Castling by Jack McGlynn

Fifteen: New P.B.
    His mark was already smiling. Another victory, yet another notoriously tough meta-human systematically picked apart. Basking in his own genius, Lancet was caught wholly unawares as a thick arm reached around and coiled itself about his throat. Airway constricted, he could barely shriek as Rook whispered softly in his ear,
    “ Did you just give me your back, Sean?”
    Out in his peripheral vision, he saw Rook’s mangled arm cock back , fingers extended.
    Lancet’s blue eyes grew wide in terror.
    Iron-rigid fingers tore into his vertebrae with a sickening crunch.
    *
    Sean dropped, sensation below his hips seeping away. He bounced off the living room carpet, his legs unresponsive. Hyperventilating, he scrambled forward on his elbows, away from the sadist who’d just maimed him. With no small effort, he turned himself, back lying on the rough fabric, flaccid legs askew.
    Horrified, he propped himself up on his hands,
    “What? What did you do?” he demanded, breathless, slapping at his limbs, urgently willing them to move. When they refused, his fear swelled.
    “Well, Sean...” Rook responded, looming above. A sudden vigour doused the man. His yellow eyes shined, vibrant. His wounds had calmed. Injuries to the abdomen and face no longer wept. Closed, the blood about them already ebbed.
    And that persistent smile, cold, calculating, cruel, beamed down at him still,
    “... let’s just say you won’t be hiking through the Alps again in a hurry.”
    As if to punctuate , Rook’s wrestled his dislocated elbow, repositioning it with an ugly snap.
    Testing the wriggling digits of his right hand, Rook strolled toward his freshly paralyzed target. He gave the limp appendages a cautionary tap with the toe of his boot, making sure of his work. Sean whimpered, not from pain but from the frightening lack of it.
    “In case you’ve yet to notice,” Rook announced, peering down at his mark over folded arms, “I am here to deliver a message.”
    Sean set his jaw. He had been “delivering messages” long enough to realise his life was at an end. Teeth chattering, he stared up at his relentless attacker and spat,
    “Do it then.”
    Rook’s sharp nose scrunched at that.
    “Um... I already did. Have you not worked it out yet?” he kicked the sagging, sinewy limbs once more, “It wasn’t exactly subtle.”
    Sean was turning white, as much a product of his growing dread as the signal loss between his brain and the half dozen implants in his lower half. Rook clarified,
    “You’re being left intact, dummy.”
    Sean’s eyes narrowed, his temper temporarily offsetting his anxiety,
    “Intact? Intact?! Are you trying to be funny?!” he spat, dark bile spewing from dry lips.
    W ithout his regularly scheduled secretion of treatments, Sean’s body was already beginning to reject his augmentations. These and other similarly important signals were typically carried through the spine.
    Which in turn, typically wasn’t severed.
    “ Pipe down! You’re still technically in one piece.”
    Back still arched, racked by the occasional spasm, Sean inhaled deeply and locked eyes with his attacker,
    “You should have killed me. It was a mistake not to because now I plan on putting all my not inconsiderable resources, and attention, into you. And those you work for.
    I’ll come for you, Rook. I’ll stroll right into your home. And when I do, you are going to wish you had the intelligence to end me when you had the chan-“
    Sean’s rant was cut short as the sole of Rook’s boot casually depressed the man’s windpipe. He flailed, thrashing underfoot, gargling a final breath of bile and phlegm.
    Rook didn’t say anything. He struggled to vocalise threats convincingly, too often coming across as disingenuous or ironic. Luckily, his frame was much more adept at getting the message across. He twisted the ball of his foot on the older man’s throat, as if stamping out a discarded cigarette. It seemed to do the