The following short story is based on characters created and/or copyrighted by Glenn Eichler, Susie Lewis Lynn, and MTV. All other characters were created and copyrighted by Roland Lowery.

The author gives full permission to distribute this work freely, as long as no alterations are made and the exchange of monetary units is not involved. Any questions, comments, suggestions, or complaints should be sent to esn1g(at)yahoo(dot)com. Thank you.

"I'm a firestarter, terrific firestarter.
You're a firestarter, twisted firestarter."
-Firestarter by The Prodigy

by Roland 'Jim' Lowery

Have you ever smashed a person through a concrete wall? It's not always like it is in the movies.

Often you'll see the hero or the villain grabbing up a hapless lackey and slam them into the wall. Huge cracks may appear in the surface, or a huge hole may be created by the body going all the way through it. The lackey is either dead or unconscious, depending on the movie's rating, but invariably they are still in one piece.

The real deal is much messier than that. Your average human being won't make it, and they rarely make much of an impression on the wall itself. You should see the way the skull seems to deflate as the insides splatter outward through the cracks. It's a beautiful display of violence, destruction, and death.

I would like to show it to you personally.

But for now, I have to deal with the assholes who are attacking me as if they have any chance whatsoever. To their credit, however, they do have enhanced constitutions, built up to withstand massive amounts of damage, accelerate their reaction times, and more than quadruple their strength.

It's still nothing compared to what I and the others can do, but I don't blame them. The humans simply don't have the technological capability to truly stand up to us. And on the bright side, due to their denser body structure, they actually do go through concrete walls like you see in the movies.

As bullets bounce off my skin, I rush forward and grab one of them by the face. He screams as my fingers find their way into his eye sockets, popping the squishy orbs within. I easily haul his larger form over to the nearest wall and smash him into it and then through it, sending out a spray of brightly painted concrete, followed by his slightly crushed body and then by me as I compress my body down to fit through the hole.

I land easily on my feet, the soldier's head still held in my hand like a bowling ball attached to a human-shaped weight on one side. My skin no longer feels pain, but it is super-sensitive enough to make out his pulse. He's still alive and conscious. Good. He will actually be awake and aware to enjoy his flight, then.

Pulling back my arm, I launch the soldier into the air with an overhand throw. His gouged eyes leave a sticky trail of gore as he rockets upward into the evening sky. To the naked human eye, he has eventually gone far enough to disappear into the navy blue, but I am still able to track his arc long after.

A bit of movement catches my attention and I notice one of their fighter jets flying overhead. Standing on the wing of this quaint little flying machine is Burnout, her blonde hair flaring back and her face split by a slasher grin of glee. She plunges her hand into the jet's fuselage and begins to tear out everything and anything she finds underneath. Wiring, mechanical parts, structural sections, everything, and then she tosses them over her shoulder as the plane begins to dip and finally spin toward the ground.

The explosion is bright against the dark sky, but I am not worried for Burnout's safety. She will walk away from the crash completely intact.

Bullets chase me through the hole in the wall. I ignore them. They have no more effect on me outside the school than they did inside. And they'll stop soon anyway. I can sense Jane slipping in behind each of the soldiers and snapping their necks one by one.

Remember those denser physical structures I mentioned? They make the cracking sound that much more satisfying to hear. The wheezing and gagging of asphyxiation made by those who weren't instantly killed by the impromptu chiropractic work isn't too bad, either.

"Jeez, Daria," Jane says once she's finished. "If you wanted a lead shower, I'm sure there are better ways to get it."

I don't laugh. I didn't much before, and I haven't even once since the transformation hit. But she knows I found it funny all the same. Good old Jane. Always good for a joke.

"Where's Andrea?" I ask, dividing my attention between the answer and the sounds of combat in the distance.

"Clearing up some of the Joes over on Dega Street," she says. "Shouldn't take much longer before Lawndale is ours."

I nod in agreement. Even with the surprisingly sophisticated defense put up by the US Armed Forces, almost as if they knew we were coming, the entire operation has gone extremely well. We and all the others like us were sent here to wipe the place clean for our people to repopulate, and without ego I can safely say that we are doing so extremely well.

A tank trundles its way onto Lawndale High's grounds and aims its main gun at Jane and me. We trade a glance, then she grins widely and cracks her knuckles in anticipation.

Once upon a time, we were the outcasts. Unable to fit into human society and never knowing why. Now we understand. And eventually the humans will as well, even if we have to kill every single one of them to get it through their heads. We are their gods now.

And their world is ours.


Roland 'Jim' Lowery

February 23, 2011