"Away from them… for now," Mahone muttered as he leaned against the cold, rough surface of a wall in a narrow alleyway. The sun was just beginning to rise, painting the city in faint hues of orange and pink. Despite the serenity of the morning, his heart pounded, his breaths sharp and uneven.
None of this made sense to him.
He closed his eyes, trying to block out the relentless flood of questions that hammered at his mind. He had no memories—none that belonged to him, at least. What he did have were fragments, disjointed glimpses stolen from the soldiers he had… absorbed. Pieces of their lives, their fears, their missions. But nothing that explained him.
Mahone glanced down at his hands. They were human—normal in every way at the moment. But he knew what they could do, what they had already done.
Running like the wind, scaling walls like some kind of apex predator. His strength far exceeded anything he thought possible. And then there were the transformations—the shield, the claws. His arm and hand twisted and warped into weapons of destruction.
And the tendrils.
The thought made him shudder. Back in that sterile facility, he had used them without thinking. They lashed out, instinctive and savage, wrapping around his enemies like living whips. The power they carried was immense and terrifying.
But what scared him most wasn't the power itself—it was how natural it felt.
"What the hell am I?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant hum of the waking city.
His mind replayed the memories he had absorbed. The scientist's frantic thoughts as he tried to classify Mahone as a ghoul. The whispered warnings to the soldiers: dangerous, unpredictable, non-human. But then there was the senior officer—the one who had called him something else without saying it aloud. Her memories were more guarded, fragmented, but they hinted at something deeper. Something… worse.
"For now, we'll classify him as a ghoul. It'll simplify things for the public and our forces."
But all of a sudden, he realized something. The things he absorbed... assimilated, some of their skills and knowledge became his own.
But quickly as that thought came to him, another one appeared.
The breeze. The soft warmth of the rising sun brushing against his skin. He glanced down.
And froze.
His eyes widened in horror as the realization dawned on him. He was still naked.
From the moment he had woken up in that cold, sterile facility, through all the chaos—running, fighting, escaping—he had been completely exposed.
"Are you kidding me?" he muttered, running a hand over his face. He felt the heat rise to his cheeks, a mix of embarrassment and frustration boiling inside him. "All this time... naked? Really?"
He sighed, leaning back against the wall and sliding down to sit on the ground. The absurdity of it all almost made him laugh. Almost.
However, if he were to describe what happened next, he couldn't describe exactly. Except for his head, his body began to phase an orange-red and black color.
The strange hues coalesced and began to form shapes—fabric-like textures appearing out of his body. Within moments, a long white tee-shirt covered his torso, fitting snugly over his frame. Jeans materialized, dark and worn-looking, as though they'd been tailored just for him. Finally, sturdy black shoes formed around his feet, grounding him in an almost surreal way.
Mahone stared down at himself, his hands brushing over the clothes. They felt real, tangible. The fabric had weight, texture—it wasn't some illusion.
"How...?" he muttered, standing and turning his hands over as if expecting them to shift again. But the glowing hues had vanished, leaving only the newly-formed outfit.
His mind raced, trying to piece it together. His powers—whatever they were—had just solved his immediate problem in the most bizarre way possible. He couldn't help but feel a mix of relief and unease.
"I don't know what's happening to me," Mahone said quietly, flexing his hands. "But... at least I'm not naked anymore."
The faintest trace of a smirk tugged at his lips, a brief moment of levity in the madness. But the questions loomed larger than ever. His powers weren't just claws, shields, or tendrils—they were something more, something deeper.
And they seemed to be tied to his survival.
He shook his head, stepping out of the alley and back into the waking city. Answers could wait. For now, he had to focus on staying alive.