No Gods, No Heroes

Chapter 7

Lucien's car sped down the brightly lit but lonely road through Sierra. He gazed out the window as one of Paganini's pieces whispered through the radio. Helen occasionally glanced at the rearview mirror, words pressing against the back of her throat but never making it past her lips.

"Glaring at me isn't going to change anything," Lucien said, not taking his eyes off the window. "If you have something to say, say it."

Helen tightened her grip on the wheel. "General Lucien Augustine Voss—hero of the war, strongest among the four colonies—yet you let them humiliate you. The very people you bled for." She shook her head. "I don't understand you."

Lucien's gaze stayed fixed on the passing scenery. Silent.

"They should be grateful," she continued, her voice low but firm. "You always put their best interests first, but they tear you down instead. When we first met, when everyone else ran from me because of my power, you stood by me. You taught me to embrace it. You said, 'What you're dealt in life shouldn't define you.' Those words still echo in my head every day. But you—" Helen exhaled sharply. "You're letting guilt drown you."

Lucien's eyes flickered with something unreadable, but his lips curved faintly.

"The Council might not be wrong," she pressed. "Your judgment is clouded. Not by love. Not by loneliness. By guilt."

Lucien's smile deepened as the car slowed to a stop in front of a dark, looming building.

"Thank you for the drive, Helen."

He lingered for a moment, hand on the door. "Do you still believe this world can change?"

"If you're the one leading it—yes."

"Good." He stepped out as the door slid open beside him. 

"Guilt isn't a weakness, Helen. It's the reminder that I still have something to protect." he said 

"See you in the morning."

"Be careful," she called softly as the door eased shut.

Helen watched him disappear into the shadows of his house. With a sigh, she rested her forehead against the car's control panel. After a long pause, she sat up and stared into the rearview mirror.

"That totally screamed I love you, didn't it?" she muttered at her reflection.

Her left eye flickered—pupils shifting red, sclera darkening, veins burning crimson beneath the surface.

"But it's something that can't be," she whispered.

Her reflection smiled back. "He still loves Miss Cially."

"I know. You don't have to remind me."

The smile twisted, growing wider. "Why not just kill the ones who disrespect him? Wouldn't that be a favor?"

Helen's reflection stretched out a hand, fingers curling as if to caress her cheek through the glass.

"Let me in," it whispered. "I'll give you what you need. I'll make Lucien see you the way you see him."

Helen's eyes narrowed, resisting the pull as the reflection darkened and withered. Her eye returned to normal.

"That's not what he needs." She started the car. Its engine hummed softly as she guided it back into the empty streets.

Ahead, shadows stirred.

Helen squinted, the car's headlights catching silhouettes in the dark.

Before she could react, the flash of an RPG cut through the night.

The missile struck the car square on.

Flames swallowed the road whole.

"Target eliminated," the assailant muttered, lowering the massive launcher to rest on his shoulder.

"You sure? Check again. That Lucien bastard has a funny way of staying alive," a mechanized voice crackled over the radio.

Helen groaned as she stepped forward, emerging from the flames. Her clothes were scorched, torn, and barely clinging to her frame, exposing parts of her charred skin. Smoke drifted from her body as if she had just walked out of hell.

"You idiots really picked the wrong night," she growled, brushing ash from her shoulder. A wicked grin tugged at her lips, her eyes burning red.

"At least now," she said, voice darkening, "I have someone to take it out on."

The assailant stiffened. "Shit... that wasn't the General."

"Doesn't matter. Clean it up or you don't get paid," the voice snapped before the line cut out.

The man exhaled slowly, stepping into the light. His skin was dark, smooth but weathered, with long dreadlocks framing his stoic face.

"Nothing personal, darling," he said, his eyes meeting hers without a flicker of hesitation. "Boss wants you dead."

Helen cocked her head, sizing him up. "And you thought I'd let you walk away after trying to kill him?" Her voice dripped venom.

Thick brown liquid seeped from his pores, hardening into a shell that rippled across his body like living armor. His fingers flexed, and razor-sharp claws sprouted, gleaming under the flickering light.

"Let's get this over with."

In a blur, he lunged, claws aiming straight for her throat.

Helen barely shifted—her fist met his charge with a thunderous crack. The impact hurled him backward, slamming him into a nearby truck with enough force to crumple the metal.

The assassin groaned, staggering to his feet. His hardened armor cracked and flaked off in chunks, revealing a deep wound in his abdomen, dark blood seeping out. He glanced down at it, almost impressed.

"That was some punch." His lips twisted into a smirk.

"But," he continued, as the wound closed up and new layers of armor rippled over his skin, "it's gonna take more than that. My mutation lets me control keratinocyte synthesis. I can generate this armor as fast as I lose it." He flexed his claws, now fully repaired.

Helen rolled her shoulders, the faint glow in her eyes intensifying.

"Good," she whispered. "I wasn't planning to end this quickly."

Helen staggered forward in an erratic, weaving pattern before breaking into a sudden sprint.

The assassin met her charge with a brutal punch to the jaw, sending her reeling backward. Without missing a beat, he followed up—a flurry of punches hammering her ribs before a swift kick to the midsection launched her into a crumbling wall.

Helen slumped to the ground, coughing as blood pooled beneath her. But when the assassin stepped closer, he paused.

Something was wrong.

Helen grinned through blood-streaked teeth, fresh crimson dripping from the gash across her stomach and the cut along her hairline. Her eyes shone with a twisted light, the sadistic curve of her smile never fading.

"What the hell are you up to?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

Helen chuckled darkly. "The General took down one of the largest opium cartels for fun. He's pissed off plenty of people. Of course, there's a target on his back."

The assassin's expression hardened. "Don't tell me what I already know."

Helen's laughter rose, ragged but mocking.

Without warning, she lunged.

He pulled a handgun from his side and fired three rounds into her chest. Helen's body jerked and collapsed in a heap.

The assassin approached carefully, firing three more shots into her still frame just to be sure. Satisfied, he turned to leave.

Then the air shifted.

A suffocating bloodlust crept up his spine, freezing him in place.

Helen rose—slowly, unnaturally—like a marionette pulled to her feet by invisible strings. Blood dripped freely from the bullet wounds, her hair hanging over her face in sticky strands.

"You're supposed to be dead," he muttered, uneasy now.

Helen lifted her head, eyes glowing faintly beneath the curtain of blood.

"Pain absorption," she whispered. "Every hit, every bullet, it makes me stronger. There's a threshold—once I absorb enough, the real fun begins."

The wounds on her body began to knit together, closing with deliberate slowness.

"I split the explosion earlier. Half for the initial hit, the other to keep me standing."

"That's one twisted ability," he growled, raising his gun again. "Guess I'll just have to—"

In a blink, Helen was in front of him.

Her hand pierced through his chest, fingers ripping out the other side.

The assassin's eyes widened in disbelief as Helen's fingers flexed, cradling something still warm and pulsing.

Blood filled his mouth as he sank to his knees, gaze flickering to the object she held.

His heart.

Helen let it drop at his feet with a wet thud, watching him sway.

"That felt good," she whispered, her grin stretching wider as the light faded from his eyes.

Sierra

Isaac sat outside the house, his gaze fixed on the artificial stars hanging across the dome overhead. Their faint glow reflected in his eyes, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere.

The soft creak of floorboards broke the silence. The door swung open, and Janice stepped out, wrapped in a blanket and holding another in her arms.

"Can't sleep?" she asked gently.

Isaac glanced back at her. "Oh... Did I wake you?"

"Not really." She handed him the extra blanket, then sat beside him on the porch.

They sat in silence for a moment, the quiet night stretching around them.

"What are you going to do?" Janice finally asked, her eyes fixed on the distant lights beyond the dome.

Isaac hesitated, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "I don't know. It's obvious I don't stand a chance against Lucien. And now there's someone else just as powerful coming after me." His voice lowered. "I'm not sure I can protect you all."

Janice didn't respond right away, letting his words linger.

"I've lived the same way," a voice said from the doorway. Malick stepped outside, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

"In fear of losing someone close." He walked over and leaned against the porch railing. "That fear—it makes us human. The fact that you care—that you weigh your decisions because of the people around you—that's love. And love is what keeps us grounded."

Malick turned, meeting Isaac's eyes. "We don't want to be a burden to you, Isaac. We don't want to hold you back."

Janice nodded in agreement. "Train us. Let us fend for ourselves. Then you won't have to carry this alone."

Isaac stared at them, surprise flickering across his face.

"I can't do that," he said quietly. "I'd be putting you both in even more danger."

"This is our decision," Janice replied firmly.

"You're not alone, Isaac." Malick stepped closer, his expression unwavering.

By the window, Isaac's grandmother watched silently, her weathered hands resting on the sill. A soft smile crept across her wrinkled face, though she said nothing.

Isaac exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders—just a little.

"You saved us. Don't take away our right to save you in return." 

Malick gazed out at the stars. "Maybe this way... I can stay with you all without hurting anyone." His voice was barely above a whisper, almost as if he were speaking to himself.