from the recoil of a trapped shot.

She screamed and in her pain and panic, she threw the gun away, which clattered uselessly against the floor.

I ignored her wailing and continued, "Eyes…"

She was still screaming but her fear spiked in recognition.

"Ears…"

"…I'm sorry… I'm so sorry… please, no… no, I'm sorry…," she curled in on herself, cradling her swollen hand to her belly.

"… or face…," I finished recalling the words Emma mutters in her sleep.

"…please," she pled.

"Make a choice Yan. I don't have all day – the cops will be here soon, and I don't want to be anywhere near this when they show up."

I waited.

She made her choice soon after.

It's no magic, I assure you. Nor is it a superpower, or some byproduct of government experimentation - I think.

It's just a talent I have.

To explain… well, I'd have to go back to the very beginning.

It all started with a book.