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onlysmagic · 4 years

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🌌 ——— MEET CORDELIA .

hey hey hey! it's me, honey, back again. i've miss everyone so very much. how have you all been? good, i hope. for the time being, i'll be playing sweet cordy again ( nothing new . . . nothing's changed . . . still the same old cordy! ) but noah could be coming back soon ~* and maybe some new muses *~ ooOOoOOh. as always, hit the heart for a new old friend and i'll im you to get the party started!

cordy’s stats 🌌 cordy’s wanted connections 🌌 cordy’s pinboard

thanks again for an incredibly warm welcome back! i've missed you all terribly!

🌌 — THE STATS .

FULL NAME * . CORDELIA AMI WANTANABE . NICKNAMES * CODY , DELIA , CORDY . AGE * TWENTY-FOUR . DATE OF BIRTH * APRIL 3RD 1996 . STAR SIGN * ARIES . HOME TOWN * NARA , KANSAI , JAPAN . GENDER * CIS FEMALE . SEXUALITY * ( CLOSETED ) BISEXUAL . NATIONALITY * JAPANESE . ETHNICITY * ASIAN . FAMILY * WANTANABE TSUYOSHI ( FATHER , MAINTENANCE WORKER - JAPANESE ) & WANTANABE AMI - FORMERLY ITO ( MOTHER , FLORIST - JAPANESE-CANADIAN ) . OCCUPATION * UNEMPLOYED . PLAYLIST * COMING SOON . QUIRK * STELLARKINESIS , OR THE ABILITY TO CREATE AND / OR MANIPULATE STARS AND USE THEIR STELLAR ENERGY .

🌌 — THE STORY.

ONCE UPON A TIME , IN A FAR-AWAY LAND known as nara , an ordinary girl is born to two parents who love her ( but cannot seem to love themselves. ) they name her cordelia and, from a young age, there was always something a little . . . off about their sweet girl. now, many parents would claim that their child glows & a light seems to follow them wherever they wander, but the wantanabes would be right.

it isn’t until the young girl turns 10 that she realizes that no, not everyone can bend space and time to their own whim. not everyone sees the universe as a malleable thing, able to be crafted in one’s own image should they wish. in fact, she is the only one she knows who can do anything of the sort. okay, her dad has superhuman-like strength ( in that he can help her open bottles and things of that sort ) and her mother is incredibly quick-witted, but neither of them can conjure hot balls of gas and light whenever they wish. cordelia can. it’s her mother’s idea to keep it a secret, out of fear that someone could find the young girl and exile her for being so . . . different. delia doesn’t see the harm in it. what’s the worst that can happen? at that age, all she tended to do was bring a bit of starlight to the light-polluted nara and its surrounding areas. it wasn’t like she was dangerous in her mind, it’s all fun and games . . . until someone gets hurt.

and who should get hurt? why, her beloved parents, of course. a freak accident ( a rush, a blur, not knowing where her powers could take her. ) cordelia was swallowed whole by the guilt of seeing both of her parents in the hospital, doctors whizzing around them while not knowing what in the world had gotten to either of them. they couldn’t for the life of them guess; most thought lightning had something to do with it. if they only knew it was the little girl sitting at each of their bedsides, hot tears streaming down her cheeks.

they both eventually got to go home -- becoming known around nara as the lightning couple, due to the belief that they both were struck by lightning, despite the outlandish odds -- but cordy knew that she wouldn’t be able to go home with them. she would never forgive herself if something worse ( and there wasn’t much worse that could happen to either of them ) so she found hosu and ran, ran, ran. of course, when she arrived safe and sound, she wrote to her parents, but she’s broken inside knowing that, well, it has to be this way. it’s breaking them all, but it has to be this way.

🌌 — WELCOME TO THE ISLE.

THE BROWN-EYED girl shows up on the island shaking. she'd never done anything so brash before, yet, here she was, so many miles away from everything she'd ever known and with nothing to her name . . . nothing other than that stupid quirk she'd been all but cursed with.

stupid stars. stupid light. stupid gas. stupid universe.

. . . so what if she's not exactly eloquent, she's too angry to care. what a wicked way to go, but cordelia figures it's better her than her parents. they do forgive her, eventually, but it takes quite a few conversations that last hours upon hours and some good, old fashion groveling. afraid of growing so close to someone that she can hurt them again, cordelia becomes a master of being seen and not heard; it's easier to not be missed if no one really knows you, after all.

but it's incredibly lonely. living by a rule that an eleven-year-old version of herself created is becoming harder and harder with each passing day, especially when she starts having to lie to mom and dad when they ask about her friends ( cordelia never did like that sad sounding sigh that would always come across the line. ) so she creates these fanciful friends and their fantastic adventures across the isle. they all have their own quirks but they learn to live with them, learn to love them and, by extension, themselves. yeah, it sounds something out of a coming-of-age film that cordelia would probably love . . . but what her parents don't know won't hurt them.

but it'll end up hurting cordelia. karma's been chasing not too far behind with its sight set on her and, one day, it finally gets her. a horrible accident, her mother exclaimed, so much blood and just -- what, what is going on? cordelia's heart was in her throat and she wanted to scream until she broke the sound barrier. she nearly went supernova ( quite literally, too. it took everything in her not to explode right then and there. ) her father was hit by some punk drunk driver and was announced dead on arrival . . . what? why would the universe do such a thing? why would those stupid stars that everyone swore by decide to take such an inherently good person away?

it wasn't fair. cordelia fell into a deep deep depression. the stars didn't shine nearly as brightly as they once did ( there was no one to create new galaxies for anymore. ) every night, she'd watch the stars she'd created for her father, her mother, the old friends she knew in nara, die slow deaths. soon, there would be nothing left in the world with her namesake on it and cordelia, all at once, found that to be a crying shame. call it her father's optimism finally rubbing off on her, or just simply finding it hard to keep lying to her now-widowed mother.

she was going to find some friends . . . anyhow, anyway. if karma, the stars, the government, anything or everything was keeping an eye on her, she’d at least give them a worthwhile show.

🌌 — PERSONALITY TRAITS.

POSITIVE : appropriate, brave, balanced, sugary, polite, organized, practical.

NEGATIVE : co-dependent, stuffy, standoffish, aloof, lethal, anti-social, incapable, dishonest.

LABEL : the doll . . . beautiful but fragile / untouchable.

EASTERN ZODIAC SIGN : THE RAT . . . a clever, quick thinker; successful, but content with living a quiet and peaceful life.

WESTERN ZODIAC SIGN : ARIES / THE RAM . . . a fire sign. a passionate, motivated, and confident leader who builds community with their cheerful disposition and relentless determination. uncomplicated and direct in their approach, they often get frustrated by exhaustive details and unnecessary nuances.

PERSONALITY TYPE : INTJ / THE ARCHITECT . . . highly analytical, creative and logical.

🌌 — THE CONNECTION IDEAS .

AURIGA / THE CHARIOTEER . . . you and cordelia live in the same building. you have the ( un ) fortune of living above her, and in the middle of the night, you awaken to so many odd noises. when you look outside your window, you see her in the middle of the field painting the night sky with thousands of sparkling lights. stars . . . and so many of them! maybe you like them, maybe you ask her to spell out a swear word in the sky, or maybe you just want to sleep.

CASSIOPEIA - THE QUEEN . . . cordelia rubs you the wrong way. that emotionless void of a girl has gotten on your last nerve and you are going to show her. how? you're not sure yet, but she will rue the day she ever crossed you. wait, what do you mean she's not that bad? that's not fair! you're supposed to hate her . . . wait, did you ever?

CYGNUS - THE SWAN . . . you fell for a vision. no, literally, a vision. they say you only dream up faces you've seen in real life, and for some reason, cordelia is that face. maybe she visits you in dreams and messes with your head, or maybe she's that serial killer who runs after you down the never-ending hallway with a knife in her hand and a smile on her face. how do you deal with seeing her . . . all the time?

GEMINI - THE TWINS . . . something happened and you were both in a tough situation, with cordelia being in the tougher of the two. you two strike a deal to help one another, but you tell her that she owes you. whatever she owes you, that's the deal ( please don't be weird about it tho ) and, for as long as you'd like, she can run around and do your errands for you, tell everyone your blunt opinion of them ( she's pretty good at that ) or just have to listen to you sing the entire aladdin soundtrack over and over again at 3 am. your call.

LYRA - THE LYRE . . . cordelia's never been the type to truly understand people. she always thought that it was because she was so sheltered growing up, really choosing to spend her time with her parents and a select friends from school. however, as she's grown up, she's come to learn that she does want to understand people . . . she just can't. not for trying, but she's too blunt, too sardonic, too -- cordelia. which is why she enlists your help. you're the golden child and she'd like a little bit of that sparkle to shine on her, thank you very much.

ORION - THE HUNTER . . . call it fate, destiny, whatever you will -- something brought you and cordelia together for a fun summer romance. however, now that summer’s melted into fall and everything is getting colder, so did your romance. you broke it off in a way that you thought was amicable but cordelia would be quick to disagree with. she doesn’t want you back, per say, but she does wish that she could have had better closure than a single text message . . . then again, she wasn’t exactly an angel in the relationship either. after she drops off one of your hoodies, you find a crumpled up note stuck in the pocket of someone confessing their love for cordelia . . . during your relationship. seriously, it includes your name and everything! do you confront her, or do you try and get the pair together?

URSA MAJOR - THE BIG BEAR . . . she didn’t mean to, honestly !! you just so happened to be hit by that star and, oh god, it’s like the entire ordeal with her parents all over again. only except she doesn’t really know you. every day during your stint in the hospital, you receive a bouquet of beautiful flowers -- maybe they’re your favorites or maybe they’re the type you cannot stand -- with the same note. i’m sorry. you figure it isn’t from anyone you know; it can’t be, can it? on your second-to-last day, the apologetic message is accompanied by an address and a little, scratchy handwritten note asking to meet someone there. against your better judgement you do, but no one is there . . . until you look up in the sky to see an incredible array of different-colored gasses ,you’ve never seen a nebula up close, save for photographs. a tall, black-haired girl walks beside you and begins to explain that she did not mean to hit you with a shooting star. she was simply practicing but her aim isn’t where it needs to be. do you believe this girl, or run as far as you can away from her?

#quirks:intro

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uglymanchronicles · 6 years

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UMC:R Chapter 4: Systems Check

This one’s a bit of a weird one--basically a heavy-handed excuse to describe my own character in weirdly homoerotic detail. But it has some PATHOS and I otherwise had fun writing it. There will be probably two more chapters before the prequel ends and we start getting back into where the original UMC started. Enjoy!

“Fffffuck me.”

Evan really hoped he wasn’t falling into a pattern of sudden switches between consciousness and unconsciousness. It couldn’t be good for his brain. Speaking of...

He reached back and patted his head where it’d gotten intimate with the counter. There was some blood matted in his hair, but aside from that…

Evan sat up and turned around. There was a bit of blood on the counter, and some on the carpet where he’d been lying. But beyond a slight tenderness where his fingers touched the spot, there was no pain—and certainly no wound. How long…?

Evan pulled himself up, noticing how oddly easy it felt despite having very recently donkey-punched himself by proxy. The video was still going, but past-Evan had somehow unstrapped himself from the machine and was in the process of stumbling towards the camera. Before the screen went blank, Evan noticed the total length of the video. In comparison to what it had been when he’d toppled over, less than five minutes had passed.

In less than three minutes he’d almost completely healed from a potentially moderately-serious head injury. Not only that, assuming there hadn’t been any post-editing, his previous self had recovered enough from having his brain cored out to be able to free himself from a torture device, walk no worse than a six-drink-deep drunk, and manipulate electronics at least as well as a five-year-old. How much damage could he sustain and still function? Was there a limit? Could he even die?

Introspection provided no answers, and Evan suddenly found himself very uninterested in the question. Right now, all he wanted to do was take a shower. Maybe that would help put things in perspective. Plus, it was after midnight; if he was going to seriously consider DIY-ing himself into a superhero, he’d do it best after a good night’s sleep. There was also the little matter of the blood in his hair, but that barely registered as a concern in the face of everything else.

His bedroom door was littered with post-it notes and taped-up signs demanding he watch the video on the laptop. He felt a slight tinge of resentment for the earlier version of himself. Sure, he’d gotten the point across, but for God’s sake, there was such a thing as going overboard! Evan ripped off a handful of the notes and crumpled them up as he pushed the door open.

He groaned. The bedroom was almost unrecognizable. About the only thing familiar was his computer, which had been moved to a corner of the room and rearranged on an apparently homemade shelf-slash-desk-slash-whatever. What surface wasn’t occupied by his keyboard and mouse was filled with pieces of machinery and small piles of electronic components. He’d mounted his three monitors directly to the wall, apparently to save space; in addition, two flatscreen TVs, dated and obviously secondhand, hung on opposite sides of the corner of the room. So many papers, pictures, and maps were stuck to the walls that the cables connecting the myriad electronics were completely obscured. Had he really gone full tinfoil-hat? Evan groaned as he noticed colored pins and threads weaving an intricate web between the numerous pieces of media. Yep. He’d gone full whacko. If there were any actual, legitimate connections there, the connections had been lost when he’d rebooted his brain.

God, he was getting tired of putting off seeking answers. The temptation to dive into all this nonsense and sort through it was almost overwhelming. But he knew if he sat down and started digging through everything he’d be there for days and wouldn’t get anything else done. He looked around again and actually heard himself growl when he realized his bed was gone. His mind went to the bundled thing on the roof of the RV. Great. He’d uprooted everything to make room for his craziness. There was something in the space where the bed had sat, but it was covered in books, binders, and cast-off clothing.

He’d bought a Bowflex and stashed his bed to make room for it. Had he done this after he’d drilled a hole in his head? It seemed like the kind of thing a guy missing part of his brain would do. He peered back out of the door and saw that the loft at the front of the vehicle had been set up into a sort of mini-bedroom, complete with a long, flat dresser. Well, that made some kind of sense, at least.

Grumbling to himself about nothing specific, Evan hauled himself up to the loft to inspect what he was certain was a cluttered, hideous bolt-hole in his own damn home. He was pre-emptively sighing as he pulled himself over the edge, but never quite finished it.

“Oh.”

Another pleasant surprise. He’d actually set up a nice little room there. The mattress was very flat but looked fancy, like the kind podcasts were sponsored by. The mattress was topped with neatly folded sheets, an understated but tasteful light gray comforter, and surprisingly plush pillows. A legless nightstand nearby held a small lamp, a bottle of water, and a notepad and pencil, all arranged very deliberately. A small pile of books of varying sizes sat neatly by the mattress, and a small adjustable shelf affixed to the wall held another laptop. Across from the mattress, a small flatscreen TV hung on the wall, wrapping the whole scene up in a nicely cozy domestic package.

All in all, he was impressed. It was a quaint little living space cultivated out of what he’d formerly dismissed as a throw-away attic. He was a little miffed that the price had been his actual bedroom, but of all the things to begrudge his former self for, this was pretty low on the list. He hauled himself up and crawled to the dresser. As he opened the drawers, he realized how strange it was to experience his own idiosyncrasies from the outside. Each pair of socks was neatly knotted together, his boxers were folded perfectly square and sorted by color and pattern; it put him in mind of an adorably eccentric little old man, probably a watchmaker. That seemed like the kind of person who’d fold his clothes with a t-square and index them. The thought made Evan smile, but the wholesomeness of the image faded somewhat when he found himself thinking that guys like that usually wound up being serial killers.

Fresh clothes acquired, Evan hopped down and headed to the bathroom. It had been a hell of a thing to find an RV with a bathroom that wasn’t smaller than the average coat closet, but he’d scrounged around until he’d found a Class C model—the one with the bathroom you change clothes in without having to stand with one foot in the toilet. He had never regretted the extra effort and cost.

He stood in the center of the bathroom for a moment, steeling himself. It was time to rip the band-aid off, figuratively and literally. He stepped up the mirror and stared himself in the eyes.

He could almost see his thoughts reflected in the blue of his irises. Did he really want to do this? Not this whole thing, but this, specifically. If he could heal from practically anything but still needed to have his face under wraps, it must be really bad. Maybe he could just wear a mask the rest of his life, never knowing what he actually looked like. Avoid the ugly truth.

Even while he was thinking it, he knew how ridiculous that idea was. The chaos of the past few hours was stirring up a lot of generalized anxiety that was sending his mind strange places. Drilling a hole in his brain less than a week ago probably hadn’t helped on that front, either.

Time to start that journey of a thousand miles, I guess.

He tied back his hair, took a deep breath, and started to peel the gauze away. Adhesives caught on small hairs, tender skin grumpily sent his brain pangs of pain as it was uncovered. The air on the uncovered skin felt alien, as if it was only touching his skin very reluctantly. Evan’s leg was shaking involuntarily by the time the last bandage landed in the trash can, and he had to take a few deep breaths before he finally raised his gaze to the mirror again.

“……fuck.”

His previous self hadn’t been exaggerating when he said he wouldn’t be winning any beauty contests; if anything, he’d been understating the situation. He’d be lucky if he didn’t make kids cry when they saw him.

His left cheek definitely had the worst of it. His in-between-brown-red-tan skin—which he supposed could be called “ruddy”, but he liked to refer to himself as “ethnically ambiguous”—was covered in divots and spots from his mis-angled jawline up to just below his left eye. Evan slowly ran his fingers over his mottled skin, marveling at the variation between the individual pits, bumps, and gashes. There were actual small chunks of face missing. The texture of the skin was almost smooth to the touch but a little bit sticky, like the paint of an old house, complete with uneven coverage and bumps of buildup. Evan found that the skin didn’t hurt to the touch, but it also didn’t feel how skin was supposed to feel; his fingers didn’t immediately recognize it as skin, and the touch of his own fingers on his cheek came through muted and distorted, like the sensation was on a weak, distant signal. Christ. Was it a burn? No, it looked like he’d been too close to an explosion, all chopped up like that. Was it an accident or an attack?

Shit. It didn’t stop on his face, either. It had been hidden by his hair, but now that it was pulled back he could see that the pitting and gashes continued upwards along the side of his head. Pieces of his left ear were gone. Everything behind the top of the ear was a chewed-up mess. His lobe was still there, but not for lack of trying; a jagged tear ran from the back halfway to the front. It was like somebody had bitten the top of the ear off, then grabbed the lobe and tried to just yank it off.

After a few moments of staring at his ragged ear, Evan whipped his head around to check the other one. He sighed with relief as he saw it was intact, but the new angle brought the right side of his face into view. It wasn’t as bad as his left, but, unfortunately, his left side had originally been his ‘good side’; two long, curving scars, the result of an unfortunate incident with a turkey vulture during his teenage years, ran up the right side of his neck and peeked over his jaw about an inch up his cheek. Previously, that had been the extent of the damage to that cheek.

But now, in addition to a ton of tiny scratches and a few more small divots, his right cheek was taken up by a wide starburst-shaped scar that trailed off to a line and crossed his crooked nose like the tail of a comet, ending somewhere among the mess on his left cheek. It even looked like somebody’d tried to stitch it closed—upon closer inspection, the edge of the scar looked almost serrated. Clearly the stitches hadn’t held. He couldn’t imagine how much any individual part of that must have hurt.

His big, broad forehead was relatively unscathed save for a few “normal” scars, though a tiny triangular chunk of the far edge of his left eyebrow seemed to have left for greener pastures. After everything else, it was almost jarring how un-damaged he was above the eyes. Maybe he’d been wearing a helmet or something when whatever mutilated him happened. If it was just one incident.

Well, shit. He wasn’t quite the most mangled person he’d ever seen, but…

He felt tears start to well in his eyes as his fingers gripped the edge of the sink. It wasn’t fair. He’d been handsome, if a bit unusually so, before. Not that he’d taken advantage of it, but… to suddenly wake up to a face that was no longer his was frightening. He was hideous. Hell, he was almost a monster.

Evan’s heart pounded louder and louder as he fought back tears. There was no distinction between anger, sadness, and fear any more. A synesthetic mass of emotions stormed around his brain, crushing all his thoughts under the weight of pure mental chaos. He started to scream, a hoarse wail that pitched up gradually to a roar of insane fury as his whole body began to quake violently. He stared his mutilated reflection dead in the eyes as he continued to scream, a primordial, hateful rejection of the thing he saw before him. When he ran out of breath, he screamed between gasps; short, sharp shouts that consumed all the air in his lungs with each exclamation. He didn’t know how long he was screaming before something made a loud crack and came loose in his right hand.

Evan’s scream slowly trailed off as he looked down at the object in his fist. It was piece of the sink. In his rage, he’d gripped the countertop surface so hard that a palm-sized chunk of stone had broken off.

“What a cheap piece of…” Evan started to say, but then stopped. He’d dropped a hammer on the sink months ago and it hadn’t even chipped the surface. It didn’t damage easily. So what…

Evan’s eyes fell on his hand again. He’d always had huge hands, which stuck out on his lean, lanky arms like the end of a rake. Except his arm wasn’t lanky any more. He couldn’t pick out the bones in his wrist like he remembered. In fact, there was a lot more wrist than he remembered, circumference-wise. Ditto with his forearm (more scars there, too…), and his elbow was similarly magnified. And above that…

“JESUS CHRIST.”

Evan had never been a small guy. Even as a kid he’d been tall and wiry, with limbs that seemed a size or two too long for his torso. He’d hit six feet tall before he’d hit his 14th birthday. In high school, he’d been involved in a lot of sports, but always ones where being dexterous and fast were to his advantage. Even when he’d begun boxing he’d focused more on using his reach and stamina than developing sheer stopping power. After watching his two older siblings become hulking behemoths of human beings, he was aware that his family had the potential to be extraordinarily beefy, but he’d tried to stick to keeping himself slim and trim.

Clearly, something in the missing months had made him reconsider his stance on the issue. If his bicep was less than 24” around he’d be shocked. He raised his hand to shoulder height, clenched it into a fist, and curled it backwards.

“God damn, son!” Evan watched his own muscle bulge and shrink several times over, a grin slowly creeping over his face. Okay, yeah, he could work with this. That’d do just fine.

Like a kid on Christmas tearing into the biggest present under the tree, Evan yanked his shirt off over his head with violent enthusiasm. Underneath, he was still wearing that strange undershirt.

“Weird sequin armor. Later,” he muttered, dragging the strange garment off and tossing it into a corner where it settled with a soft slithering sound. Evan’s jaw dropped as he took in his bare torso. Wide-eyed and still staring downwards, he sidestepped his way back in front of the mirror. His gaze slowly raised to the mirror again, and he realized his horrifying face was split into a massive grin. Even with his disfigurement, his sheer excitement was clearly evident. He took a deep breath, held it for a second, and then yelled again.

“Yeeeeeeeaaaaaaa-uhhhhh, BABY!”

He didn’t have a ton in the way of resting definition, but the bulk of muscle was undeniable. Evan spent a few moments flexing his arms and shoulders, marveling how his skin shifted and bulged in novel and fascinating ways. He was at least a foot broader at the shoulder than he remembered, and that was just the start of it.

His chest was borderline absurd. Like his shoulders, it had broadened, thickened, and rounded. Evan gingerly poked at his bulging pectorals. Firm, but not rock-hard. Enough softness to still feel like a person instead of an object, but still extremely supple. He felt his cheeks flush.

He had boobs.

But… like, good guy-boobs? That was a thing, right? Some girls liked that. Some guys, too, he thought, feeling his cheeks burning a little hotter as some cobwebs were dusted away from that particular corner of his libido.

He knew he was fully blushing now, but a strange and weirdly irresitable notion was punching through the fog of embarrassment. Fuck it, he was alone. Who was going to see?

Evan put his hands under his pecs, lifted, and pushed them together, leaning forward and pursing his lips at his reflection. He winked at himself and made a kissing sound, then burst out laughing. He had cleavage! Almost four inches of it!

Evan flopped down on the toilet lid, giggling madly to himself. “I guess the big tits gene doesn’t just affect the women in the family,” he managed to chuckle, hefting ‘the boys’ again. He looked almost hilariously sexualized. In addition to his new bustiness, he was still sporting nipple piercings and belly button ring—remnants of teenage rebellion that he’d kept as a cautionary tale to himself against impulsive decisions. The silver spikes and brass ring somehow looked more at home on his new body; when he’d been scrawny they’d made him look like he was trying to audition for a ‘Suicide Girls’ knock-off. If only he’d had paler skin and a heroin addiction he could probably have made a lot of money with a webcam. Now he looked like he could be on the cover of a harlequin romance—albeit one with a lot of airbrushing and somebody else’s head imposed on his body.

So he’d beefed up in anticipation of… whatever he could call whatever he was about to undertake. That explained the exercise equipment, as well as several containers of various supplement powders he’d come across while checking on his food situation.

Now that he’d finished with his giggle fit over his tits, Evan was a little surprised by how long it’d taken him to notice how much his body had changed. Everything still moved the way he remembered; he still felt very light on his feet, despite his new bulk. Standing in front of the mirror again, he bent from side to side at the waist, testing his flexibility. Amazingly, he felt limber as ever. Apparently past Evan had done this bulking up thing right; despite the fact that his abdomen and obliques seemed to have been replaced with rock-solid slabs of beef, he was still able to easily bend down and touch his toes. While he was down there, he noticed that he hadn’t skipped the proverbial leg day, either—that, or he’d had a butterball turkey implanted into each thigh.

So… arms and shoulders three times bigger, a jaw-dropping rack, less “abs” and more “slab”, skull-crushing thighs and an amateur slasher movie face. He looked weird. But… he found himself liking it more the more he thought about it. He could do something about the face, or make it work for him. Make looking like a brute work. Be a fashion pioneer. Figure something out.

Now that his giddiness had died down a bit, Evan started looking himself over for other damage. The video had said he’d have a massive wound on his chest, but he hadn’t even noticed it at first. There was, indeed, a large discoloration a few inches under his left nipple, reaching around under his arm and around to his back, but it looked more like a giant birthmark than a fatal axe wound. Why was it so faint? Hell, the purple spot on his solar plexis, a sort of permanent bruise from a childhood injury, stood out more than it. His body was dotted with other, smaller scars that stood out much more; a few near his navel were definitely bullet wounds, and judging from the jagged pale lines above his right hip, a bear had tried to steal his kidney. Regardless of their size, wounds that could cause scars that severe should have been still hurting him bit, even after external healing. But he found that, aside from the scars, it was as if those injuries never happened. No sign of any internal injury. He felt extremely healthy, and he was grateful for it, but it wasn’t how that worked, and that started to eat at him.

The rules had changed and he had virtually no data on how any of it worked. He was no longer afraid, angry, or sad about his situation. Now he was annoyed. How was he supposed to go about this intelligently with only anecdotal evidence? The obvious answer was to start testing the properties of his healing, but what if there were strange rules? Did he have a personal kryptonite? What if he cut himself, and it turned out the healing didn’t work because of what the blade was made of, and he got an infection and died? What if there was a limited number of times he could heal? Was it like an extra life system?

Evan stepped back up the mirror again, now glowering at his reflection. Now that he wasn’t as shocked by his own appearance, maybe he could figure something out in the patterns of the scars. Some kind of clue in the type of injuries or something. Just a starting point. Some tiny little verifiable speck of data he could cling to like a drowning man.

Before any answers surfaced from his ruined reflection, Evan noticed something sticking out from behind the mirror. The corner of a yellow piece of paper was closed in the medicine cabinet door. He tugged it out and recognized his own handwriting again.

Thought you might need these.

Briefly puzzled, Evan pulled open the medicine cabinet. There, tucked amongst bottles of an alarming variety of supplements, was an old ‘Altoids’ tin, slightly dented and faded with age. As he picked it up, a familiar skunky smell wafted into his nostrils. He snorted with laughter as he flicked the tin open and pulled out three meticulously-rolled joints and his favorite lighter. After a second’s thought, he stuck all three between his lips and flicked the lighter open.

“Fuckin’ right I do.”

#chapter #Ugly Man Chronicles: Reignition #Ugly Man Chronicles #my writing

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