4.X (Bombshell)
Harbin
Getting sticky.
- Joined
- Jul 10, 2016
- Messages
- 91
- Likes received
- 1,443
4.X
Everything that she did, wasn't her fault. It had been the result of other people, forcing her into it. She wasn't responsible for what happened, because it was their fault. The test was ridiculous. Everything was ridiculous, and the teacher had hated her. She didn't have a choice.
It was all a fucking joke on them, because she was better than any of those fuckers. What could they do? What did they think they could do, that she couldn't?
She had power.
Except she didn't, because once again, it wasn't her choice, and it wasn't her fault. So, she could do whatever the fuck she wanted, because it wasn't her fault. Nothing was. It was liberating, to the point of extremes. She could do whatever she wanted. She could change whatever she wanted, she could experiment with whatever she wanted. And none of it was her fault.
So, at three in the morning, after twenty six hours of being awake, she wormed her tongue through her gums, checking for any last bits, for the one hundred and forty fifth time. She kept track, because it was very important.
She glanced at the ground, and then the operating table, checking again. Maybe she'd missed some, somewhere. Damn. Nothing. Maybe if she looked again. No, no, she had to focus back on the task at hand, or he'd expire like the last one did.
"Hhh—" Her throat was dry. She picked up the glass of tepid water, swishing it around in her mouth. Maybe there'd be a bit left over that she could get out. Nope. Nothing. "Hey! Goatfucker!"
Skidmark glared blearily at her from the broken-down chair he'd been sleeping on. Or coming down from the last high. "What."
"I need more."
"Not till you're finished with that one." Skidmark said. It was a petty and vindictive response. Once, she'd passed out, crashing and comatose for at least twenty hours. The 'patient' had expired; but it hadn't been her fault. None of it was. She'd been nice, told him that she needed a bit more, just enough to stay moving, keep things all nice and easy. She'd warned him.
It was so nice to know that, as she slid the capsule into the unconscious man's nasal cavity, pushing it allll the way up there. Woo. The hard part was already done, putting a larger one into his pacemaker. She even got to change it, modify it, add on to it. Bm boom, bm boom. That was the sound of the man's heart beating. Mmm.
Everything was going to be A-okay. "Alright. Done."
"Alright. This'll really fuck up Lung? You sure, or you just being slanty-fuckwise with me?"
What did that even mean? "Yes. I'm fucking sure, you dumb cocksucking fuckwad. Give it to me."
"Okay, okay. Fucking take it." Skidmark rummaged in one of his many pouches, grabbing out a small ziploc. He tossed it to her, and she grabbed it out of the air. "Crazy cunt."
His mutter made her glare at him, but she really didn't care all that much. She pushed her bleached hair away from her face, scowling. The only reason why she didn't shave the scraggly mess off was because she didn't want to look like a demented faux-Nazi.
But even if she did, it wouldn't be her fault.
She pulled off the medical gloves with a snap, throwing them to the ground.
It was her fucking tinker shop. Stupid fucking Skidmark. Fucking retarded fuck. Good shit, though.
--
Sometimes, she admitted to herself, she took it to avoid sleeping. If she kept going long enough, the dreams weren't all there, and she didn't have to worry about things. Then she woke up, and it was things she couldn't change anyway, so it was okay, and it was fucking finetastic. Because she was the best around at what she did, and Squealer could go suck a horse cock.
Bombshell. What a retarded name. Better than Squealer, though.
Jane Yukawa hated her face. She hated her body. She'd bleached her hair at the slightest provocation. It wasn't her fault, nor her choice, so it was easy. Just another thing cut off from the past, just another step that she couldn't control. Just like the melted flesh that made up the lower part of her left leg. Wasn't something she had any power over, just had to go with it. No real choice.
She wasn't a bombshell in figure or looks. She was average, at her best, and as she stared into the mirror with sunken eyes, she knew she was nowhere near her best.
Maybe she'd sleep it off instead. Get something to eat. She stared down at the packet in her hands. Whatever. Maybe tomorrow.
--
When she finally woke up, the patient was gone, a bomb in their brain and their heart. A smaller one, a larger one. Bombshell felt nauseated.
She wasn't stupid. Bombshell knew that she'd been taking quite a bit. More than she should. It was safe, her tolerance was high enough. But eating was important. There were burgers on the table next to her. Aww. He cared. Skidmark wasn't here right now. Probably getting his rocks off with his Squealer bitch.
She didn't care. Her libido had never been high. The drugs fucked with her more than anything else did, and the amphetamines had brought it down to an all-time low. But she'd never felt more satisfied or fulfilled when she sat at that table for thirty to forty hours, working, working, and knowing she was doing good. More than good. Fantastic. Nobody else could come close to what she was producing. Even Squealer appreciated her work, admired it. Bombshell's lips quirked upward. Not quite a smile, more of a vindictive grin.
She was good at being vindictive. That's what half the bombs were for.
Because Bombshell was the best at whatever fucking thing she wanted to be and NOBODY was going to say otherwise. Nobody.
She could have gotten that Valedictorian bullfuck shit but nope, wasn't her choice, wasn't meant to be. Oh well.
Not a thing. And now it wasn't like she was doing too much worse than taking methylphenidate anyhow. Just like everybody else. It was how they got their edge. Well, now she had it, and all she wanted. Who was laughing now, huh? Fuckers.
She hated this stupid place. Bombshell hated everyone.
That's why she asked Skidmark if she could hit the button.
"Not today," he said.
She was up to three and a half grams a day. Sometimes more, because it kind of carried over into the next day. Woo.
It was nice to be working this much. All kinds of ideas, taking up the spots of the old ones, better ones, newer ones, brighter ones, darker ones. She had ideas of ideas, she saw the heroes on the TV she sat in front of and watched for a couple hours every morning, slowly spooning in long-soggy cereal.
Carbon-limited distortion. Ooh, look at Gallant on there, all dashing and fucking shit. Still in high school, bitch; world's gonna smack you the fuck down. An emotional grenade, that had some kick to it, not anything like those wimpy power blasts. Suicidal urges, rage, maybe she could kickstart Lung, make him go off on civs until the protectorate had to kill him. Aegis flew overhead, all dramatic. What a dipshit fuckwad. Flesheater. She already had one for him. A special one, all wrapped up and ready to go. Not for him, particularly, but it'd work.
Change channel. Ooh, Legend. What a hottie. Yeah, strut it out on stage. A lightbomb. Some kind of targeting system, to specifically burn out eyes. Could she do it? Hell fucking yes she could. Wait, his lasers froze shit or something. How could she do that? Laser-targeted freeze bomb felt like cheating.
She'd figure it out. Bombshell staggered over to her workbench, moving so that she could sit, so that she wouldn't have to rely on her leg. It wasn't a problem when she started focusing, when she delved into her thoughts, thinking so fast that nothing could stop the pieces from coming together, not the fucking music next store she'd turn that into a bomb too and blow their fucking ears out. The squeaking of long-dead bedsprings, begging for release, she'd turn them into a glass sculpture so that everyone could see their stupid fucking faces, all lust-ridden and dead. It wasn't like she had a choice in the matter, they were just going to die anyway. It wasn't her fault.
--
Bombshell asked Skidmark if she could press the button today.
"Not yet. By the end of the week," he said, with a lot more profanity. Something about 'selfish fuckin cunt'. She didn't care. She wanted to see them go off, with all the fucking beauty she deserved.
--
Skidmark followed through on his promise.
She pressed the button. It was all she'd hoped for. And it wasn't her fault, because she didn't have a choice. Someone would have done it, if it wasn't her. Bombshell was just giving them what they deserved.
Last edited: