Walk Me Home: Dating a Monster Girl

Beatrice Barton, A.K.A. ‘Momma Bar’. She prided herself on her image as strict but warmly motherly figure. However, as far as prime ministers went, Beatrice was built different. She was the only woman Amy knew who was more physically imposing than her mother. Beatrice often boasted of her time in the army. She had more than enough bulk to prove it.

Amy recalled when the parliament was in uproar over one of Beatrice’s more controversial moves. Sure, Sargasa was a colony of Barbados, but she tended to step in and yank the chain of command from its government at any given time. “Thoughtless, shameless and overbearing!” That’s what the Sargasan president called it.

For a while, the woman sat quietly, taking in the criticism with indifference. Finally, she got up, calmly walked to the main entrance and locked the door. Flabbergasted into silence, most of the other politicians didn’t know how to react. Those who did tested the other exits and realised they too were locked. Standing before them all, Beatrice cracked her girthy neck and gargantuan knuckles. Then came her iconic bellow.

“WE GINE DO THIS LIKE BRITISH!”

Officially, what happened next was only hearsay. She claimed Sargasa had its first bout of legislative violence: a total free for all. Tensions were high and one thing led to another. She firmly believed the Sargasan government was better than this, quick to learn from its mistakes and move on. Most importantly, it would never. Happen. Again.

She said it while smiling, while being the only politician without a single bruise. The others weren’t so lucky. Broken bones abounded. The president was little more than a cocoon of casts propped up in the hospital. It looked like someone would need to step in and pick up the slack! She was willing to make the sacrifice.

Weeks later, a viral video surfaced. Supposedly, it was footage of The Incident, captured on a smartphone. Making heads or tails of the chaos was difficult. The feminine form at the forefront of it all moved too fast. Bodies went flying as she bowled through several people at a time. The camera couldn’t keep up, but it caught the moment when the president was yeeted across the room from offscreen. Then a massive, meaty hand reached for the phone.

The video ended there.

When asked to comment, Beatrice chuckled. It was an amusing little CGI animation, she claimed. No one could move that fast, or hurl people across a room. That was long before The Night Shift, after all.

Reporters interviewed the only politician with a crushed hand, conspicuously missing his smartphone. His silence was loud. It’d take a crowbar to pry open his lips.

Calling Beatrice queen of the girl bosses would be an insult. She was no mere ‘girl’. That’s how Amy once saw it, but Amy’s perspective had shifted since then. Now? Beatrice Barton was on her phone screen, staring her in the face. Or … was she? A glance confirmed that the camera was on. Yup. Amy explicitly remembered turning it off before answering the call. Somehow, that hadn’t made a difference.

Eyes wide, stock still, Amy stared back at Beatrice. She felt small. Ironic, since she was bigger than a house.

“GMM!!!”

In the distance, Amy heard the hunting cries of what sounded like an eyescraper. Ordinarily, she’d rush out there to deal with the pest, but the person before her riveted all attention.

Beatrice frowned. “Sweetheart, I can’t see your face.”

“P-pardon me?” Amy stammered.

Wasn’t the camera on? Oh, right … another glance revealed that although she did show up in the tiny corner screen, her features were blurred. It was that passive ability to mess up footage of herself. Amy mostly used it so that her mother couldn’t identify her on the news. Oftentimes, it was a nervous reflex. She almost always used it in public … and near open windows. How did Beatrice even know she could turn it off? What else did Beatrice know? Had she found out what Amy did to the agents?

The Prime Minister frowned. She was growing impatient.

Amy dropped the self-censorship filter. Her hair tendrils wrung each other nervously.

Beatrice scrutinised her for a moment. “Hm. You’re very pretty.”

“Oh, um … thank you, Honourable Beatrice Barton,” Amy replied.

Beatrice had a way of saying things. It was the holy grail of political charisma. Amy felt compelled to drink up the complement. It was a far cry from the constant suspicion and discrimination of being a monster. However, Amy was well aware of ‘Momma Bar’s Honey’. Sometimes, it came before ‘The Bar Trap’.

“Please, call me Beatrice … or Momma Bar. Whichever suits you,” Beatrice chuckled. “I must say, I’m impressed with your work. Single-handedly taking on the night, despite rampant ingratitude? You could be alone, despised by everyone, and you’ll still do the right thing. It’s a testament of what a strong woman can be. I suspect we may have a new national hero in the near future, because frankly, you are mine.”

Amy swallowed her giddiness. “Wow, I … appreciate that, but I don’t need any special recognition.”

“I admire your humility, but this isn’t a matter of ego,” stated Beatrice. “There are many who still don’t know what you do for them. You don’t deserve to walk the streets under verbal assault born of ignorance. It’s time for people to learn the truth. In light of recent incidents, your P.R. could use some help.”

Amy had a sinking feeling. “What incidents?”

Rather than answering, Beatrice sent a slideshow of images across the screen. Amy perused them with confusion. Then her tendrils stopped moving. The rosy avatar paled close to white. Disgust and horror plastered on her face. Tears fell. Beatrice studied her every reaction intensely.

The slideshow ended, but Amy’s glazed eyes remained. The pounding in her chest and rapid breaths slowly subsided, even if she didn’t have a heart or functional lungs.

“What … was that?” Amy asked, her voice ragged and small.

“You should recognise the signs,” Beatrice stated. “It’s the work of an A.M.E.”

“A.M.E.s don’t operate like this,” Amy argued. “Th-they’re efficient, but not smart. This was a systematic massacre ...”

“Precisely,” Beatrice declared with the air of a ‘gotcha’. “No one even saw this A.M.E. before it struck. You’re the only one capable of this.”

Amy quailed. “I … I would never-! Th-that’s not my colour!”

“The public doesn’t know that,” Beatrice stated. “You just demonstrated the ability to change colour too, and that hunger of yours ... We’re keeping this under wraps. My agents are investigating the matter. Speaking of my agents … well, never mind for now. In the meantime, why don’t you collaborate with us? Prove that you’re on Sargasa’s side. With our intel and your capabilities, we could do a lot of good. We could find the monster responsible.”

Amy was still reeling. The Prime Minister had handed her a lifeline: the only lifeline. She raised her chin in the beginning of a nod.

“Classic Bar Trap,” Pseudo Mom declared, stepping into view with her arms folded. “Create a scenario in which there’s no way forward except your outstretched hand. Assuming those images were genuine, it truly is a tragedy, but you will not weaponise them to bring my daughter into your orbit.”

Beatrice blinked, staring down the new arrival. A shadow of a smile twitched at her lips.

“Amy … did you assimilate your mother?” she asked.

Amy paled again. “No! She’s just a figment, like an imaginary friend! That’s something I can do now!”

“A.M.E.s aren’t known to do that,” Beatrice calmly countered. “They mimic their victims.”

“But my mother’s not even in the city!” Amy reasoned.

Beatrice raised a finger. “Ah, but how can we know for certain? She’s made multiple declarations of intent on social media to find a way through the quarantine dome. What’s to say she didn’t somehow succeed, and your instincts ran their course? After all, A.M.E.s target the loved ones of their victims. We must check on her whereabouts. If she cannot be found in the outside world, well …”

It wasn’t blatant, but Amy saw the signs. Beatrice was practically drooling.

She had her.

The world seemed to slow as Amy’s mind accelerated. She spawned an avatar outside. Rain, falling in slow motion … she’d never seen that before. Individual raindrops were clearly visible. They weren’t shaped like tears, but glassy little spheres. She didn’t have time to marvel, though.

In the garden, she found The Predator sitting under the flamboyant tree, sulking. Its hair tentacles hung limply, drenched and dripping. The sight brought to mind a puppy in the rain.

Amy almost felt bad for her.

“Help me, you filthy animal!” demanded Amy.

Not bad enough, apparently.

“Beatrice Barton’s threatening Mom! Closing the ‘Bar Trap’ on me … o-on us!” Amy explained.

A smile slinked across The Predator’s face. “Well, well, well, look whose come crawling back. I’d rather watch you stew in your own juice.”

“Grrrrrr, OM NOM!” blurted an agitated Amy.

The Predator raised an eyebrow. “Excuse you?”

Amy grappled The Predator. Her hair engulfed its head in a feeding frenzy.

“OM NOM-NOM-NOM!”

With its head gone, Amy squeezed what remained of its body into herself. They became one.

Amy paused for a milli-second to think about what she’d done. Was it necessary? Not really. Subsuming The Predator was like swallowing her own saliva. Why was she so weird? Oh well. The deed was done.

Inside the house, Amy’s panic drained away. Old thought processes geared up like the engines of a great, terrible machine. It felt good to be back. So, so good. She knew what she had to do. First, she set the conversation to ‘save’.

Beatrice sensed the change. She looked Amy up and down as though trying to spot what had happened. The woman wouldn’t find it until too late. One of Amy’s tentacles slithered under the phone, seeking out any anomalies. It found a dedicated surveillance program and deleted it. Then it sifted through other apps, shutting down functions that could be used to spy. Her aerosol constructed several optical organs outside, monitoring the area omnidirectionally.

“I understand what you’re trying to do,” Amy declared coolly. “Projecting the illusion of control is a big deal, especially now. The eyes of the Caribbean are upon you. What would they do to you if you bungled this debacle? You can’t have someone like me running around without a leash, but honey, trust me, sometimes it’s best to let sleeping giants lie.”

Now, it was Beatrice who paled: quite a feat, with her dark complexion. Amy soaked it up: the sweet smell of fear. To think, she’d made Momma Bar balk. It was a delicious thought.

Beatrice gave an inconspicuous nod to someone offscreen.

Amy sensed a hidden program come to life. It tried to delete the conversation and wipe the phone. Her hair tendril snatched it out of the software. Several viruses leapt through her data to fulfil the same purpose. She snapped them up too. It was a good thing she’d consumed some memories with software expertise.

When the phone didn’t die, Beatrice’s eyes bulged. She fumed.

Amy chuckled.

Her optical organs picked up something incoming, fast. The biomass atmosphere caught it like a net. It seeped inside to touch and taste the payload.

Oh, how interesting.

She floated the object in through the window: a half-a-metre missile once aimed at her room. The thing would have flown right in.

Amy spotted the drone plane that launched it. Time to retort. Aerosol biomass condensed to a node, which blossomed into a solid construct. Neon arteries, organs and a structural shell came together to form the sleek, long object. It could be taken for an exotically complex floral bulb the size of two cars. Gill-like structures on its underside sucked and compressed air. As it floated above the house, tracing the plane’s path, its purpose became clear.

A big gun.

A pressurised blast of air tore from its muzzle. The rain scattered behind it as it ejected a wider, backwards blast to remain in place. The atmospheric round ripped through the sky with a thunderous roar.

Bullseye.

It crashed through the drone. A wing flew off. Down came the multi-million dollar aircraft in a ball of fire. If she’d estimated correctly, no one really lived at the crash site.

Amy returned her attention to the missile. Her aerokinesis carried it into her hands.

Amy ran her claws along it. “Apologies for the distraction. Some idiot was lobbing firecrackers.”

Beatrice smirked.

The missile detonated.

The blast stopped, a broiling ball of dull, sickly moon-yellow. It hovered over her claws, bubbling and surging against aerotelekinesis. It wasn’t easy to hold it at bay and look like she wasn’t even trying. Her entire biomass clenched to get the job done. There were better ways to contain the blast, but it was as she’d said: the illusion of control was important. It had to seem like no big deal.

Amy looked oh so smug about herself.

Beatrice looked about ready to scream.

Ordinarily, the flash of an explosive might have messed her up. Luckily, it didn’t blow up as brightly as a regular bomb. It was a ‘dim bomb,’ a biochemical explosive no doubt harvested from certain nyctals. Had it destroyed her house, it would look like a monster attack. The missile was launched at her phone, though. It’s trajectory was surprisingly accurate. The goal was to destroy the evidence. They weren’t trying to kill her.

Yet.

Amy caressed the blast. There was a child-like part of her that gawked at the deed. She was touching an explosion!

Alright, enough fun.

Amy gripped it with both hands and squeezed. Her aerotelekinesis strained and compressed the blast into an angry ball the size of an apple.

Hmm … there was an idea!

Amy moved it to her mouth, suppressing second thoughts. She bit into it. The taste was like the smell of toe jam. Amy pretended not to notice. Her aerosol smothered and absorbed the explosive energy as she chewed. Once it was inert, she absorbed the residual chemicals. Amy polished it off, dusted her claws and beamed at Beatrice.

How boring. The Prime Minister had reigned in her emotions, feigning deadpan unamusement.

“Let me be perfectly clear,” Beatrice declared. “You assaulted agents. You stole confidential information, and shot down a 15-million-dollar aircraft. Any one of those is enough to bury you, and here you are, doing parlour tricks.”

Amy blinked innocently. “Agents? You mean dem fellas I caught snooping on my property? Oh, I had to know who they were, so I rifled through their memories. It turns out that one of them knew a little too much. You should handle your secrets more carefully.”

“Which is why you consumed him,” stated Beatrice.

“Quit jumping to conclusions. He’s safe. From you,” Amy chirped. “The last time we chatted, he had a nice little dead man’s switch. Touch him, me, or my loved ones, and everyone finds out what you did to this country.”

Beatrice’s face wrinkled. “Loved ones? Is that what they are to you?”

“GMMGM!!!”

That eyescraper in the distance again. With The Predator’s mental clarity, Amy had some breathing room to actually think about it. Maybe she should call Norman, check on him. She moved a claw to hang up.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” growled Beatrice.

Amy giggled. How on Earth did that woman know she was going to hang up? Hidden cameras, probably. Her biomass swept the room, finding and crushing them.

Beatrice went off on a tangent. Threats, ultimatums, the whole shebang. Amy was only half paying attention. She thought back a bit. ‘Loved ones’? In this state of mind, did she really love Norman? Well, he was attractive. Moreover, he was fascinating. Irresistibly fascinating. In a world of chess pieces, Norman was the only one that moved on its own, that could disappear and reappear behind her. Instead of a back stab, he’d tap her on the shoulder and say: “Hey. What are you doing? Stap.” If that didn’t work, he’d move her. He didn’t let go his morals to match her wits. Somehow, that didn’t make him weak or stupid.

She could bare her fangs, dripping saliva and viscera.

He’d still boop her on the nose.

Irresistible.

She wanted to see what he could do, how far he could go. If anything happened to him, ‘anything’ would be in for a bad day. He was hers. Did that mean she felt warm and fuzzy about him? No. Would she cry for him? No. Not in this state.

In other words, she’d made no progress at all.

Amy pushed a little affection into her thoughts about Norman. She smiled fondly. Love was a doing word. She loved him because she chose to love him.

It was easy to forget: Beatrice was still talking.

“I’m sorry. Were you saying something, Honey Bar?” Amy interrupted far too casually.

Beatrice looked as though she’d reach through the screen and throttle Amy. Then an aide whispered something into her ear. Her anger evaporated. She actually seemed pleased.

Amy didn’t like that.

Beatrice appraised her. “Look at you, back chatting Momma Bar. Word of advice: if you want to run with the big dogs, work your way up. Start small, like managing your boyfriend a bit better.”

“He doesn’t need managing,” Amy dismissed.

Her expression remained indifferent, but her hue deepened from raspberry to blood-red. Her coloured atmosphere reflected the change. Predatory pupils appeared in her eyes. Hair tentacles curved around the phone like jaws poised to close in. The video feed warped and flickered ominously as Amy’s tentacles nipped at the signal. Beatrice ignored it. In fact, it made her look and sound all the more m̷͕̗̅̾ë̵̲́͠ǹ̶̾ac̴͔̬̗̏̃iṇ̶̑g.

“Reã̴̡̫̭͆͂͑lly? Then where is he nǫ̵̠͍̈́͆́͠ͅw?” Beatrice leant forward. “Why didn’t he call you? Do you think you will seẹ̴́ him again? It’s a dangerous cit-”"

Amy hung up.

She shot through the window. The house shook, almost imploded. Loose objects flew about inside it as she dragged her biomass from within. Gale-force wind battered the garden.

Up into the sky she flew, scanning the city. The rain limited visibility. Her biomass configured massive, sensory organs like spiraling satellite dishes decked with eyes. They pierced the downpour, seeing and listening. She noticed several peeping buildings and eyescrapers on the move. They appeared to be coordinated.

Landlords.

Amy picked the largest, leading building and zoomed towards it. She moved through the streets like a ravening storm. Cars overturned and tumbled. Streetlights surged and exploded as she yanked away their energy. Vicious nyctals saw her coming, cowered, fled and hid. She wasn’t there for them. Not yet.

Like a crimson star burning through the night, she blazed forth at the forefront of her biomass. At a distance, her atmosphere’s outline could be seen. No longer was it a mere amorphous aerosol. It swam through the air like a jellyfish. Ethereal tentacles the size of streets wedged between buildings to pull it forward faster.

Then her biomass thinned.

Her winds died down. She melded with the night. Amid the cloak of heavy rain, she was a nearly imperceptible presence.

They would never see her coming.