Ice Werewolf Cape Story WIP

The blood coating every surface in the laundromat wasn’t strictly my fault. It just happened to look that way when my powers manifested for the first time. The common perception is that those with superpowers are blessed. However, as anyone with powers will tell you, they’re more of a curse, especially when everyone’s first instinct is to whip out their phones and start recording anything strange and unusual rather than care about their own safety.  I ended up on the nightly news in clips that made it look like I was to blame for the carnage, rather than the actual culprits who had shot up the place. Okay, I guess the robbers’ blood was kinda my fault. And I probably left plenty of my own plasma there too. But 90% of what was present wasn’t me.

I’m getting ahead of myself. I tend to do that sometimes. Let me back up a bit and introduce myself proper. My name is Koel Barker. An ironic name given my powers, I suppose. Until this all went down I was a “normal” student at Vespia Tech, just shy of turning 18 by a few weeks. I probably shouldn’t use the word “normal”, but you’re not here to listen to me berate my own word choice. You’re here to hear what happened in that laundromat.

The closest laundromat to the dorms I was assigned to was your everyday coin-operated affair. There were rows upon rows of stacked washers and dryers with several paint-chipped, blue benches in between them. An attendant lingered in the back next to the cash register to convert cash into coins as well as sell detergent, dryer sheets, and any other forgotten incidental. When the robbery started I was three rows down on the left from the door. I heard the two men shout for everyone to get down and unload a shotgun into the ceiling. This led to a whole lotta screaming and panic as the ten other poor souls in the laundromat hit the deck. I remained seated, frozen in shock, as the robbers started manhandling the attendant. One thing led to another and the attendant’s head turned into crimson paste against the formerly-beige walls. What was once petty theft turned into a bloodbath.

I don’t know why the two idiots thought robbing a laundromat was a good idea. Or why they didn’t just run when one of them got an itchy trigger finger and decided to upgrade their crimes to murder. All I know is that I was seeing red. Literally. They mowed down seven innocent people after the attendant before the barrels of their guns were pointed at me. My memories of what came next are foggy. One moment I was looking death in the eye, my body refusing to move and words of protest locked in my throat. Then there was a bang. A bullet struck my chest. Everything went black. Game over.

Except this wasn’t the end. My body, mind, and soul filled with an all-consuming rage. How dare these idiots take away my life because they only had three working brain cells between them? Why was my story given this pitiful conclusion after all the pain and hardship I’d barely survived? No. No, I couldn't die there. My story would continue.

I fought against the encroaching darkness as several more shots slammed into me with deadly force. Yet they barely registered as pinpricks. I forced my eyes open and saw I was now looming over the two assailants as they continued firing. I raised my fingers-turned-monstrous-claws high, then sliced down through the two men effortlessly. Their bifurcated halves slipped and fell to the tile floor as their mouths contorted in horror. Everything went quiet for a moment. Then I broke the silence by letting out a reverberating howl of victory before bounding out of the laundromat without looking back.

Three dark alleyways later my mind finally caught up to my body. My heart raced faster than a hyperactive hamster as I looked myself over. My hands were normal human ones again, albeit soaked in blood and clinging-viscera. I could feel the chilled asphalt through my bare feet and the crisp night air across my chest that was covered in tatters of what had been my favorite graphic tee. There were no traces of the multiple gunshots I’d taken.

Remember how I doubted using the word “normal” earlier? A normal person probably would have had a nervous breakdown as the weight of the trauma of seeing and dealing death slammed into them with the force of a tidal wave. A normal person might have screamed or yelled as they ran for the nearest source of comfort or safety. A slightly-off normal person might have thought it all a strange dream and tried to wake up. But me? I did none of these things.

I laughed.