Chapter Text
New Bostin
John charged the man with as much ferocity as he could physically exert, swinging wildly at the man’s face. Though John had increased speed, it was far too choreographed to not be dodged with a complementing speed enhancement.
Byron had side stepped to the left and readied his claws for John’s neck, ready to cut his head clean off, when John rapidly shifted directions left and threw an explosive uppercut into Byron’s jaw.
Caught off guard, and clearly not expecting such intense pressure, Byron was slammed upward by an uppercut powerful enough to crack concrete in two. If he hadn’t had a defensive boost, his jaw would’ve completely shattered, and he would’ve died, no doubt.
John was going all out on this fight. He typically held back, even if he had been slipping further and further into madness recently. But he was always controlled, unleashing anger in bursts.
This was animalistic, wild and feral. Any normal person would’ve been easy to counter, but John was trained, and well versed in combat. He knew what attacks to use and when, only now he had intent to kill.
He never killed, not even at his worst, but this was different. This was more than some dollar store crook with a knife. This was an experienced, trained killer, though he seemed to still require more honing.
John didn’t let up, jumping up twenty feet into the air, and slamming Byron directly into the ground. Once he landed as well, he gripped the older man’s neck, vice like, and began strangling the life out of him.
Byron flailed and thrashed, trying to claw John off, but John simply steeled his body, gnashed his teeth, though they were hidden by his mask, and began slamming his brass knuckled fist into the man’s jaw.
The term was known as a ‘ground ‘n’ pound’ and was common in MMA fights. This, however, was far more brutal than a typical match. John wasn’t just aiming to knock him unconscious, he was aiming to split his skull in two.
Byron realized what was happening far too late, and began going limp. His oxygen was completely cut off, his windpipe practically crushed to powder, and his brain was rattling within his crumbling skull from the onslaught of beatings.
Just as he was beginning to succumb to deaths cold grip, he felt the pressure on his neck alleviate, and he could breathe again, before his world went black.
John was in the middle of his pummeling when he felt the same aura from Byron, but in another person, and rapidly slicing the air towards his face. He threw Byron down and attempted to back away, but he wasn’t quick enough.
The green haired one from that night, Farrah, had gotten close enough, and her claws connected with the only part of him that wasn’t reinforced, his face.
Her slice connected, and ripped John’s mask almost clean off, exposing part of his face. Her attack also connected to his face, and left four distinct cuts from the top of his right temple to his lower left jaw in a diagonal slice.
John, realizing he now had another killer to fight off, began weighing his options, before ultimately choosing to fight his way out.
He could run for his car, but she would most likely catch him before he could get in, turn on the car, and speed off. He could run on foot, but then lose his car, and risk getting caught on foot, he wasn’t sure how fast they were yet.
So all he could do was fight. He tried to sample her aura, the flame claws, but he found that he couldn’t. For whatever reason, he just couldn’t get a proper read on it. He noticed a few more foreign, artificial abilities.
f*ck, this just for a whole lot more f*cked up.
So, John opted to drop his defense enhancement, and chose to amplify strength and speed. He figured that if he wanted to even be able to hit her, he has to fully utilize speed, and for it to do damage, he needs strength. If he got tagged by her claws, even with extra durability, it would probably still be over for him.
So John focused on agility, and striking.
Stick ‘n’ move. Just keep peppering her until I can end her.
Farrah made the first move, going for John’s throat, and narrowly misses, due to John’s parry. He follows up with a right cross to her jaw, connecting with a resounding crack . She’s forced back, and John takes the opportunity to leap up with such speed she almost didn’t register it, and when Farrah did, it was too late.
John’s knee came up, and, reinforced with the steel, shattered her jaw, sending her brain careening in her skull. The whiplash alone most likely caused some type of shock.
She collapsed onto the ground, still.
John took the opportunity to rush to her lifeless form, and started crushing her neck. This was it. He really was going for the kill. Not only that, but he felt good about it. He felt some sick, twisted sense of satisfaction at the idea of ending another person's life.
They’re not people. They’re animals. Sick, twisted monsters like you. You know they deserve this. If you don’t kill them they will slaughter you.
John didn’t hesitate, not now, because he knows that if he slips up on them, they will go straight for the throat.
Literally.
So he continued, strangling and crushing her windpipe with his bare hands. Though he felt, deep down inside of him, the tiniest, little fraction of fear. Not for his own life, but for what this meant, what it represented.
If he kills them, especially now, when they’re down, he becomes a killer himself.
No, not a killer, a murderer. Is John really ok with killing someone? Can he really take another person's life? And so easily, without hesitation.
Just when he was starting to consider the consequences, the real, moral consequences of his decision, Farrah took action.
John hadn’t noticed her wake up and heal from her previous injuries, he was so caught up in his own mental storm of anger and frustration. He didn’t notice her ability activate, which he knows was a crucial mistake.
She woke up and dug her claws deep into his side, cutting right through his armor, and lodging it deep into his ribs.
John hadn’t noticed, he should’ve, he really just threw his life away like that. By making this one, simple mistake, one little slip, he just caused his own death.
“AUGH! f*ck!”
And, without any further doubt, without any need for more cause, John, still holding onto her neck, used all his strength to snap it.
Well, he tried. He dumped all aura and power he had into strength, simply to overpower her healing factor and resistance, but that, coupled with the adrenaline…
“Oh f*ck!?”
The sound of flesh tearing could be heard throughout the area, bones separating, tendons ripping. John had only meant to take her life quickly, or at least to concretely knock her out. He didn’t mean for this.
John had inadvertently torn at her neck too hard, and ripped it clean off.
“Holy sh*t, holy f*ck! What the f*ck did I just do?”
John was well and truly terrified of himself, he didn’t know he was capable of this. He just killed someone, in one of the most horrific and brutal ways he could ever imagine.
He ripped her f*ckING HEAD OFF. He decapitated her with his bare f*cking hands. He was still holding the damn head. What the f*ck was wrong with him?
Out of disgust and hatred, for himself, for her, for the whole f*cked up situation, he threw the head, and watched it roll in morbid fascination down the street.
During this whole ordeal, Byron had woken up, though not of much use as he was still gravely wounded. He observed the whole scene and couldn’t do a damn thing to stop John.
“You…you f*cking monster. You jus-”
“YOU SHUT THE f*ck UP!”
He didn’t get to finish his words, for John charged him down and used that same strength, that same adrenaline rush, to slam his boot into Byron’s face.
DON’T f*ckING CALL ME THAT! I AM NOT THE MONSTER! YOU ARE! YOU KILLED MY f*ckING DAD!
John didn’t even second guess the strength he used this time. He was too angry, too clouded with rage and hate and some indiscernible emotion that he was too scared to speak of.
He slammed his heel into Byron’s face, and it sank deep into his skull, then out the back. His kick went straight through Byron’s head like a speeding bullet, except this was more like a cannonball.
His foot went clean through, and with such force that the head as a whole looked like it was imploding.
John didn’t even realize until the second headless body collapsed, only this time any remains of the head were splattered all over the concrete, and John’s own leg.
He stood up, though slightly hunched over, and viewed his work. His violent, disturbing work.
I did this.
He looked to his 7 o’clock, and saw the headless body of Farrah, then to the right, and her separated head now sitting in a gutter. Then directly in front of him, to the body of his dads killer.
Byron’s head was eviscerated. Completely gone. Any remains left were bits of brain and skull fragments along the ground, on his own lifeless body, and on John himself. It was all too much, and, coupled with the blood loss from his own deep stab wound, John began feeling light headed, nauseous.
He couldn’t help but laugh at the circ*mstances. It was funny, in a morbid, ironic way.
One second, his life, while pretty sh*tty, was going along fine. He was about to reunite with Sera, he was still in school, his dad was alive.
Now, barely a month later, and his dad is dead, his home is blown to sh*t, he’s assumed dead, living in an abandoned train station, and he just killed two people.
“Hehe, heheha, hehehahahaha, AHAHAHAHAHA…”
And throughout the streets on this cold December night, John’s maniacal, broken laughter rang throughout. Slowly, however, it turned to sobs, desperate, angry sobs.
John was on his knees now, head in his blood soaked hands, regaining his composure, what was left of it.
I need to get back, I need to heal.
John hadn’t even noticed, but his stab wound earlier was worse than he thought. It wasn’t just a stab, it was a slash, and it opened him. Blood was pouring out, and if he didn’t heal soon, he too would die.
So, he used any remaining strength left, and tried to self heal. It was a patchy job, and he knew he needed real medical attention. But he couldn’t exactly go to a hospital.
A veterinarian clinic, nearby, I need to go.
John limped to his car, and tried his damndest not to think about the carnage he left behind. He tried to focus on not reopening his wounds. He got to his car, and sped away to the nearest clinic he could find.
The cops are probably on their way here, I need to disappear fast.
Once he feels safely out of the area, he silences his car, and pulls into a parking lot with an animal shelter, one connected to a clinic as well. He slowly hobbles his way there, breaks through the door, and makes his way to an operating room.
First, he gets a staple gun and does his best to close the wound. It hurts like a motherf*cker, but it’s nothing he couldn’t handle. Next, he grabs some gauze and tape, and fashions a bandage to wrap around his torso.
He was tempted to nab some painkillers as well, but figured that animal painkillers probably wouldn’t work too well for humans. So, he wanders back towards the door, and ignores the dogs barking in their cages.
They started as soon as he broke in, but he figures they’re of no harm to him anyway. He was on his way out when he saw a black dog, waiting patiently, not barking at him.
He crouched down and got closer, but the hound never once backed up, or growled, or barked at him.
It just stared, right into John’s very person. This one dog didn’t see him like anyone else. This one didn’t see him as a monster. It just…saw him.
Maybe it was the emotional state that John was in, or the blood loss, or the fact that this dog was probably the only living thing that didn’t hate him, but John couldn’t muster up the strength to leave without him.
He unlocked the cage, opened it, and let the dog come to him. And it did. It really did. It didn’t look scared, it looked concerned. Maybe John was just imagining things, but the dog really did look like it cared.
John recognized the breed, a boxer-pit bull mix, mostly black, with a little white on the underbelly. The dog followed him out the clinic and into John’s car, never once leaving his side.
And John went back to his hideout, a little (well, a lot) worse for wear, but alive, and now, with something akin to hope. He notably doesn’t think about the two headless corpses he leave lying in the street. Just on his future, and now, with company.
Wellston dormitories
Seraphina was sitting on her couch looking at news articles in New Bostin. She had been trying to find anything that would indicate John’s location, or what state he could be in. She found a couple interesting headlines.
The day of the explosion, there was a break in to a department store, men’s clothes were stolen by an invisible man. Then, similarly at a costume and party store, just a mask that time.
And that night, a man was reported to be in critical condition after being beaten during a suspected kidnapping. His car was stolen. Then, reports throughout the city of a new vigilante, known for excessive violence and short appearances.
Yep, that’s John alright.
She was just in the middle of scrolling through another article when she saw a notification for another report, this time by a much larger news network.
Clicking it brought her to a live report in New Bostin, where two corpses were reported. Her heart sank at the thought, she only just realized John was alive, and now Seraphina sees that he might’ve just died all over again. But the headline wasn’t about a vigilante death.
This was about two EMBER agents who were killed, both decapitated. Well, one was decapitated, the other was just headless. There was a video taken by a local resident in their home.
“ We warn you that the contents of the video are extremely graphic and disturbing. Viewer discretion is advised.”
No way in hell was Seraphina missing this. She watched the clip with morbid curiosity, and was promptly disturbed at its contents. In it was a figure in black strangling an EMBER agent, seemingly unconscious.
The figure hesitates, only for a moment, when the EMBER agent stabbed him with her claws, slicing him open.
The figure regains his composure and rips the head clean off the agent, the recorder gasping with shock and fear.
Barely a couple seconds later, the figure charges the second agent, and kicks straight through his head. A cry of fear and disgust sounded in the clip, mirroring Seraphina’s own reaction.
As the figure kicked, he shouted out “SHUT THE f*ck UP!”
There was no mistaking his voice. Try as she might, Seraphina couldn’t not recognize him. She knew without a shadow of doubt, that was John.
Oh God John, what happened to you?
