(LIMITLESS) CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX: ANOTHER PERSPECTIVE

Nakamura had been afraid before.

He’d been afraid when the waves came crashing over Kyushu, when Leviathan tore through the city like a god made of storm and fury. He’d been afraid as he watched his parents drown in front of him, his sister swept away by the black water. He’d been afraid as he left his home with nothing but a crumpled photograph of his family and the brittle hope that America might offer something better.

He’d been afraid when the ABB found him months later, hollow-eyed and starving, and gave him the choice between servitude or death by neglect. He’d been afraid when they strapped him down in Bakuda’s lab, the smell of solder and burned flesh in the air, and the last thing he saw before the anesthesia took him was Bakuda’s sadistic smile. 

But this?

This was a different kind of fear.

This was the kind of fear that made him wish he’d died back in Kyushu, swallowed whole by the sea with the rest of his family. Because as insane as Bakuda was—and she was insane, more than anyone he’d ever met in his life—this girl, this Taylor Hebert, was something else entirely.

He knew what was waiting inside the warehouse. He was one of the unlucky few Bakuda trusted enough to witness her ‘installations.’

so he was aware of the micro-vibration sensors tuned to pressure plates hidden in the floor; bombs with different esoteric effects; and the dead-man trigger on Bakuda linked to the bombs in their bodies. 

He’d seen her beam with pride as she showed off micro-vibration sensors so fine they could read the skitter of an insect. He’d seen her slot pressure plates into the flooring, each one wired to some new, terrible invention. He’d seen her trigger bombs that liquified men, or crystallized their bones until they shattered like glass. And of course, he knew about the dead-man switch on Bakuda, and how she was always ready to cook every unwilling suicide bomber she controlled at the push of a hidden button.

The whole building was less a base and more a snare, a grotesque piece of performance, or as Bakuda aptly put, “the kind of installation that makes a statement.” But to Nakamura, it was just a death sentence waiting for the fool who tried to break in.

Taylor Hebert had been such a fool.

He’d seen her slip through the roof hatch, had heard the ripple of alarm in the air when Bakuda’s systems tripped moments later, and then, boom. The entire northern section of the warehouse had ceased to exist, and half his ‘friends’—what few remained—went with it, their bodies torn apart instantly by their own detonators.

He hadn’t even flinched. He honestly couldn’t anymore. Sadness, grief, and even the simple act of mourning had all been burned out of him long ago, drowned in that storm or smothered under weeks of living as Bakuda’s weapon. All he felt now, amidst the emptiness of his life, was fear and the dull ache of rage at how helpless he was.

And then he saw her.

Hebert should have been ash. No one could survive that kind of explosion, not even Lung. But she did, staggering out of the wreckage, one arm gone at the elbow, skin blackened and peeled, her hoodie nothing but scorched threads, and blood slicking her arms and face. He thought she’d either fall dead as expected, most people’s bodies took a second before it stopped functioning, or retreat if she somehow survived like any sane person would.

But instead, she stood in place and… healed.

Right there, in front of him, bone reformed, muscles pulled itself back together, and flesh closed almost as fast as they’d appeared. Within seconds she was moving again, her breath ragged and her haunting eyes burning with hatred.

Not sane. Not sane at all.

She snarled, low and animalistic, and kept going, deeper into the gauntlet. Another bomb went off. The blast launched her off her feet, and sent her crashing into the adjacent building hard enough to break through it. She crawled out from the dust, coughing blood, and he could see her ribs jutting out under torn skin. But still, she pushed herself back up.

Every time it happened, the same cycle played out. Random explosion from her blindside, the effect, and the sick, wet sound of her body breaking. Then, the slow, impossible sight of her knitting herself back together, before she pressed on. She didn’t slow, not even to catch her breath.

Instead, she learned. 

To be honest, that was the part that unsettled him the most. She wasn’t just enduring the bombs. She was adapting, using whatever bullshit powers she had to pivot just a fraction faster, crouch lower, and roll harder to escape. It was almost as if every injury taught her something new about how to use her powers, as though the bombs themselves were training her.

He’d heard about her before, of course. Everyone in the city had by this point. The PRT’s new golden child, the one with the untouchable forcefield. Bakuda had bragged endlessly about finally cracking it, about building bombs that could bypass what made Hebert untouchable. And yes, he saw them hit her. He saw them freeze her limbs solid, burned, liquified, crystallized, and frozen in time.

Yet, it didn't stop her. She hacked ruined limbs off like dead weight, healed, rose, and dared the world to do worse.

Her face was now caked by blood and soot, but the unrelenting snarl was always present.

Nakamura had seen monsters before. He’d been closer to Leviathan than most parahumans, and survived as his home fell apart around him. But Leviathan had been a force of nature given flesh. This? This was just a girl. A teenager even, fighting her way through hell one step at a time, and refusing to die.

Kami help him, he almost pitied her. 

Because this wasn’t a fight. This was a carefully orchestrated madness Bakuda had designed to be unwinnable. She still had dozens of bombs left, stationed all through the rest of the building, including himself. It didn’t matter that Hebert healed or that she was filled with determination. It didn't even matter that she learned. Sooner or later, she’d misstep. Sooner or later, she’d get caught in the wrong blast, one she couldn’t prepare for, and one she couldn’t come back from.

Maybe it would even be him. Maybe he’d be the one to finally take her down, when Bakuda decided his number was up, and his body went up like a living landmine.

A part of him—a small, bitter, and desperate part—prayed for that. Because at least then, he wouldn’t have to watch anymore. At least then, he’d be free.

Free from Bakuda, free from this life, and more importantly, free from everything.