Fanfic #64 Ghost in the Flesh by Redcoat Officer (Worm/Love, Death and Robots)

This fanfic has Sonnie from the first episode of love death and robots transported into the world of worm as the monster her mind was placed in. You don't need to know anything about love death and robots to enjoy this story, but you should check it out the show, each episode is a different story, and they're short, so you can just check the 1st episode for this fic. This fic does a really good job with world building and really utilizes side characters.

Synopsis: Sonnie doesn't know which is real. The monster she hides in, or the shell she shows to the world. Is she even Sonnie, or is she just the creature? Khanivore is sharp, nasty, brutal and physically incapable of living beyond the tank they use to wheel her from death-match to death-match. A perfect match for the tattered spirit nestled inside the bioengineered flesh. Dicko and his girl stripped her of the false front she put out to the world, but something else sent her even further away. Away from her friends, from the found family she can no longer relate to, and into a world that's utterly unfamiliar to her, one where the fantastical is so very mundane and even monsters can find a place to belong. Lost and abandoned, she will find a home with a group of superpowered mercenaries as they struggle to find the truth of their origins. On the search, Sonnie might discover some truths of her own.

Rated: M

words: 490k

https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/ghost-in-the-flesh-worm-love-death-and-robots-complete.819108/reader/

Here's the first chapter:

She runs her fingers under my chin. Gently. Tenderly. I don't feel anything, as four blades spring out of her fingers and skewer my head.

"You made Dicko so very, very, angry."

The hybrid bitch is centimetres from my face, holding me up by the claws she drove through my skull. The little sadist is enjoying this. In one swift movement she withdraws her claws, sending my body falling to the floor. I can feel the impact, barely, as it drives air from my lungs. I hear footsteps ringing out on metal as the bitch's master comes to gloat.

"Silly fucking girl."

He looks down at my bleeding body as his tart slips her pretty golden dress back onto her shoulders.

"Was your pride really worth it?"

I can barely talk, my control over my lungs and mouth are slipping, but I manage to choke out two words. He's probably hoping I'll beg.

"Neat… trick."

He grunts in anger, and I see the bitch Jessica step over. She drives her high-heeled shoe into what's left of my face with superhuman stregth, over and over until it's little more than a stain on the floor. In the last moments before my eyes are crushed, I can see that rat bastard Dicko looking down at me with a sadistic grin. It's a strange sensation. I am aware of the crack of bone and the squelching of flesh and grey matter but I can't really feel it. There's no pain, but then there hasn't been any in a while.

"Not… Good… Enough."

I speak through shattered teeth, gurgling out the words into some imitation of speech. The effort is worth it as I see Dicko's grin turn sour. Even the bitch manages to look a little shocked. I laugh, but all that comes out are gurgles. The hybrid moves in to finish the job, but her sugar daddy holds her back. Dicko starts poking my body with his cane, as if that'll help him unravel the mystery.

"What are you?"

He's trying to sound calm, but I can hear panic creeping at the edge of his voice. Or maybe I'm just hearing things.

"Just a couple of bioware processors, spliced to a spine."

He's poking at the pile of viscera that replaced my brain, looking around in the mess as if he'll find me there. He's looking in the wrong place.

"You're not in there?"

I leave the body to die on its own, to gurgle out the last scraps of air from its lungs. With the state it's in there's no visual tell as I release control, no eyelids left to fall. Dicko's still poking around in what's left of my brains as I connect to the speaker in the corner of the trailer. My voice emerges, harsh and crystal clear.

"No."

Both of them turn to the speaker, looking away from me, so I keep talking to draw their attention.

"The night Wes and Ivrina found me they managed to save that body, but those estate fucks had broken my skull. You wanna know my edge?"

The two of them are staring down at my lifeless body, except its not really mine. Not in any way that counts. Sure, I was born with it but that doesn't mean I needed to stick with it. Behind them, hidden in the shadows, I begin to move my real body.

"Every time I step into the ring, I'm fighting for my life. That fear is my edge."

It's bloody magnificent, watching them realise just how fucked they are. All I can see are their backs, but they both turn as I speak. Jessica only manages to glimpse me in the corner of her eye before she breaks. She tries to sprint away, going at quite a pace for someone in heels, but she only makes it a couple of metres before I drive the point of my tail through the back of her skull. Before she's even hit the ground, a second tail is winding its way around Dicko, holding him up in a constricting grip. I keep talking, forced to use the speaker.

"That fear of death."

I twist him around, and step into the light. He can see me clearly now, a reptilian creature hunched over four legs ending in razor-sharp claws. If I were to stand, then I would be easily twice the height of this little man. The top of my body is covered in segmented plates of synthetic bone, all leading up to a wicked spike that runs down the length of my forehead. There's an immense tail that stretches out from my upper back and the back of my head. It's split into four independent tendrils, only one of which was needed to wrap up my prey.

"Do you feel it?"

"Please!" His voice is little more than a whimper.

I growl, the only speech this body is capable of, and watch the fear in Dicko's eyes change to pain as I crush the life out of him. This body was made for pit fighting, spliced together from the genetic code of Earth's top predators and mixed with bioware aimed at mimicking extinct species, or blending them all together into something new. Beasties like this can be found in every city worth its salt, fighting in the arena under the control of a human Baiter, mind-linked to the beast. The control is as real as the tech allows, but there's always that little bit of disconnect between the human and the beast.

I'm the opposite. All my grey matter is inside Khanivore, inside the beast. It makes me a little faster, and I feel pain more vividly, but mostly it means that whenever I fight, it's my life on the line. All the other fighters play at being tough, but ultimately all they lose in defeat is their pride. Dicko wanted me to take a fall. Any other idiot might have accepted, but if I fall, I die. Seems the bastard couldn't take no for an answer; bet he's regretting that now. As I crush his bones into fragments, I whisper to him through the borrowed speaker, before breaking off the connection.

"Are you scared now?"

I let his lifeless corpse fall to the ground before moving over to what was once my body. It seems so small now, such a fragile little thing. Now that the adrenaline has died down, I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to do with myself. I can't exactly keep up the ruse, not without a head. An orange flash in the corner of my eye startles me out of my thoughts and I black out.

White walls, an empty cell, an orange light.

I can feel rain falling down the side of my face, running along my armoured hide and onto my exposed belly. The cold water is a shock, and I stumble upright, my eyes wide and wary. This doesn't make any sense. I had my tail around that bastard's throat! I was squeezing the life out of him, feeling his bones shatter in my grip. Now I wake up in a fucking alley? I get stealing such a magnificent piece of Bitek, I really do, but why would they dump me in the middle of nowhere?

I take a couple of steps, unsteady on my feet, before slamming my hand against the wall to stop me toppling over. The brickwork is old, but that doesn't exactly tell me anything. Everything's old in London, except for the city centre and this obviously isn't that. I take another few unsteady steps before giving up and moving along on all fours. I feel like I've just been hit by a lorry. My head's pounding, and my eyes keep blurring up. My right arm gives, and I end up lying on the ground with my flank pressed against the brick wall. Whatever fucked-up tranquilisers they hit me with must still be running through my system.

So, to summarise, I'm leaning up against the walls of some shitty alley in the pouring rain with no sign of my team, or anyone else, come to think of it. What the hell's going on? If it was Dicko's goons there's no way they'd leave me alive, and nobody else would just dump something as expensive as Khanivore in an alley. This body's the product of a hundred thousand euros worth of accumulated costs; there's no way it'd just fall of the back of a truck like a used tv.

I'm pretty much useless while the drugs filter through my system, so when I hear feet splashing through puddles I'm instantly set on edge. I'm pretty sure I have enough strength left to claw the face off any bastard who gets too close, and I'd rather go down fighting if this is a kidnap job. I can hear voices now, but that just adds yet more questions.

"C'mon Andy, there's some overhanging scaffolding down here. Should keep us out of the rain for a bit."

The accent is American, but they don't exactly sound like international smugglers. I draw myself as deep into the shadows as my bulk allows, and my caution allows me a momentary glimpse of the man. He looked like any other hard-done fellow, with ragged clothes and an unkempt beard. More to the point, he obviously wasn't expecting me. The moment he spots me he turns tail and flees, shouting to his unseen friend to run while he still can. I listen to their feet splashing through the water, unable and unwilling to give chase. Something about what they said did stick, however, and I pull myself deeper into the alley until I reach an overhanging piece of scaffolding. It's enough to shelter from the rain, and soon the drugs overtake me again.

It's dark when I wake, but at least the rain has stopped. I must have been out for a few hours, and yet no one came to collect on their stolen goods. It doesn't make any sense.

Whatever.

The last of the drug must have left my system, my movements aren't sluggish anymore and my vision is back to normal. I stretch my body, standing on two legs and looking up into the night sky. I can just about see the stars through the clouds, and the persistent glow of whatever city I'm in. That's something I'm sure of; not many homeless Americans in Battersea. As I stare up at the night sky, I begin to realise that the why isn't important right now. I'm not in Battersea, I'm probably not even on the same side of the Atlantic. While it would be lovely to know just how I got here, that information isn't exactly going to help me. I'd be better off getting my bearings.

I can hear the sound of cars from the end of the alleyway, behind a bend in the road, but I decide against stepping out. Creatures like me belong in the arena, and people would flip a lid if they started walking the streets. Besides, there's no reason to confine myself to the ground. I stretch out my tail above my head, before splitting the point into four separate tendrils and the four blades of bone into the wall, spiking easily into the soft brickwork, before realising what's wrong. I pull the four points out of the wall in confusion before bringing them up to my eyes.

In the fight against Turboraptor, still a stupid name, I'd lost the points off at least half my tail, not to mention being skewered right through my chest, and yet all four tendrils are now capped with the same knife-like bone carapace. It's as if I never stepped into that pit. As I look closer I realise that isn't entirely true; the tips show some signs of new growth. Whoever dumped me here had apparently decided to fix up my tail. It was nice of them, I suppose, but it only raises more questions.

No point in wondering about that now.

With two tendrils on either wall of the alley, it's easy work to hoist myself up the side of the two brick buildings. They are a little shorter than I'm used to, and I can occasionally see glowing lights behind closed curtains. Must be some kind of tower block, to have the lights on this late. The buildings are only eight stories tall, and soon I'm able to hoist myself up onto the roof. Hopefully nobody'll notice me, but then nobody ever really looks up.

The city stretches before me, only raising more questions. I can see what must be the city centre, but everything seems a little on the cheap site. There are none of the glowing edifices that sit in the centre of London, no Dome or towering Arcologies, just utilitarian skyscrapers of simple glass. If this is America then it's a lot poorer than they show on telly. My confusion only grows as I look out onto the streets. There are plenty of cars about, but they all seem to be at least fifty years old. Despite that, every vehicle is in remarkably good nick. Something's wrong here.

"Teuton to Console, there's… something on the rooftops near Commerce and Highland. Suspected Case 53, please advise."

I whirl around in a panic, looking around at the empty rooftop. After a moment a slight movement draws my eyes upwards, and I see the impossible. There's a man flying above the roof. He's not in a helicopter or using some kind of sci-fi jetpack, he's just standing in mid-air. He's dressed like an idiot, in black tights with white armour and a helmet that only covers the top half of his face, but there's something inherently menacing about him. This must be some American bitek, he certainly sounds like he's working with the Police. To him, I must look like a rogue servitor. Shit.

The supercop begins to descend through the air but I don't give him the chance to close the distance. Khanivore wasn't built for long distance sprinting but I can still put on an impressive turn of speed. I book it to the edge of the rooftop before leaping off the edge, using my weight to smash through the brick walls of the next building over. I've crashed into some poor soul's living room. It's empty, thankfully, and I barrel through the front door of the flat and into the corridor in-between. In the brief glimpse I have of the room I note just how out of style everything seems to be, and how old the tech looks. If this is an American city, it's a pretty poor one.

The corridors are tight, and I'm barely able to squeeze through them, but I somehow manage to navigate my way along the twisting space until I burst into a stairwell, the cop no doubt hot on my heels. There's no way I'd have a chance of escaping him on open ground, he can fly after all, but hopefully I can lose him in the good old concrete jungle. I burst into the stairwell, shattering the wooden door and much of the frame, and leap down the stairwell, destroying each door I pass. On the third floor I shatter the exit before leaping back to the fourth level of the stairwell, sliding through the door I destroyed there. Hopefully that should buy me a few seconds. I can't outrun him, but I can lose him.

This time I avoid the stairwell, instead heading for the sole window at the end of the corridor. I can't hear the cop following me but, if he's flying, I wouldn't be able to hear him anyway. There's a pane of glass between me and the street but I simply close my eyes and barrel through it. I drop four stories, driving my tendrils into the walls to slow my descent, before ending up on ground level again. I don't bother checking if I'm being followed, instead dropping to all fours and sprinting through the alleyways until I reach the end of the block. A quick burst brings me across the street, scattering the occasional nightcrawler. I run further and further from the alley where I first woke, until I find a particularly dark spot to shelter in.

I don't know how long I spend huddled in the alleyway, hoping beyond hope that I've lost the flying man, but eventually I satisfy myself that there are no pursuers. My breathing is heavy, Khanivore was built for pit fighting, not marathon running, but I'm otherwise unharmed. I catch sight of my reflection in a puddle at my feet, a toothy grin and beady eyes framed by an enormous crest of engineered bone. What the hell am I supposed to do with myself? I'm weary, not from drugs or exertion, but from just how lost I really am. I have no idea where I am, and my human puppet body is lost twice over. I can't talk, and it's not like people would stop to listen to the rogue bioweapon.

I shake myself out of that line of thought, it isn't productive. I have to think about the small things, like the scrap of paper that had caught on one of my antenna. As I pull it off, I'm shocked to realise it's an actual newspaper, like in those old films. That shock is nothing compared to the twin revelations that hit me when I read the header:

The Philidelphia Tribune, 02/25/2011

What the fuck?