Why did you want to go to law school?
I was asked this question during my interview for Cresthorne Law. Other interviews also ask some variation of that question; I did get asked that during the interview for my undergrad of business administration.
In both instances, I went auto-pilot mode, spewing bullshit that would make me look good. I was an expert in giving the generic ‘correct’ answer called for by the situation and feigning conviction behind my statements. But then again, the interviewer had no doubt heard those sorts of answers many times before and would've accepted it regardless of perceived sincerity.
The difference for law school was a certain pressure to give an answer that sounded ‘socially responsible’, if that was the right term. ‘Making money’—fix it up a bit to sound professional and not too greedy—was a perfectly acceptable answer for business school. But saying you want to land a well-paying job at a high-powered law firm, the American dream, wouldn't cut it for a law school interview.
That goes doubly so for Cresthorne Law, which was geared towards legal practice in the field of Adumbrae. We were practically required to give the help-in-the-fight-against-Adumbrae-in-our-own-way answer. Most Cresthorne students did have that noble goal in their hearts, although how long that nobility stays within them was a different question. Heck, we even got Deen wanting to play hero, resorting to illegal means to gain powers.
How about me? What was the true reason I wanted to go to law school?
That’s simple: Gain skills to correctly interpret the Rules and be able to faithfully follow them.
The Rules governed my life.
But they weren’t as simple as they seemed. Rule #7, do not do anything that would break the character of the face I have on, for one, had very broad applications.
Back in high school, I was using my default timid face, not only because it fit well with my appearance, but it was also the easiest one to use and has the fewest restrictions. Some bitch thought it was a wise idea to bully me. It was so frustrating because I couldn’t directly fight back due to Rule #7. I had to put in so much effort to make everyone hate her—efforts I’d rather not detail—and by our senior year, even her gal-pals bitch-squad abandoned her.
I was a vengeful, petty little brat in high school, but very proud of my work.
In the end, her only remaining friend was, get this… me. A true divine comedy.
The persona I had on was the only one who didn’t hate her in the entire school. In desperation for human connection, she approached me. She made a heartfelt apology and shared all the hardships she went through because everyone avoided her and wouldn’t even share the same table with her. I had no fucking choice but to forgive her because of Rule #7. I did have lots of fun hearing about her suffering—that I caused—but I couldn’t gloat in front of her because of, again, the extensive coverage of Rule #7.
To be fair...both of us came out a better person after that.
She became a decent human being and had only me to thank for it. On my part, I came to realize that gloating after making a person suffer wasn't the right way. Gloating meant I wanted to see the other person’s reaction, which in turn meant I valued their reaction.
Which I shouldn’t.
Because that’s stupid.
This time, I had a novel problem when it came to the application of the Rules.
Do they apply when I'm transformed?
I'd been staying at Amber Deen’s house for a week now, spending my nights pondering this question. No satisfactory definitive answer has yet come to mind during my internal deliberations. The dilemma was mostly due to one of my views that my transformed body was a different person altogether. A counterpoint was that my mind was still the same, so the Rules should still be effective, right?
Could this situation be considered analogous to a person changing citizenship, hence getting affected by a different set of laws and whatnot? Like if a married couple who were citizens of a country where divorce was illegal—not sure how many countries were still that conservative—went here in the US to get a divorce, they’d still be married because the laws of the country of citizenship governed civil status. But if they somehow got US citizenship, they can obtain a binding divorce. At least, that was my understanding of it. We hadn't gone that far yet in my International Law class.
Did the Rules follow my original body, since they were made for it, such that having a different body meant a different set of Rules?
I dunno...
But enough of that.
Tonight, I decided to have a break from studying the different ways of interpreting and applying the law for some experimentation.
Deen and her older sister left to attend some fancy party hosted by a family friend of theirs, a wealthy business tycoon who recently opened a five-star hotel. And so, they were gone for the night.
Before leaving, Deen repeated a dozen times why I should remain inside her house, detailing all their state-of-the-art security system. I think people from a security agency would even come to the house if there was a break-in, and they were guaranteed to arrive before the police. Very fancy.
Of course, Deen couldn’t lock me in the house. She did leave with me the keys.
I'm going out. Sorry, Deen.
My destination was a mansion under construction at the edge of Poblacion Verde. It was about twenty minutes of brisk jogging from Deen’s house. From the looks of it, it was going to be a huge house, and would surely be as luxurious, if not more, than the houses around it. I bet the piece of land it was on was even more expensive than Deen’s because it was in a secluded portion of Poblacion Verde; exclusivity in a cramped city like La Esperanza was premium. I found the half-built house when Deen and I were jogging late afternoon last Friday. There were no workers at this time of the night so it was the perfect place for some privacy.
I circled to the back of the structure where the construction materials were stacked to avoid any cameras and entered the open part of the house. The only sources of light were the bright moon and the distant streetlights.
I stepped into what I assumed was going to be the kitchen based on the works already made, gingerly walking in, careful not to move anything out of place, until I reached an open space free from sawdust and gravel.
I took out the contents of my bag and set them on a nearby workbench. A knife, an empty microwavable container, another container with a couple of raw chicken legs, a third one with fried chicken, and some bandages and ointments for wounds from my own first aid kit.
Deen might wonder why I had so many chicken legs for dinner. It was so hard to smuggle them out along with the knife while avoiding the security cameras in her house. Why were there so many cameras everywhere nowadays?
After arranging them neatly on the bench, I spread out clear plastic sheets across the floor, the same one used for wrapping books—I bought some at the mall yesterday. I also fixed across my hips the same plastic wrap fashioned into a skirt. My dark blue velvet dolphin shorts were short enough to be covered by the make-shift skirt. I took off my black sweatshirt and sneakers and set them aside to avoid getting blood on them.
The chilly wind blew in from the gaps of the roof and wrapped around me, making the hairs on my skin stand on end from the cold. I held my breath as I gripped the knife tightly with my right hand. I placed my left hand on my abdomen and clenched my jaws.
Here goes.
The sharp edge of the knife glided across my pale skin like the blades of a figure skater elegantly slicing through the ice. Blood slowly dripped out of my parted skin. It wasn't enough.
“Fuck,” I gasped. The cut was shallow. And I was healing too fast.
I steeled myself for another pass of the knife.
Shit, shit, shit. I couldn’t explain exactly how, but it was extremely grating to cut my stomach compared to the time I stabbed my palm. The blade bit into my flesh a little deeper. I angled it up a notch as I pulled on my skin with my left hand, intentionally slicing off a tiny bit of my flesh.
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Blood raced down my torso, caught by the plastic skirt. I collected the dripping blood with the empty container but some drops missed their mark and landed on my feet and the floor, which was thankfully covered by the plastic sheets. I slid the sliver of my flesh sticking to the knife into the container with my blood.
I breathed slowly. There was searing pain from the cut but it felt good somewhat, like when you scratch stretch marks. Weird comparison, I know. My rapid healing added to the feeling of euphoria from the pain. This could get addictive.
Stop that! I slapped myself with as much force as I could muster, rattling my head.
This was the primary way Adumbrae tricked people into giving up their minds. Give them a body of a superhuman and they'd naturally crave for more...until they weren’t themselves anymore. And it wasn’t only in cases of Adumbrae seeding. There were stringent government regulations on enhancing and augmenting humans for that very same reason. Some people get carried away and weren't remotely human anymore after so many enhancements.
I examined the container of my blood with the small piece of my flesh floating on top, a gross garnish on a vampiric drink.
On to my experiment.
I didn't know how I turned into the big bad wolf last time. Or how I returned to my own body. All I could remember was the intense rage at the people attacking me, the inconceivable hunger, the unstoppable desire to consume them, to feel their bones break between my teeth, to chew their soft flesh.
I summoned my mask, examined it for a couple of seconds, and put it on with a nonchalant shrug.
A familiar surge of power!
Strength!
I looked down to confirm that I had indeed changed. Black gloves with red-tipped claws were on my hands. Braided golden hair flowing down over my chest, check. Hot body with shapely long legs, check and check.
The gash on my bare midriff healed at an insane speed, so much faster than earlier. The flesh stitched itself like steel getting wielded together. The wound was gone. I could feel the formidable power of the muscles of my jaws. I snapped at the air a couple of times to test out my precious fangs, the impact of the bites running through my skull.
First up was the fried chicken.
I took a bite. The crispy skin, juicy meat, and brittle bones offered no resistance, and it tasted like…fried chicken. Good fried chicken, I mused, patting myself in my mind. The other fried chicken leg I swallowed whole with my wide mouth. Then I waited for a few minutes, staring around me.
Nothing.
Second was the raw chicken legs. I would've found them disgusting to eat were I in my original body, but I didn’t mind them now. Another point for the different body, different Rules theory?
I held up both raw chicken legs and chomped on them at the same time. Wow, what an amazing taste of nothing. A dab of chickeny taste lingered on my tongue, but besides that, there was nothing of note. Raw chicken was bland and rubbery.
As expected, nothing happened too.
My working hypothesis was that I needed human flesh and blood to trigger the transformation. I couldn’t exactly raid a graveyard or a coroner’s office or a morgue, nor did I want to. That was where I drew the line. Too icky. I suspected I needed the flesh and blood to be fresh anyway.
I had to make do with my blood and meat. I opened my mouth and dumped my blood, including the tiny piece of my flesh, down my throat in one go. Shutting my mouth, I swallowed quickly. My stomach rumbled and I held it with my arms, dropping the container to the floor. It tasted so disgusting!
I vomited, saliva and blood splattering the plastic sheet on the floor.
The fuck happened?
This experiment only added more questions. Why did I find my flesh and blood disgusting even though I munched on other people’s body parts with gusto? Did I need to eat a different person to trigger my transformation? What do I do next? Kidnap someone and take a bite out of them? I couldn’t see any other way moving forward.
My phone rang, making me tense up, wary. I sighed when I saw it was only Deen calling. I removed my mask and reverted to human form. “Hi, Deen,” I said, answering the phone. “How’s the party?" I checked my wound. No trace of it remained. There was no need for the first aid kit.
“It’s the usual…boring,” she said with a sigh. I had no idea what ‘the usual’ was supposed to be for someone as rich as her. “I should've persuaded Sis to take you too. I think I could've snuck you in.”
“No way, I don’t know what to do in those parties. And I don’t have fancy clothes for it.”
“Anyway, I’m going home now because I’m worried about you.”
I pinned the phone between my cheek and shoulder to free my hands and started packing my things. I carefully removed my plastic skirt and wrapped it with the plastic sheets covering the floor. “Worried? Why? Nothing’s going to happen to me. I'm outside doing some jogging actually.” I didn’t lie about leaving the house because of the security cameras.
“What?!” Deen said, nearly yelling. “Someone might…pick you up again.” I wondered why she didn’t use the word ‘kidnap’. Did she think I was going to be sensitive about it? “Where are you right now?”
“Just around here. Don’t worry, I’m going back to your house.”
“Okay, I’ll get home in about thirty minutes. We have to prepare for guests tonight.”
“Guests? Who?”
“The group will be there later. My sister will stay over at her boyfriend’s flat tonight so we have the house to ourselves. Dario called for a meeting.”
I raised my brow in interest. “Really? What’s it about?”
“He said he has a new lead in pursuing the 2Ms.”
I smiled. Seems like I won’t have to bite off the leg of a homeless man in some back alley to continue my experiment. Those kidnappers wouldn't mind me experimenting on them now, would they?