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Merc's Metamorphs

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Chapter 32: Check

Heart beating a mile a minute, Merc swung the 2x4 in his grip to keep the Legendary Henchmen at bay, eyes darting between them and any of the numerous big screens around the stadium focusing on General Glory and Rook, the former gripping the latter by the throat, barely paying the Raven any attention as he waved to the crowd, even going so far as to smile at the cameras recording him for the bigscreen. Merc despised the man.

It got even worse when Glory spoke up, his voice amplified by a microphone, which he so casually held in the hand that wasn't throttling Rook. "Merc... you continue to make very bad decisions. The public deserves better, don't you think?"

Unable and willing to stand by and see a repeat of Torpedo. Tossing his wooden weapon at a Henchman getting too close, Merc simply ceased to be surrounded in the bleachers and, instead, appeared atop the announcer's box just out of reach of General Glory. "Let him go, Glory. Drop him. Now."

The Legendary Hero smiled condescendingly, scoffing into his microphone. "Did you hear that, everyone? The 'mercenary' just ordered me to release a criminal! Any idea how I should respond?"

Legendary Unlimited's marketing department had tested numerous catch phrases for General Glory in recent years-- most of them were received with a tepid response at best, but one seemed to stick, and the resounding roar from the crowd offered it up full volume and with unfettered enthusiasm. "HELL NO!"

Glory glanced back to Merc, winking theatrically even as he spoke aside into his microphone. "Sorry bud... the people have spoken."

Hissing, Merc took a step forward, but paused when General Glory squeezed a little harder, causing Rook to struggle further. The Raven's thoughts went straight into the Kangacobra's mind. "He plans to kill me, Merc. If he keeps this up he'll break my neck well before I suffocate."

Merc froze in place, all of the fur on his body standing on the end as the reality of the situation settled in. "Glory... don't."

The Legendary Hero's smile widened. "Oh? Switching over to begging now, are we? It's hard not being the most powerful Powered Hero, isn't it, Merc? You just can't stand not being in charge, hmmm? Go ahead then... beg. Let everyone here know just how weak you are... how desperate you are to save your little birdy."

Regardless of how much Merc despised General Glory one thing he'd long-since learned when it came to real life was that self-respect didn't have to be infallable... when he needed to there was nothing wrong with debasing himself-- pragmatism was a strength. Falling to his knees, the Kangacobra held up his talons, palms pressed together. "Don't hurt him... I'm begging you. I know you could kill him without a second thought."

Glory spoke into his mic, his showmanship beyond grating. "And now he's begging! Funny how villains are always so quick to do whatever it is they need to do in order to get their way, isn't it?"

Rook, despite his compromising situation, still managed to think clearly, and his suggestion came through with just as much clarity. "Remind him that I'm a new recruit for your team. Even if we're doing something that'll cause negative points, there's still a large reserve of points that keeps me from being a target of opportunity."

Merc remained on his knees. "Glory... he's a recruit for my team. We're a net positive group. You can't get away doing to him what you did to Torpedo. Just take the 'W' and stop the grandstanding already."

General Glory's smile took on a vindictive air as he glanced sideling toward the Kangacobra, lowering the mic as he spoke directly to him. "Funny thing about that, Merc... see... I checked with the HQ's legal team and, as it turns out, net positive protection guards recruits from legal action but, in the field, only full members of a team are protected from lethal action. Funny how laws work sometimes, huh?"

The faintest twitch in the Legendary Hero's cheek, the abject sneer, and the gaze speaking of total superiority was enough of a clue as to what would come next. Merc cried out in a wordless scream, pushing off with the full strength of his kangaroo legs as he launched himself toward General Glory. Rook's thoughts flowed directly into his head in a split second; there was no fear in it, just finality. "I love you, Frank."

A simple twitch of Glory's wrist and Rook's neck twisted at an odd angle. All around them, every big screen, all of the stadium lights, and every cell phone capturing the moment spontaneously shorted out-- some sending cascades of sparks all over as they did so. Dropping the mic, the Legendary Hero intercepted Merc, his iron-grip latching onto the Kangacobra's shoulder like a vice, keeping him at arm's length even as the Raven's body twisted, shrank, and pulled in on itself, feathers falling off of it as it returned into the form of a small, naked, Chinese university student.

Glory smirked. "Hmm... was this one of your butt-buddies, Merc? He's pretty young. Did you recruit him and turn him, or was he already ruined before you got your talons on him? Huh... guess I'll never know."

Seeing red, Merc thrashed in General Glory's grasp, but to no avail. He lashed out with his legs, clawing at the man's body with his hind legs, Kangaroo claws slashing and swiping, but they did nothing. He strick the Legendary Hero several times with his tail's stinger, but the needle failed to so much as leave a mark. Merc wanted to shout profanities, roar out curses and comdemn General Glory, but all that came out was a Kangaroo-style growl combined with a serpent's hiss.

General Glory seemed bemused by the animalistic sound. "Struggle all you like Merc, but you're under arrest. I can't kill you, and you'll get off with a warning because of your net positive status, but you will remem--"

Merc's seething rage got the better of him, complete and total fury overwhelming every single thought except for the most useful one in that moment: he had only used one power that day, which meant he had others. The feel of his talon's claws digging into the normally impermeable flesh of General Glory was a mild ointment to the fury that dwelled within him, and when his tail's stinger slammed into the Legendary Hero's thigh and broke through the skin Merc was gratified to see a sense of surprise on Glory's face, but it didn't last.

The Legendary Hero gave Merc a rough shake, sending waves of pain through the Metamorph's joints from the rough treatment, causing his body to go slack from the sheer force of the violent motion. Glory's momentary pained, confused expression returned to one of condescending superiority. "Well... aren't you full of surprises."

Merc didn't know how he managed to formulate the words but, in that moment, as he came to the realization that he had more he could do, four managed to make their way from his ire-stoked mind down to his muzzle, words emerging almost as acrid as the venom that began to leak from his fangs. "I'm not done yet."

Lashing forward by extending his neck, Merc caught General Glory's forearm in his muzzle and he bit down, fangs digging deep into the flesh. Even as the Legendary Hero was focused on that attack, the Kangacobra's tail lashed out again, hitting General Glory in the abdomen; the stinger punched deep-- Merc's venom, freshly modified with his third and final power for the day, was not one that General Glory could resist since the entirety of the venom's purpose was to affect him. A few seconds later, as palsey began to take effect, General Glory's inescapable grip ended, and the Legendary Hero fell to the ground. Merc loomed over him, watching as General Glory scrambled to try and get his body under control, but it didn't obey, and he continued to thrash around.

Merc didn't know a lot about venom, but he'd heard enough from Juan about different kinds of venom that pets might encounter and he remembered a few different pieces of trivia. Staring down at General Glory, Merc was gratified that he remembered two of them: Neurotoxin and cytotoxin. One caused paralysis and the other destroyed cells and could cause necrosis. Unable to decide on just one, the Kangacobra could only come up with one solution, and he smiled to himself, his voice dribbling out of his muzzle like the venom. "Por que no los dos?" Why not both?

At that point, General Glory could barely move, his body twitching as his hoarse voice mumbled out incoherently. Merc hoped that the Legendary Hero would suffer for a very long time, but he also realized that he probably overdid it with the dose. Regardless of how long the man suffered before dying, it would not be long enough. Smiling, he spat one final blast of saliva and venon into the Legendary Hero's face. "Can't have your fans enjoying an open casket, now can we?"

Chuckling, Merc stood still, watching every last moment of Glory's torturous end, ignoring everyone and everything going on around him until a bullet grazed his shoulder. That snapped him out of it, turning to see that snipers had arrived. Cursing his limited time, the Kangacobra shook his gloved talon, sending a spray of ichor onto the top of the announcer's box and, turning, he set his eyes on the horizon and willed himself elsewhere, the mental cries of Bruiser and Demon continuing to fall on deaf ears.

* * * * *

An hour later and Merc was still having trouble controlling his rapid heartbeat or his hyper ventillation. So far removed from Bruiser and Demon, the Orca's mental connection had long-since failed, which was for the best. Merc was still seeing red, seething with rage, but the pain was starting to break through and he didn't want that-- he couldn't deal with that. Glory had killed Rook-- he'd killed Christopher, and he got what he deserved, but no amount of killing the sanctimonious, racist, sexist asshole would bring back what was lost. There was no way to make it right and, worse, Merc had killed someone. He wouldn't have taken it back even if he could, though. Glory deserved it. It felt good to mete out a final form of justice to someone who had escaped it for so long.

Merc, however, still wanted to hurt someone. Anyone. There were others who deserved to be hurt though, surely. That thought was isolated a moment later, and it brought some clarity to the Kangacobra's furious mind, calling into question what he was thinking. No. He didn't want to hurt anyone. Merc didn't want to hurt people-- he SHOULDN'T want to hurt people. Pausing for a moment, the Kangacobra took a deep breath and forced his thoughts to reset.

Taking stock of the situation, Merc realized he was miles out in the desert. His astute night vision helped him identify his surroundings despite the weaklight shining down from the crescent moon overhead; he was in some kind of a local trash dump. All around him were discarded vehicles and appliances. Choosing to focus on that rather than his rage, Merc knelt down and picked up a cracked rear view mirror that had been half-covered in sand. Brushing it off with his palm, he raised it up to gaze at his reflection, such that it was. He had to move the mirror in order to view different parts of himself and he very qucikly realized that he looked different-- significantly so.

Merc's legs were more scaled than furred with portions of his pelt replaced by scaled hide. What parts of his fur remained were no longer white; they had taken on a coal-gray coloration, and looked much more coarse than before. At his hips, he realized for the first time that, unlike usual, his hemipenises were not carefully tucked away; despite not being aroused they were hanging out of him and they looked different-- they were barbed... wicked.

Further up, he noticed that the scales on his abdomen were jet black rather than dark gray and the fur surrounding it, like on his thighs, had turned charcoal in color. The color scheme continued up to his shoulders and, by the time he rotated the mirror to look at his face, Merc was even more surprised. Did he really look that fiendish? His eyes gleamed red in the dim light and he seemed to have grown horns or, more specifically, two rows of onyx-black spikes, three to a side, extending from the outsides of his eye-ridges all the way back to his cobra hood.

Growling at his own reflection, Merc crushed the mirror in his talon. The plastic and glass crumpled easily and he tossed the remnants back into the dirt, shaking his arm so that none of it would cling to his glove-- he realized at that moment that his claws had grown out. Licking the inside of his muzzle, he discovered that his fangs were also more pronounced. That, and he was pretty sure he could still taste General Glory's blood. Perhaps it was his imagination, or perhaps he really could, but either way it brought a little thrill to him as he reflected on the vengeance he was finally able to reap. It felt good.

Did it really feel good? he wondered. While most of him screamed yes, some small part of him wanted to say no, but most of him was willing to call bullshit; that part would have been lying. Still, he reasoned, he SHOULD have felt bad. Merc wasn't supposed to be killing people and didn't cause needless harm... even to assholes like General Glory, who more than deserved it. Even as he considered that fact, and ran through the long litany of wrongdoing undertaken by General Glory, Merc quickly understood that he was accomplishing little aside from working himself back up, and that, he acknowledged, wouldn't do him any good. He had to calm down if he was to plan his next steps.

Stuck in the depths of the desert, Merc didn't have a large number of options when it came to places to sit his large, furred scaly body down and he wasn't about to take on his human form out in the middle of nowhere so he chose the closest object that looked like it could manage his bulk: the trunk of what appeared to be a 1960s sedan of some kind. He wasn't particularly into cars and the desert wind had long-since blasted off most of the paint and any indiciation of emblem so he had no idea as to the specific make or model... not that it really mattered that much.

Despite the many directions his agitated mind could have gone, however, he surprised himself by lingering for a moment on the identity of a cast-off vehicle whose identity had been scoured clean by the ravages of time. He found himself identifying with it; was he also losing his sense of self due to the constant friction and assault of forces that surrounded him? Would he ultimately end up a broken, unrecognizable husk abandoned out in the desert to slowly decay in nameless oblivion? He scoffed at himself; since when had he become such a melodramatic little bitch?

He countered that thought: since when had he killed someone out of rage? Despite how much General Glory had deserved an end, who was he to deliver it? The only one who could, apparently. Merc found himself hating that little voice in the back of his head trying to rationalize his actions. No. Merc's Mertamorphs didn't kill people! Maybe, he countered his own thoughts, he wasn't part of Merc's Metamorphs anymore. Maybe Merc needed to be a solo act and change the way things worked.

Again he had to stop his wild thoughts-- it didn't matter whether he was part of a group or not: he had killed someone, and that reflected poorly on every Metamorph. Merc's Metamorphs had a certain system. They had a code and Merc had broken that publically and in a big way. Even if none of the other Metamorphs took notice of it and even if the powers-that-be ignored the peripheral reputation damage, Merc had betrayed his team; whould they be dragged down for his indiscretion? Would they pay for his crimes? No. He couldn't let that happen. He WOULDN'T let that happen.

With a new plan formulating in his mind, Merc hopped off the trunk of the junked car and stretched his talons, clenching then unclenching them before activating his first power of the night, using his teleporation ability to get himself back to his dorm room. He had a purpose again and it was all about protecting Bruiser and Demon-- Juan and Chance. Merc rooted through the various drawers of Frank's dresser, grabbing his clothes and tossing them onto his bed. The moment the drawers were empty Merc grabbed a suitcase from the closest and began filling it. Juan and Chance were not safe with Frank around any more than Bruiser and Demon were safe with Merc. Things had to change.

Merc growled-- not at anything in particular; he growled just to growl. The Kangacobra gathered up the rest of the belongings he knew he'd need. Frank was on good terms with most of his teachers so he knew he'd be able to handle a few weeks away from classes to clear things up; he'd need the time. He could turn in most of his assignments online and most of the lectures were uploaded online as well so he wouldn't really miss anything. He could take some time away without it affecting his enrollment.

Why did it matter, he questioned himself. Frank probably had a life ahead of himself, sure. Would he just then give up working as a Metamorph? Would Merc fade away into oblivion in order to ensure that Frank could have a life unaffected by the results of his powered hero life? Would the whole issue with Merc killing General Glory get swept under the rug once the Kangacobra disappeared? No... someone would have to pay for it and people would probably be screaming for blood-- for Merc's blood. Even if Merc 'went away' people wouldn't stop hunting for him, and if Frank continued with his trajectory alongside Juan and Chance then there was a good chance they'd get swept up in all of it, and that eventuality was not acceptable.

Thousands of thoughts ran through his head-- thoughts pulling him in one direction or pushing him in another. He had thoughts in agreement and conflicting thoughts but, as he neared the end of his expedient gathering of items Frank would need, a realization struck him: despite all of the navel-gazing and soul-searching he couldn't convince himself to regret his action; sure, he questioned the sanity of killing General Glory but, even as he reflected on what he had done, he realized that he wouldn't have taken it back. Glory deserved to die and Merc had given him what he deserved.

He knew he should have regretted it. He knew he should have been angry with himself for doing it, let alone shrugging it off as an obvious solution to a problem. Closing up the suitcase, Merc grabbed the gym bag he'd loaded up what he'd been wearing before he shifted into his Metamorph form. Staring down at his gloved talon, Merc flexed it one, then twice. Should he have felt bad for killing General Glory? Shouldn't he have regretted that action? The notification of a text on his cell pulled his attention away from his extensive analysis of his frame of mind. It was apparently the first time he'd noticed it since he had nearly a dozen messages waiting.

Ignoring the two from Reed, Merc flipped through the ones from Bruiser and Demon; they were worried about him-- understandably so, he'd imagined, since he'd never disappeared without considering them too. THAT he regretted... but he also knew he really wouldn't be able to make things right; being around him was too dangerous. He wanted to let them know he was okay but, if he was honest to himself, he didn't know that he was. Choosing instead to keep things pertinent, he figured a warning would be the best course of action. He kept the text simple: "u2 need to get somewhere safe".

Responses came in quickly enough. Bruiser wanted to know if he was okay while Demon wanted to know where they'd be meeting up so they could, in his words: 'gtfo'. Merc had a hard trouble getting through their words of concern and inquiry, but he forced himself to provide a response. "u got 10 min. im dropping meta form."

A multitude of texts followed from his teammates after that but he couldn't bring himself to address them; he didn't even want to hear them. By the time the eighth or ninth notification sounded in rapid succession Merc set his phone to silent and tossed it onto the bed. Fur ruffled, the Kangacobra let out a shaky breath; he still needed to calm down. He had to find his center. Christopher had been helping him with that-- and Merc was immediately hit with a jolt of nausea and anger when he realized Christopher was no longer there and would not be returning.

He stormed off toward the bathroom, slamming the door off its hinges with a backhand wave of his arm at the audacity of it blocking his way. "FUCK!"

Merc leaned against the sink, his head hanging as he closed his eyes, taking a moment to recover from the outburst and to try and find his center. The Kangacobra focused on his breathing, working to control it so that he could get a grip. When he felt that he could at least face himself, Merc looked up, staring at himself in the mirror. The irises of his eyes were red, black pupils gleaming crimson as well. The new spines along the top of his head gave him an almost infernal look.

Sighing, the Kangacobra maintained an iron grip on the sink with his gloved talon, the other reaching up to try and smooth down his fur which was still sticking up. He stared at himself, growling. "Get a grip, asshole."

Straightening up, Merc shook his gloved talon, clenching and unclenching it as the itching became nigh unbearable. He rubbed his palm through the glove with his other talon, digit working hard against the leather, but Merc stopped when black ichor oozed out of the finger holes and the wrist opening. Scowling, he stuck the talon into the sink and turned on the faucet. The cold water helped the itching but the ooze flowed like oil; a simple rinse wasn't going to do much to it.

Using two pumps of soap from the dispenser, Merc growled with intensity, scrubbing both of his talons together with verve, channeling all of the PSAs about hygiene he'd been subjected to during COVID. There was something worthwhile about hyperfixating on something over which he and control and cleanliness was one of those. Taking it as a personal challenge, the Kangacobra washed his talons until his scales hurt but, at long last, they were finally clean and the itching had stopped. It was a small victory but it was a victory nevertheless-- a short-lived one, sadly.

By the time Merc had the water shut off and was reaching for a hand towel, a few fresh droplets of black dribbled out of the wrist hole in his glove. It was such a small thing, but it was one more that he couldn't handle, and his scream turned into a roar punctuated with repeated cursing. "FUCK! FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK! FUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!"

The final explicative was accentuated by the crack of the sink as he brought both of his balled up talons down onto it. Despite how strong the Kangacobra's scales were he hadn't been reinforced by any kind of invulnerability and, even as he examined the ruined remnants of the ceramic sink, he noticed that there was a smudge of red on the right side of the shattered basin. Pausing only long enough to flip the fixture's shutoff valve, the Kangacobra leaned down to examine the streak of blood. It was obviously his, and, once he realized that, a dull thrumming from his talon gained his attention and, when he tried to flex it, the sensation became a sharp pain.

Raising his right talon up, Merc's entire arm started shaking when he saw that his ring finger and pinkie were turned at an unnatural angle. Looking at them, he had a hard time telling for sure, but he earnestly hoped that the fingers had just popped out of joint and that nothing was broken. Even admist all of the self-loathing he was trying to subject himself to he couldn't help but realize the irony of not wanting himself to be hurt too badly.

Then again, he reasoned, walking away from the bathroom, if he HAD caused himself any significant damage, nothing stopped him from taking his Metamorph form again after becoming a Human so that he could select a new set of powers; rapid healing would be able to tend to a few damaged bones without any real difficulty. If he did, he reminded himself, he would have to give Juan and Chance a warning. They were still out in the field... where he'd left them. Where he'd ABANDONED them. His self-loathing started to rise anew.

Gathering the suitcase and the gym bag with his good talon and cradling the other one against his chest, Merc made his way into the living room while damning his gloved-hand and its renewed itching. In an attempt to avoid hyperventillating, the Kangacobra dropped the bags onto the sofa and took a minute to practice his controlled breathing again. He did well enough with it until his itching talon made an audible 'squelch' sound, causing Merc to raise it so that he could stare as more black ooze seeped from it... but the fresh ooze was different.

As the Kangacobra watched, the ichor wriggled and stretched, not unlike a pseudopod. It spattered against the leather of the glove and then pulled itself further upward, a larger amount of the ooze emerging. From there, two fresh pseudopods shot out, latching onto his middle finger, ring finger, and his pinkie. Merc jumped in surprise, but didn't have a chance to react as a much larger amount of the viscous fluid surged upward along those strands of ichor and, before he knew it, the last three fingers on his glove-covered hand were engulfed.

The digits tingled... then felt numb... and, suddenly, with a quick, violent movement, Merc was startled by the sound of two synchronized cracks-- a jolt of pain accompanied it and then, as quickly as it had appeared, the ooze seeped back beneath the glove, and the itching finally stopped. Staring at his talon, Merc was astounded to see that his fingers had been properly set. Clenching and flexing his digits, the Kangacobra relized that he had regained use of them in a most perplexing way.

He wasn't exactly sure what to think about what he'd just witnessed; the experience had left him perplexed. What made him even more disconcerted was the obvious understanding that the ooze, whatever it was, had remained there with him... or in him... or in the glove... or under the glove against his scales? He honestly didn't know and had no idea which option was the best... or worst. Groaning, he ran his left talon over his hood in exaperation. "I just can't fucking even..."

The situation got even stranger when a voice entered his mind. It was in many ways the same kind of thing he was used to when interacting through Bruiser's telepathy, but what he experienced in that moment was different in far more ways than it was similar, and the mind that touched his was completely alien.. yet 'spoke' using his own mental voice. Its simple statement was also entirely beyond his understanding. "Ten minutes, Frank."

Whoever was sending him the mental sending apparently knew him-- and knew that he was Frank; the thought was almost as frightening as the fact that he had no idea what the purpose of the message was. Despite being unfamiliar with the sender of the mental missive, he couldn't help but respond. "What? Ten minutes?"

The mind reaching out to him seemed almost bemused, and it responded. "Yes. You let your companions know that you would be returning to your mundane form in ten minutes. That time has passed."

He said the word as much as thought it. "Huh?"

Although still mirthful, the follow up took on a slightly harder edge. "If you need, my help does not have to stop at your fingers."

As an avid fan of destroying social conventions, Frank couldn't remember the last time he had belched without inviting it; he had decent control of his diaphragm and usually welcomed the sound, even in polite company. In many ways, shifting between his Human and Metamorph form was the same: a conscious decision with a sense of relieved pressure no matter the direction he was changing but, that night, he changed form for the first time without meaning to since his first transformation.

As he fell to his hands and knees, panting, naked body covered in sweat, he fought to come to grips with what was happening. "What. the. fuck?!"

The voice in his mind was clear and its tone was matter of fact. "You believe in honesty with your partners... I aided you in ensuring that you followed through with turning back into your human form." There was a moment of pause as if the voice was waiting for a response. When Frank couldn't think of a response it spoke again in his mind. "You are welcome, Frank."

A thousand thoughts barraged his mind simultanously; all but one of those thoughts were his own, and the one that wasn't made the situation all the more awkward. When he eventually managed to train his line of thinking in a singular direction, the Human asked aloud as well in his mind "Do I... know you?"

The glove tightened around his hand, tiny rivulets of ooze seeping back into it to leave his fingers and wrists completely clear. The response in his mind had returned to an almost playful tone. "Of coures you do, Frank."

A single word escaped the young man's mouth. "Ngalyod."

"A pleasure to finally meet you properly."