JohnnyZ
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[Life is Good] Chapter 18
🕑 Added 2024-12-10 18:49:42 +0000 UTCWow… I’ve officially unlocked new levels of the word “disgusting.” My vision is swimming and doubling, my ears are ringing and pounding, and my head feels like someone used it to brew one of Longbottom’s infamous potions. Let’s not even talk about my sense of smell—it’s in full retreat. I’m so thirsty it hurts, but getting water means I have to stand up. Which leads to the question: do I really want water badly enough to get up?
The research team (comprising me, myself, and I) decided to investigate. Results of the experiment? Subject lacks the strength to stand but wants water so badly they rolled off the cot. Face-first. Eh, whatever. The research department, which I run solo, concluded that this is actually better—I can crawl on my eyebrows and use my teeth for extra propulsion.
“Ha-ha, fuck,” I rasped into the floor as I got up onto all fours. Ugh, the room’s spinning like I’m in a dryer on high heat. And these visuals—wow. Pretty sure something’s wrong with my brain, because even when I close my eyes, I see trippy colored clouds… yellows, greens… bluish geometric shapes and lines. Though calling them “bluish” or “yellowish” is a stretch—I don’t even know what to name these colors; they’re just comparisons my fried brain cooked up. Anyway, time to embrace my inner toddler and crawl. Hand forward, set it down, knee forward, set it down… repeat.
Funny thing is, I used to joke about reincarnating as a sloth. What a badass animal, so chill it grows moss on its fur, and its north-facing side can stay that way for days. Turns out I’ve achieved my sloth dreams—moving at sloth-speed with sloth-agility. Gas giant dreams, baby—they do come true.
Finally, I got to the sink by leaning against the wall for support. But, uh, weird thing—while wobbling on unsteady legs, staring blankly at the wall, I noticed one of those bluish lines again. Not on the wall, but in the wall. I closed my eyes—still there. Tilted my head—it didn’t move with me. Okay, fine. I’ll figure that out later. Water first.
Ohhh, sweet nectar of life! Yes, baby! Oh, yes! Flow through me, you glorious liquid! For the ten glorious seconds I guzzled water, even my hideous state of being felt less hideous. Bliss. Now back to bed.
On the way, I yanked off my vomit-soaked undies. What’s the point of keeping those on? They’re just triggering my gag reflex. If anyone doesn’t like my dazzlingly bare jewels, they can kiss them. With great difficulty, I flipped my mattress over, climbed back onto my cot, and collapsed. Almost cozy. Lying on my side, face to the wall, with my chocolate starfish staring straight into the camera lens—mutual attention for mutual attention.
Sigh. Once I caught my breath, I thought about that weird line in the wall. I focused on it, thought about it… and holy shit. Congratulations, Toby. You’ve just unlocked a brand-new sensory ability. Say hello to your very own “ocular” dojutsu. Enjoy, try not to spill it. From what I can tell, I’m seeing energy. Those lines? Wires and cables inside the walls. The brighter ones go to the lights, a dim one leads to the camera, and the big, thick, super-bright ones are probably high-voltage cables. Around the lamps, there’s a little shimmer, orange transitioning to yellow, then green—probably heat. This whole light show “plays” in a roughly ten-meter radius.
Not bad. Built-in thermal vision. Hell, I could get a job as an electrician and charge top dollar! Though, considering this isn’t happening through my eyes… is this more like Force Sight from the Miraluka in Star Wars? Either way, I’m not about to test it by gouging my eyes out. Honestly, this "augmented reality" thing is a bit disorienting, but I’ll adapt.
What’s the practical use? Oh, that’s easy: absolutely fucking nothing. Right now, it’s as useless as a wet match. Give me Sebastian Shaw’s powers and I’d wreck this place. I’d strap Stryker into one of those funny chairs and fry her to Rammstein. Popcorn in hand, I’d watch as she “dances” to the beat, smoke and sparks flying. I’d even clap for her.
Instead, all I feel is powerless rage and disappointment. What’s a dude in cool-but-not-invincible armor with thermal vision barely any skill supposed to do against dozens of soldiers? Exactly. Nothing, unless he gets off his ass and starts scheming. If I just sit here whining, I’ll die of stress. On the flip side, if I throw myself at the locked door, I’ll die exhausted. I need a weapon. A gun. Hell, even a hatchet would do. Armed, I’d be a real threat—an armored infantryman. Sure, they could wear down my kinetic barrier or overwhelm me, but I wouldn’t just stand there soaking up bullets. And people usually don’t rush a guy with a weapon unless it’s a ’90s action movie. I need a weapon! This is so infuriating! My palms are literally burning—wait, why do I smell smoke?
I looked down, startled, and saw thin tendrils of smoke curling up from where my hands had clenched the mattress in anger. Shit, put it out! flashed through my mind. The camera’s watching, but if it’s not super high-tech, maybe it won’t pick up a little smoke. I started to smother the spot, even thought about scooting over it with my ass, but the “hot hands” sensation faded, and the smoke stopped before I could act.
Carefully, I shifted, sitting so the camera couldn’t see the scorched patch on the mattress. Sure enough, my handprints were burned into the fabric, like someone left an iron on it too long. Well, now this is interesting. A slow grin spread across my face, creaking like rusty hinges. Not because I’ve got “hot hands,” though that’s neat, but because it means I can discharge energy from my “battery.” Whether I released stored thermal energy or converted neutral energy into heat doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’ve got a new trick.
Rolling off the bed, I flipped the mattress, rolled it up to hide the scorch marks, and shoved it under the cot. Back on the bed, I turned my bare ass to the camera and started testing.
A couple of hours later, I had answers. Turns out I can control it. By working myself into a fury, I figured out how to trigger the effect. Explaining it is harder—it’s like wiggling your ears. Some people can, some can’t, and it’s impossible to describe how it works. But when I focus, I can make the heat flow to specific parts of my body. Fuck yeah. I could totally go by the name “Flaming Dick” and “heat up” supervillainesses in every sense of the word. Though… wait… what if my junk ignites during regular sex?
Epic. Fucking. Fail.
My epitaph: “He was so hot, no girl could survive him.” Or maybe I’d just shack up with fire elementals in the Plane of Fire.
Fuck it, I’ll figure it out later—all I can think about is how I really need to get laid.
Right, back to business. My heat control’s been all over the place. I can make things just warm enough to toast marshmallows, or crank it up to where my finger’s a goddamn lightsaber, slicing through metal like butter. Case in point: I poked a hole in the wall next to my bed with my pinky. It smoked up and stank like hell, but let’s be real—this place already reeks. As for the smoke, I puffed my cheeks like an idiot and blew it away. Seemed to work. Well, enough to fool whatever crap surveillance they’ve got. Since no one’s stormed in yet, I’m guessing they didn’t notice.
During my experiments I freaked out a bit and “retracted” the heat I’d put out. Took back my energy and whatever heat was already there. Or maybe my heat shoved the other stuff out? I dunno, but now there’s a frosty ring around the hole in the bed frame.
Further experiments show I can’t just suck energy out of the air and turn my cell into a mini-Jotunheim. Either I have to mix my energy with whatever’s out there, or I need to displace it entirely. Didn’t want to experiment too much and blow my cover. Definitely need McCoy’s input for this one. On the upside, my new heat-vision makes it easy to gauge intensity, so I figured out how to regulate it pretty quickly. In theory, I could turn this power into a “heat gun”—maybe even use it at a distance. But figuring out how? Yeah, the manual for this ability must’ve been delivered by the same asshole who brought me my nonexistent Sharingan.
Honestly, I’ve got more questions than answers. Why only thermal energy? Could I manipulate other energy types? What’s this weird sensation in my body, like I’ve got a new organ? When I manipulate heat, I feel some kind of feedback. Is it a storage unit I’m sensing? Is that good news, or is it damaged and I’m gonna die soon? Can I extend my... let’s call it energy-kinesis... to affect energy within a visible radius, say ten meters? Or can I only control my own energy in that range? Captain Obvious, where the hell are you when I need some clarity? Lazy bastard. Worse than “Superhero Douchebag-Man.”
Okay, fuck it.
I’ve got enough juice right now to roast the guards and grab their weapons. Close range: heat. Long range: firearms. I could start my own branch of the Inquisition right here and now, but two things stop me. First, and most importantly, I can barely crawl, let alone walk without leaning on the wall. Second, it’ll be easier to take their weapons when they actually show up. As for the guards themselves? That depends on the situation.
...Yeah, I’m a goddamn coward. If it comes to it, I’ll maim or kill them. If I can. These bastards don’t exactly practice humane treatment of test subjects. And this “just following orders” bullshit? Military law has this thing called unlawful orders—any soldier worth their salt knows about it. If your commanding officer orders you to shoot civilians, that’s a war crime. I don’t remember all the details—it’s been a while since I served, and that was in another world—but I’m pretty sure following such orders can still land you in front of a tribunal. There’s nuance to it, sure, but we’re not exactly under martial law here in the U.S., so these people are criminals. Kidnappers, vivisectionists, torturers. And Stryker? That bitch dies guaranteed if I ever see her. Monsters like that don’t deserve to live.
Anyway, fuck it. I’ll hire Murdock later or get Granny Charlene to lobotomize them all. Worst case, I go underground with Magneto, flipping them off from a bunker. A peaceful life is dead and buried—that much is obvious even to a heroin-addicted penguin.
First things first: I need to pull myself together. At the very least, I need to stand without falling over, and ideally, I need to move without looking like a drunk toddler. When the guards show up, I’ll neutralize them, grab their weapons, batons, and ammo. Maybe even their pants, for Goddess' sake. Then I’ll break into the cells, free the other mutants, and we’ll bust out of here. I’ll be the tank, and when I find Raisa, it’s game over for these assholes. Assuming she’s even here. I don’t know if I want her to be safe somewhere else or here to help me escape. Guess I’ll deal with it when it happens. In the meantime, I can recharge from the wall’s cables—just melt a hole and plug myself in. “Don’t disconnect from the network—your device is updating!” Heh. With a cable shoved somewhere (figuratively, obviously), I’m practically an Evangelion. A tiny one, piloted by cockroaches that usually infest my brain. Then again, Shinji wasn’t far off in terms of how screwed-up he was. At least my cockroaches have grit.
Yeah... I need to pull myself together mentally too. Looks like I’ve got a case of hysteria. I keep cracking stupid jokes to calm down. And all this talk about killing and maiming? Big words. Do I actually have the guts? The scariest thing I’ve ever killed was a garden snake I smashed with a shovel out of sheer panic. That was decades ago, back when my grandpa was still alive. So yeah... the plan’s solid in theory—Swiss-watch reliable and flawless as a diamond. Sarcasm, Toby, sarcasm. But it’s what I’ve got. Worst case, I’ll go with the street brawl strategy: just dive in and wing it. Maybe I’ll come up with something better while I’m trying to recover.
I sprawled out on my hard, mattress-less cot, waiting... and waiting... until I dozed off.
When I woke up, there were no dreams, and they hadn’t brought food yet—guess they feed us once a day. Nothing had changed in the cell. I tried sitting up—success. Standing? Another win. I could stand fine, though my body felt like I’d unloaded freight cars all night. Everything ached from sleeping on that hard surface. My nose and ears itched and hurt from their rough cleaning. My head, though? Totally fine. After some sleep, I felt normal again, and the hysteria seemed to have passed.
Wait for the guards? Hell no. They’re probably torturing some other kid right now. Time to move. My next break—if I get one—will hopefully be in safety. Worst case? The morgue or another cell. Don’t know which is worse. I stretched, giving any observers a great view of a naked guy flailing his limbs. Took care of the necessary business—wouldn’t want to embarrass myself during a high-stress moment. Cleaned up as best I could, drank my fill.
That’s it. I’m ready. Terrified, but ready. My nerves feel like the first and only time I tried skydiving. Spoiler: I’m not a thrill-seeker. My couch is my favorite place, and my hobbies involve books, movies, and PC games.
Let’s do this.
I approach the door, place my hand where the lock is, and start heating. The metal under my palm glows red-hot in seconds, my hand sinking into the melting surface. Molten streaks drip to the floor while I hold my breath—pretty sure the fumes aren’t good for my health. Side note: ever wanted Saitama’s powers? Congrats, you’re bald now. My hair’s singed from the heat, and I might as well say goodbye to my eyebrows and lashes too.
I feel my hand push through what feels like warm jelly, and with a sharp tug, I yank the door open. It’s... strange, the sensation of metal yielding like heated clay, sliding thickly through my fingers. I glance around. About twenty meters ahead, two soldiers—both women—are standing, already pulling their pistols. One of them straightens up abruptly, tossing aside a bowl of... crap. Or food. Fuck. Couldn’t they have come ten minutes later?
I shield my eyes with one hand, leaving just a slit to see through, and bolt at full speed. Judging by their reactions, the sight of a naked teenager with smoldering hair charging at them was a bit more than they were prepared to handle. One hesitates, reaching for her radio, then decides to aim instead. The other immediately starts firing. At my legs. Hmm... a couple of hits land, but it’s not as bad as I expected. Maybe it’s the low mass of the bullets? Or has my kinetic shield leveled up too? The impact feels more like she’s chucking them at me by hand—hard, sure, but not “and then I took an arrow to the knee” bad. Just as long as nothing hits the family jewels.
Five meters. Three. One. I duck low, catching a bullet in the back of my head—ow, you bitch—and swipe at their knees. One gets a hit to the right knee, the other to the left, with my “hot hands” mode fully engaged. Something sprays, but I don’t stop to look. I straighten up and slam my fists into their arms. Warm liquid splatters my face, a scream tears through my ears, and I freeze in horror. The two women are writhing on the ground, each missing an arm and a leg. Blood spurts from their stumps, painting the floor like a grotesque fountain.
And me? I start screaming too.
They scream. I screech. They scream louder. I screech louder. For about five seconds, this ridiculous, horrific duet goes on. Honestly, if I weren’t the main act in this nightmare, it might have been funny.
Then, the one with her right arm intact starts firing the rest of her magazine at me. That snaps me out of it, especially when one bullet lands dangerously close to my precious right nut.
I... I kick her in the face. With heat. And that’s when I realize what happened to their limbs. The heat was instantaneous. Don’t ask me how. But as the liquid in her head instantly turned to steam, her skull just... exploded. Bits of bone and brain pelt me like shrapnel.
So now I’m standing there, drenched in blood, my leg sunk into the floor up to my knee because I forgot to turn off the heat in my shock. And my mind? Blank. Completely empty, like a stadium in the dead of night.
The second woman? Unconscious. Maybe from the sight of her partner’s exploding head, or maybe from the pain. Either way, she’s not making a sound.
I glance around, lost and horrified. I killed them. Both of them, most likely. The second one’s probably going to bleed out soon. Then my eyes land on the door they were guarding. Both windows in the door are open, and from the top one, a pair of wide, shocked eyes stare back at me.
