This was the moment. This was the one, the one I’d been waiting for. My heart pounded in my chest, in my ears, leaving my fingers adrenaline rushed and itching to touch. This was the moment. Yes, this was the moment I’d been waiting for my entire life. Ever since I was a preadolescent supergiant with a broken tongue, who couldn’t talk to girls (or anyone, for that matter) without feeling like a complete and utter freak show. Even before that, perhaps, when I was Wet-Pants Wallis back in second grade, back when a show-and-tell gone horribly wrong left me with no bladder control or dignity to speak of. The moment I had been anticipating, dreaming, desperately craving had finally arrived.

To touch, to touch the cool metal between the flesh of my fourth finger and the edge of my palm. To watch as people’s lives were caught in the balance of an intricate and delicate spider web and I was the black widow heading towards them, poisonous fangs reared. For once, I was in control- the center of attention- and no one was laughing at my broken tongue. I could say whatever I wanted, as much as I wanted, and nobody would notice the disability, the crippling stutter.

Oh, I had targets. Many targets. All of those kids who, back in middle school, would twitch and shake- mocking me. Mocking the stutter. The boys in playgrounds of my youth, who shoved my face deep within the dark, cool earth day after day. The teachers who forced me before the class time after time, leaving me for dead in front of a sea of carnivores. Well, now I was the hunter- a hunter of men. And they were the perfect game.
Locked and loaded, I saw red, nothing but red. And that was what I wanted. There was a constant clicking, popping in the air as my muscle retracted and released. They were deadly, I was deadly. And the stutter meant nothing.


The characters are pretty underdeveloped at the moment, and this intro still needs work.

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