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Roman’s dreams were muddled, filled with images of what had transpired over the last twenty-four hours, a bird’s-eye view in some of them as he watched himself sob by Celia’s bedside, as Celia’s spirit lifted from her body, as she placed her hand on his head.
These images moved to himself battling Ava, the sheer power he’d felt as he learned more about his ability, and the moment in which he realized he was dreaming and tried to animate the dreamscape, it came tumbling down like a house of cards, turning into lava as it reached his feet and was absorbed by his skin.
Roman awoke from his nap in a sweat, Coma curled at his side, Celia at the edge of the bed, staring at the wall.
“Were you sleeping?” he asked Coma out of instinct.
“I don’t sleep,” the red-eyed doll told him, her mask still on her face. “You were dreaming, though.”
“Scary dreams?” asked Celia.
While Coma was still in her ruffled outfit, Celia had stripped down to her bra and panties, and as she stood, Roman’s eyes fell to her ass. Both dolls were perfect in every way, flawless beauties.
“Get dressed, Celia.”
He knew he wasn’t going to go along with Paris’s plans, and he’d have to move quickly if he wanted to put an end to all this.
But can you kill someone? he thought as he dressed, going for black clothing and an overcoat that gave him plenty of room for movement.
It wasn’t something Roman had ever contemplated before, but he’d been in enough fights to know it was something he was capable of. Back when he used to brawl, there were times when he or his opponent had been beaten within an inch of their life.
All Roman had to do with Paris was step over this line—finish it.
And then what? he thought as he looked at himself in the mirror. Then you’re going to all of a sudden become a hero, after you’ve murdered someone in cold blood?
Roman knew then that if he pulled this off, there’d be one more skeleton he would need to stuff into his closet, literally.
Only then could he move forward.
And there was little he could do by this point anyway. It had come to this, a good part of it his fault, and getting rid of this future obstacle would make things much easier for him in the long run.
He’d have to see about getting his mind wiped after that, but he figured Nadine would know someone.
She’ll understand.
Roman bent his head forward and brought water up to his face, animating it as soon as it touched his skin and forcing it to scrub him until he felt clean.
He was ready. Whatever the hell that meant.
Roman used an unlicensed teleporter, a woman Nadine had put him in touch with in case he ever needed it. She was short, her hair braided, and she looked skeptically at Roman as he approached her with Coma and Celia at his sides.
A series of blinking lights swirled around them like fireflies. Roman and the dolls took shape in a dark warehouse. Paris stood a few feet away from him under a grimy skylight, clearly annoyed to see he’d brought guests. She was in different clothing now, no pencil skirt; what she wore looked more like an exemplar outfit.
“I told you to come alone,” she said as the unlicensed teleporter disappeared.
“They go where I go.”
Paris considered this for a moment. “That’s absolutely unacceptable. You can’t just show up with some...”
“Friends,” said Roman. “I want to make sure you understand where I’m coming from.”
“And you need friends to do this?”
“Yes.”
Paris’s dark eyes narrowed on him. “You know, Roman, I’ve thought of several options regarding how I should handle this. I could expose you for what you’ve done, which would bring charges of treason against you, or I could simply finish it now.”
“I thought we were going to work something out,” Roman said, one eye on his power dial.
“Why do I get the feeling you didn’t come here to work something out?”
“I worked for you last time, for Ian—that worked out.”
“True, but only through threat. I don’t want to have to threaten you when I need something. When I need something, I need it then. No exceptions.”
“That’s why I think it’s best if we part ways.” Roman glanced down at his power dial. He knew he’d probably have to de-animate one of the dolls, but if he could keep them both active, he would.
“And I was right again. I wish I could retire on how many times I’ve been right. Goodbye, Roman Martin, I believe your fate has been decided.”
Her tongue flew out of her mouth, only to meet a wall of concrete that Roman had already called up from the ground.
The concrete formed a series of hands that grabbed hold of her tongue and yanked her to the ground.
Paris was shocked, sure, but she’d had enough training to react accordingly, and this reaction wasn’t what Roman had been expecting. As he continued to grow a concrete wall around her, Paris’s arms elasticated, growing six times the length of her body, and pulling her up and over.
As she landed, Paris twisted in the middle, her top half going to the rafters above and her bottom half running to the right.
Roman realized at that instant what he was up against, as her body returned to its normal size yet her arms remained six times larger than her form, her hands growing in width.
Her clothes torn away, Paris was now in a custom training bra and a pair of dark-blue tights that seemed to be made out of a polymer that stretched with her body.
“Looks like someone has a secret,” she said, and this was when Ian Turlock stepped out of the shadows, the big man flexing his muscles as more protrusions tore from his skin.
“I know who you are,” Ian told Roman.
“Of course you do; I’m the one that did your paperwork.”
“Not that. I fought you last night, you and your two lovers.”
Paris looked from Roman to Ian. “You knew about this?”
“He was wearing a mask last night; I didn’t recognize him,” the big man said, cracking his knuckles. As he cracked them, craggy spikes tore through the skin on his forearms.
“Celia, Coma, I want you to distract him,” Roman said under his breath. “I will handle Paris first; it’ll be easier that way.”
Roman was over the fact that the two dolls were dispensable.
Now that he knew he could heal them up quickly, it bothered him less that he was sending them to their doom. Coma was the first to respond, her fists lifting to the ready, the small muscles on her frail arms pulsing. Seeing her response, Celia also lifted her arms, a little unsure of herself as she had been before.
Roman would train them—he vowed to do this when he saw them step in front of him—but for now, he needed to pick off the easier of the two targets, and then focus on Ian.
“It’s a pity you’re going to die here tonight alongside your whores,” said Paris. “Your power, which I’m assuming deals with taking control of ordinary objects, would be useful for our operation.”
“I told you, I’m not going to be a cog in your machine.”
Paris’s torso elongated, her shoulders expanding back, her arms loosening as they lengthened. She launched herself at Roman, moving over the two dolls, who ran toward Ian.
Paris was fast, and before Roman could respond, the Western spy had wrapped around his body like a snake.
Roman could feel her starting to squeeze him tighter, his muscles starting to ache, his organs starting to press into one another. He had one arm outside her grasp, the one that had been up when she’d latched on.
Her neck four feet long and curved, Paris gazed down at Roman, a faux sadness in her eyes. “It’s too bad, Roman Martin, you would have been very helpful in what we are trying to do. I’ve done this before; it shouldn’t hurt for much longer,” she said, her grip on his body tightening.
Roman called all the concrete in his vicinity to his right fist and then swung it at her, causing her to scream out and loosen her hold.
He hit the ground and moved to the left, briefly checking to see that Celia and Coma were still engaging Ian.
The two had gone for a pester-and-dodge strategy, knowing full well that they wouldn’t be able to do anything to him. The big red man swung at them both, trying his best to grab one, but they were quite fast, and they moved around his punches with ease.
“You’re going to regret that!” Paris said, a hoarseness to her voice now.
Roman went for the first item he could spot, which happened to be a pipe jutting out from the wall. The pipe came down, spilling water onto the floor. Noticing his power dial flashing, and feeling his heart palpitating, Roman curved the pipe into a wheel, which he sent off in Paris’s direction.
Paris’s legs simply elongated, and the pipe went between them.
The taste of blood in his throat, Roman retracted power from Celia and Coma, leaving them stranded in front of an increasingly furious Ian.
Now in full control of the water spewing out of what was left of the pipe, Roman formed armor around himself and blasted it at Paris, the water wrapping around her throat and pouring into her mouth, choking her.
Her arms and legs flailed as the water lifted her into the air, drowning her. And he would’ve finished the job, too, if it hadn’t been for the large metal ball that struck him in the side.
His water armor protected his body, but the impact also knocked the wind out of him, forcing him to release his hold on Paris, who came crashing down to the ground, her arms drooping to her sides, a soggy mess.
What was that? Roman thought as he tried to piece together what Ian had flung at him. He saw both dolls lying on the ground now, tossed aside by Ian. It only took him a second to notice the steel ball zipping back to Ian’s hand, his silver necklace flashing.
Now that Roman knew the culprit, assuming it was some type of magnetic ballistic weapon tied to the big man’s necklace, he was prepared when Ian pulled his arm back to throw the metal ball at him.
Before he could let the ball go, which he held by putting two of his fingers in the holes of its metal surface, Roman animated Ian’s ball of metal.
It quickly engulfed Ian’s hand, spreading up his arm.
Using his other hand, the big man tried to peel the liquid metal off his forearm. He struggled to get it off, keratin spikes tearing through the metal, his muscles tensing as he tried to get control.
Figuring it was now or never, Roman called the concrete to his fists, followed by the metal, which coated his concrete fists and glinted in the soft light of the warehouse.
“That’s how we’re doing this?” Ian growled.
The fighter in Roman nodded, his water armor sluicing around him, his concrete and metal-laced fists twitching.
If someone had been standing outside the abandoned warehouse, they would have felt the two men collide. If someone had been standing three blocks away from the abandoned warehouse, they too would have heard the sickening collision, Ian’s gnarled knuckles against Roman’s concrete-and-steel-covered fists.
Roman fought his heart out, for Celia, for his own life, and for the future life he hoped to create for himself. He dodged all of Ian’s blows, connecting several times with Ian’s chest and once with the side of his face.
Ian’s luck changed when Roman moved in for another punch, missed, and Ian managed to headbutt him.
Roman went down, everything around him fading to black. With his last spark of consciousness, he poured as much energy as he possibly could into Coma.
