I wake up, shaking. There was a
gunshot wound, and about a cc of blood got in. Enough to cause real
problems, but my system is dealing with them. But that's not why the
shaking.
In some, it would be fear. In me, it's
rage. Someone put a trigger in me. Someone left something behind
when they made me, something that takes me away from me.
Gretchen knows, and I still shake as I
stalk up and down my warehouse. What face or form I might wear I do
not know, but the rats come nowhere near this place, now. I can hear
them fleeing. They are right to flee. Gretchen is right to flee.
Some day I will find her and the ones who made me and all of them
will pay for this. Pay for robbing me, pay for denying me a face and
a name and a truthful existence.
But still, there is a voice in me, that
keeps me from running rampant in the streets like this. That keeps
me from expressing my rage in blood and shattered screams. It
counsels patience, quiet, and hunting. Hunters are calm. I must be
calm.
The next dawn, I am able to return to
my roof, but still not to walk among others. I stand there, barely
holding a single shape, and watch the sun rise. Whoever made me this
terrible, potent, powerful thing, they shall regret giving me what I
am. They shall regret my existence, my birth, my life, my survival.
My name will come from them, as they
lie dying. My name now is Nobody. My name then shall be something
new, something made of pain, terror and righteousness.
I will not accept what I was made to
be.
293
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