A Scripta

(yet another origin story for Bomber)

Dr. Louvat regarded the newest Vahzilok servants. Most of them looked like the simply cobbled together brutes that he expected. However, for once, a few promising ones looked like they could take better commands than "fetch".

"That one," he pointed to a bald one who had its back turned. His nurses walked over to the man and tapped him on the shoulder, then picked him up by his arms and brought them back to Louvat. The creature looked at him, its eyes blue but empty.

"What's your name?" Louvat asked.

"I don't remember."

"Excellent." He looked at the creature. "Looks like you're a hermaphrodite," he joked. "Do you know what that is?"

"Yessir."

Louvat raised an eyebrow, then looked closer at a three-inch scar on his chest. It looked like something had been burned off, something in the shape of a diving bird. Louvat touched it, then pressed hard into it. It yielded, but didn't break, like the rest of the zombies.

"Well, interesting. You're alive."

"Yessir," he said.

"What's your oldest memory?"

"Seeing Zach."

"Must be the Builder," muttered one of the assistants.

"Still, this one's a smart cookie. Get it dressed. I really don't need to see what it's made of. Put in Wake Shunts."

The assistant tugged the creature's female arm and it followed dutifully. It went into the next room. "Lie down."

The creature did so, and it was strapped down. Empty eyes stared at the ceiling and didn't flinch as the assistant sawed open its upper bicep. He parted the skin, and muscle, and took the drill the nurse offered. He drilled two vertical holes about two inches wide through the humerus. He then took a curved piece of metal and thrust it into the lower hole, wiggling it around so that it went through the hole and the small space between the muscles, then came out of the upper hole. He took a portable welding torch and welded another curved piece of metal onto those, slightly burning the skin. Then he sewed the incision together, and cauterized it with the torch.

The creature did not flinch even while the drill bore through its other arm, while the fire burned its skin, and the smell of burning flesh garnered no reaction. "Get up," the assistant ordered. When the creature stood, it swayed and fell, passed out.

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Two very large electrical clamps, one red, one black, were attached to either side of his shoulders. A female doctor with a clip board studied the hanging man, with wires and tubes attached to him. "What are we injecting today?"

A girl at a table glanced at the computer screen. "Nine thousand ccu's of Compound 37730."

"Good. I know Dr. Danault has been waiting for the results on this for a few days now. How high has the dosage been before expiration on normal specimens?"

"Six thousand ccu's. However this specimen does not seem to expire."

"Which is why we are using it. You had its eyes removed?"

"Dr. Forrester believes it may realize its position and wish to leave."

The woman nodded. "Begin the experminents."

As the chemicals were pumped through the man's veins and he screamed at the searing pain, Stanley Piper watched from the rear, realizing he had found an excellent recipient for his newest invention. Piper didn't have time to wade through the paperwork at the lab, he had a different, better, more efficient idea. He just needed to see Operative Waites...

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The specimen was set on its feet for the first time in what seemed like a very long time - and it fell backwards, hitting the floor. "No damage!" it heard from its left and turned its sightless eyes in that direction.

"He's been hanging like a side of beef for three months," said a voice. "Lay him on this table."

Picked up again, and lay flat. If it thought about it, it would be irritated. The same voice said, "You're safe here, we're not going to pump you through with chemicals and zap you when you flatline."

It didn't know if that was good or not. "What do you do here?" it asked.

"Brain surgery," said the voice with a chuckle. Something touched its chest. "There was a tattoo here. A bird - oh, Screaming Eagle. My uncle had one of those. Were you a pilot?"

Screaming Eagle, screaming plane pull the stick fight the dive - fire she screamed

"Yes."

"Cool. Okay, we're going to put you to sleep for a little while. When you wake up, you'll be able to see again. We hope."

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Suddenly, the world came into view and it was bright. Then it flashed out. Then it came back on. Flashed out. This happened often - he would be in darkness, mostly floating and painless, then suddenly he would see the white of a cieling, or some dark splotch, or a blur, or a clear face.

Finally, something pretty came into view. A dark haired woman smiled at him.

"He sees you, Viv."

"Hi," she said gently.

"Hi," he replied, though it sounded like he hadn't spoken in ages.

Another man came up from behind her. "You are one tough bastard. Thought we lost you a few times."

"Yessir," was all he could manage.

"Hungry?"

"Yes'm," he replied to her.

"We'll have to start you on fluids, but we have to take the helmet off."

"Helmet?"

"Yes," said the man. "Those bastards took out your eyes so you wouldn't run away." The man looked up. "Oh, Dr. Piper."

A large blond man stepped into view. "How are you feeling, Mickey?" He only shrugged, or at least tried to with the restraints. "Untie him, for Pete's sake."

"Is that my name?"

"It's the name in your memories. We've downloaded them all. They're all still in your head."

"Hurts. My head."

"It'll take some time for the connections to work without pain. Give him a sedative and shut the helmet down. We'll try a little bit daily."

He was "awakened" often. He would be in comfortable darkness, then he'd feel heavy, hear things all around him, then the world would snap into view. He lost track of time, but then one day his world snapped into view before he felt heavy and could hear. Once it came up, all his senses seemed to "come online."

"Get up, I know you can! Hurry! Arachnos!"

He focused on Vivian, who handed him a shotgun. "I know you know how to use this. We need to get out of here."

He got up on wobbly legs and forced himself to stand, to walk, to follow Vivian down a side hall. "They already got Stan. We have a safe house, we'll - "

Gunfire echoed around them, and Mickey turned toward the direction. He could see the men there clearly. With a quick movement of his arm, he pumped the shotgun, turned, and fired from the hip. Three of them flew backwards, and he turned to Vivian. She lay in a slump on the floor, blood trickling from her mouth, her white lab coat sprinkled with dark dots.

He felt something prick him near his kidneys, then he pumped the shotgun, fired. The shell flew out and bumped into his shoulder at the same time the man went down, full of lead.

"Vivian is dead, long live the king." He started aimlessly down the hall, firing the shotgun at anything that even resembled an Arachnos. He blew the head clean off a Fortunata with one of the Spiders' own guns. He saw one of Dr. Piper's assistants. "Mickey, c'mon! Shoot any Spider that moves!"

He followed Max down a series of hallways, and Max gathered more scientists, patients, whatever he could get. He had him shoot computer terminals, explore storage units, and shoot anything that moved. However, they were caught in a room, and he was the last man standing. He let them pepper him with bullets from an automatic and he fell hard and fast.
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Pain tore through him. "You will LEARN!"

His skin burned. "Bow down to me!"

His bones thrummed with energy. "What's my name?"

He glared at the fat bald man in front of him, though the fat bastard couldn't see the glare behind the helmet.

"Again."

"Whaddaya wanna do, boss, make 'im dance? We c'd shoot 'em--"

"No, I'm havin' fun with this. Midas said I could play--" He was zapped through with electricity, but this time, he had expected it and forced himself to stay awake. He played opossum.

"I think he's dead, boss."

He could see him approach. "Maybe we can get that damn helmet off--"

He moved his arm and grabbed the fat man by the throat. The man with the controls of the electricity panicked and turned it on suddenly. The conduit went through his arm into the fat man's body, so he died jerking like a fish on a hook.

He dropped the smoking body and yanked the wires off the metal posts in his shoulder. He fell the few feet to the ground. A series of bullets peppered him but he no longer felt them; instead he approached the gunman even while he was still firing and poked his eyes out. The gunman dropped the gun, screaming, and, now armed, the helmeted man sprayed the room.

Looking out at his destruction, he grinned under the helmet. "Family." He rummaged around and found a jet pack. He wore nothing but shorts, but strapped on the jet pack, grabbed the guns he could see and stuck them in the straps. Then he walked out.

He walked by Family who gave him a strange look before realizing that he wasn't a real Bombardier. By then their faces had been blown off. He got to a hall, at the end of which was a window, but two groups of Family standing around between them. With a grin, he started up the jetpack.

The noise attracted their attention, and, armed two-handed, pistol in the right, shotgun in the left, he suspended himself a couple of feet off the ground. Then he dove headlong into the group.

He emptied one clip, quickly drew the second pistol and emptied that. He had one shot in the shotgun because he couldn't pump it one-handed and moving; he shot four, threw the shotgun away, pulled out another and shot the window. Although the glass shattered, the aluminum frame didn't - he plowed through it getting nearly gouged down his chest and abdomen, and the jetpack got gouged as well. He smelled oil leaking as he flew out of the building - and found he was at least a hundred yards in the night air.

He flew until he fell like a meteor into the sea.