Chapter 15

Tom was slowly climbing up the stairs of the abandoned museum. Even though the drone patrolling the area made it clear that everything was safe, he was still firmly grabbing his pistol just in case.

After a few minutes, he not only reached the second floor but also his objective. He even double-checked if the monster that he had killed the day before was still dead and if anything had touched its corpse. Even the strange effect that made Tom's eyes hurt was gone.

It was a big circular room with multiple corridors connecting it. In the middle, a huge hole led to the upper and lower floors, as a massive three-story-tall statue rested in the center.

The work of art looked like a ballerina made out of bronze, a sturdy metal, but the casting seemed to be leaving behind some details, like her face or even her clothes. Even the shape was androgynous, making the only clue for one to understand that it was a dancer was its pose. Looking up with one hand stretched to the sky while the other gracefully rests on her side. However, this was not the piece of art that Tom was worried about.

It was not the paintings on the wall or the thin glass security walls that were made to avoid kids jumping on the abyss. It was one of the exhibitions shoved against a wall.

A small sign partially covered by overgrowth, white gunk said "Hygiene Beds." Any other piece of information was devoured by the fleshy, cancerous growth that had completely consumed whatever it was.

They were like a mixture of toad eggs, a tumor, and phlegm the size of a dumpster, big enough for Tom to consider a luxury home a few days ago. That thing with its wet, slick eggs was throbbing, twitching, almost as if it was about to explode, and the black things that one could see moving through the semi-translucent surface didn't seem friendly.

Tom took a second to decide what would be the best way to pop this balloon that was making his head spin with its mere existence. However, his meditation was quickly interrupted.

The sound of glass breaking was quickly overpowered by the deafening roar of a motor. In the blink of an eye, a mysterious rider had broken through a window and landed just in front of Tom.

He was on the second floor.

She was too tall, at least 1.9 m. Dressed from head to toe in biker gear—a black helmet, black boots, and leather pants—her ebony leather jacket had multiple metal spikes on it, and the headgear that covered the entirety of her face was a strange mixture of a biker and a bucket helmet. The super was also wide, muscular, and extremely fit, to the point where her biceps were as big as Tom's head. However, even in that situation, the man could see her wide hips and modest-sized breasts hiding under the zipper of the jacket.

Then it was the seat of this rider. Her bike was equally big to accommodate her body. Just this extremely expensive racing bike with a black layer of paint and some key parts covered in silver chrome to highlight the guts of this beast. There was the symbol of Valhalla painted on the left side, the three interlocked triangles.

"Well, you fucked up; you are coming with me," the woman yelled at him, still over her bike and making the engine rev up as a long trail of broken glass and tire marks was behind her.

It was not that hard to find where Tom was. He was not that discreet, and public transport was by far not the most private way of moving around.

He could smell the rancid odor of exhaust fumes oozing from the bike, almost overpowering the rotten stench of the monster eggs.

Tom nodded, knowing that his little bait had caught a fish too big for him to fry. "Awwwwwwww, not even an introduction? I am Tom. Nice to meet you," he muttered with a teasing tone.

"Warpath, you messed with my boss, and now it is my job to take you to her," she ordered and then stopped the second she saw Tom pointing his pistol at her.

The woman crossed her arms under her breasts. "Do you think that you can shoot me?" She asked with a skeptical tone.

"Don't do it, Tom; she is bulletproof!" Celene yelled to Tom through their communicator as the drone entered the room from the upper floor.

He knew about this. The man had done some small research on Valhalla and their members, and even if the public information was not a lot, their collective and singular deeds were known. Warpath, in particular, had been seen taking dozens of armed men alone.

The catboy chuckled and then slowly moved his gun, aiming at his true objective. "Oh? No, no, no, I am not aiming at you," he purred as he pointed to the sack of eggs.

("Fuck fuck fuck fuck! Not the bulletproof one!") Tom thought while keeping a perfectly calm smile.

There was a sudden change in the atmosphere; it was clear that the woman was looking at Tom with her eyes wide open under her helmet.

The second that Warpath saw the cluster of eggs, she knew that things could go south fast. After all, she didn't have night vision like Tom, so the only light for her was the headlights of her bike.

"Wait! Fuck it! Don't you have any idea how dangerous it is to awaken an unknowing monster?!" Warpath yelled at him.

Tom chuckled. His first experience, where he almost died fighting one, left him perfectly clear. "Oh, I know that perfectly," the man added.

"Stop it . . . don't do it . . ." She finally said, on the brink of rushing Tom and taking out his gun.

"Let's see if two wrongs can make a right, darling," Tom muttered, and with a simple movement of his finger, all hell broke loose.