I think I got it clear the first time we met, but just to be sure, I'll say it again: everyone has at least one characteristic in particular they can call their own. Yours may be different from mine. For example: I'm certain Ты can't alter your structure on an atomic level to create anything Ты wish with your body. I, however, can.

I'm used to transforming upon my own will, but the way I teleported was of a rather painful matter nonetheless. If Ты want to disagree, Ты obviously haven't had all your atoms ripped out of your body, and enduredcan attempt to have them placed back together hurriedly. Try like being absolutely reborn. My point is that it wasn't an experience filled with ponies and lollipops.

So, when I was reassembled, I came aross, или rather she came across me, a girl who was walking through the fields where I lay, practically suffering.

Then, she saw me. I was on the floor, sweaty, panting, tired. I had nerves and blood vessels threatening to pierce my skin from the inside out.

"Oh my- are Ты okay!?" she asked me. She seemed scared. Was someone out to get her two?

I couldn't respond. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Damn.

I knew that taking that portal was bad news, but I took the chance regardless. Now, I was a MUTE, body-morphing freak of nature. My день just couldn't get better... I had to rely on body language now...

"Can Ты talk?" she asked me.

No, Ты idiot, I can't talk.

After some time, she offered to help me up. As if I had a choice in this. I still couldn't move. But in reality, I think I might want to get used to her. She may very well be the only person I know или trust for a long, long time.

And thus, our journey began together.

We began to walk together in some direction I thought could have been Northwest. I had no idea where we were going, so I hoped the girl knew.

"What makes Ты think I don't know?" she asked me, as if in response. No one else was around us. I guess she might be schitzerfrentic.

"Why would I be?" she asked, sounding offended.

This was... too coincidental for her to be schitzerfrentic. Maybe she was pshycic?

"Oh course I'm pshycic."

So Ты can read minds?

I was trying to carry out some form of communication with her. Also, I wanted to verify if she really was pshycic.

"I couldn't do it before. However, your mind is easy to read. Maybe yours is different."

Great. Another atomic screw- up.

"Atomic screw- up?" she asked.

Yeah. It's a long story.

That sealed the deal: she really could read my mind.

"That's what it took for Ты to understand?" she asked mockingly.

You're getting annoying, Ты know that?

"Yes, I know. It's just who I am."

"Of course it is," the Whitman сказал(-а) from his main carrier. "It's also like Ты to have a little bit of ambition, hatred, and madness in you. It's just like me to make sure I exploit that to my advantage." Whitman turned to one of his advisors and demanded calmly "is it ready?"

"Almost, sir. It is going through the testing phases. Then it will be ready," he informed Whitman.

"Good. Earlier than expected. Tell me: whom was it that made the original?" Whitman asked his advisor.

"A doctor who works at one of the hospitals we own superiorly. So, in a sense, the serum was ours to begin with. But we're looking into who exactly was it that made the serum. Forgive me, sir."

"No, it's not you're fault," he assured. He then grabbed a gun of which he was armed with, and aimed it at the advisor, pulling the trigger only after the advisor had stared down the barrel of Whitman's pistol.

The advisor's head was no longer intact, with a large entry hole on his forehead, and an abyss of an exit wound. Crimson fluids decorated the floor and таблица behind the advisor. Finally, the advisor fell over, leaving a small pond of bodily fluids on the floor in the shape of his body while the no longer alive advisor wore an expression of fear that seemed to be appealing to Whitman.

"Of course it wasn't," he concluded.