Carapace

Chapter 1: The Fall

Flames. It was all I could feel. The bacon-like sound of my skin crackling and sizzling as the helicopter spun out of control. Even the torn ligaments in my left arm, ripped to shreds by AK-47 rounds, seemed to only resonate with cyclonic heat and flames. The pilot was screaming in agony, and I could smell his burning flesh. But there was still another target in this chopper that needed to be taken care of. Caravelo couldn't be allowed to escape. I pushed myself upward in the upturning helicopter, and lunged towards my quarry. Caravelo was also on fire, his hands gripping a small pistol which he had been discharging rapidly in my general direction. Swinging out with my right arm, which still had functional muscles, I grabbed the pistol in his hands, and felt my fingers pinched as the slide tried to chamber another round. I then threw all my weight against Caravelo, and he screamed as we both tumbled out of the spiraling burning helicopter, the Afghan desert ground almost a thousand feet below us. Despite the pain of the fire, I couldn't help but chuckle internally at the idea of a warlord losing his life by being pushed out of his own private helicopter.
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The deep wobbling bass of the blasting mega-speakers was the first thing I felt when I opened my eyes. A mass of warm young bodies danced and writhed around me, moving in sync with the drop and fluctuating bass of a mediocre electronic monody. Then the heat hit me. The whole place was humid. I could feel warm beads of sweat forming on my forehead as I winced from the bright lights of the disco ball piercing my eyes. As familiar as I was with the whole process, the fact that my sense of smell and my sense of actual touch hadn't hit me yet had me unnerved and detached from the whole situation. Trying to keep calm, I moved and swayed with the crowd, raising my hands into the air with the beat of the music. Then I noticed my arms and my hands. They weren't right. A long, poorly done tattoo of a chameleon adorned my left wrist, its tail snaking up my forearm. My arms were thin, lacking the mass of muscle I was hoping to have. Whatever the job was this time, it would be hard to do with this body. This body must have belonged to some sort of college frat boy, some kid who'd never thrown a punch in his life. Pausing for a moment, I managed to shimmy my way to the edge of the crowd as the music continued. I looked myself over. I was wearing some form of party boy t-shirt, sprayed with a graphic I couldn't make out in the whirling lights of the nightclub. My skinny jeans hugged my legs, and as they pressed against my skin, I realized my sense of feeling had arrived. I ran one of my flimsy hands across my smooth chin, and over my lightly haired arms. This body was young. I began to look around, hoping for some form of visual cue that would trigger the subconscious messages I needed for further instruction.

"Blake? Blake, what's wrong with you? Are you okay?" I spun around as an attractive young girl approached me. She couldn't be older than her early twenties. She must be someone that knew this body. But she wouldn't be talking to its original occupant.

"Yeah... Yeah... I'm fine. Just feeling dizzy is all." I replied, noticing my voice as oddly high-pitched and young. I continued to scan the room, and my eyes fell on the DJ. And I could feel it. It was him. He had an extensive criminal record, and without any more information on his crimes, I could feel that he needed to be put down and arrested. I could sense that for whatever reason, the only adults in the club were the heavily muscled bouncers standing around the stage, of which there were two. Presumably, other adults just couldn't blend in on a university campus.

"Are you sure you're fine?" She made a small flip of her blonde hair and reached out to my face. Her hand was undoubtedly cool and soft, but the surrealism of the whole situation made it feel strange and fuzzy against my skin. Shaking the feeling, I looked down at my waist. No weapons. Of course.

"I need a drink. I'll be back," I brushed her hand away, and although I knew it must have made Blake seem uncharacteristically cold, I ignored her gasp of protest and headed toward the bar. The tender wasn't busy at the moment, nodding his head and jiving to the bizarre sounds of the nightclub music. As I approached, he looked up at me, and a flash of recognition flickered across his face.