Chapter 18: Information
LOCATION: USCT Classification Archives — Restricted Section 9 — "Mutation Studies"
DATE: 1972 — 2017 (Ongoing Analysis)
CLASSIFICATION: EYES ONLY — Council Level
SUBJECT: Catalyst Mutants — Humans Who Became Monsters by Choice
PART I: THE DESPERATE EQUATION
The world ended in 1950.
Not with a bang — with a silence. Eight billion souls reduced to grey ash in a single breath. The survivors inherited a planet of ruins, radiation, and the cruel laughter of gods who had no love in their hearts.
And they were afraid.
Afraid of the Monster. Afraid of the Grey Zones. Afraid of the Black Eagle Cartel, which grew stronger every year. Afraid of being powerless in a world where power was the only currency that mattered.
So when the rumors started — when whispers spread of a way to get power, even if you weren't born with a Catalyst — people listened.
And people tried.
The Catalyst Mutant was born not in a laboratory, but in a hundred basements, barns, and back-alley clinics across the American Remnant.
Desperate people. Desperate measures.
And the results were monstrous.
PART II: THE PROCESS
How does someone become a Catalyst Mutant?
The official answer: They don't. It's illegal. It's suicide. Don't try it.
The real answer: They inject Catalyst DNA into their bloodstream.
Not the whole Catalyst — that's impossible. Catalysts are not organs you can transplant. They're not tumors you can cut out and give to someone else. They are woven into the very DNA of those who possess them — a genetic anomaly that cannot be separated from the host.
But desperate people found a way.
They took samples. Blood. Bone marrow. Sometimes worse. From dead Catalysts. From living ones they made dead. From Black Eagle Cartel victims who had been harvested for parts.
And they injected that material into their own veins.
Hoping.
Praying.
Knowing it would probably kill them.
But maybe — just maybe — it would make them powerful enough to survive.
PART III: THE TRANSFORMATION
The body does not accept foreign Catalyst DNA quietly.
It fights.
The immune system attacks. The cells reject. The mind — already fragile from fear and desperation — shatters.
Most die.
The ones who survive?
They change.
Stage 1: The Fever
Days of burning alive from the inside. Temperatures that would kill a normal person. The Catalyst DNA warring with the host's biology, trying to find a way to integrate, to compromise, to exist.
Stage 2: The Growth
The body begins to mutate.
Not gracefully. Not like a superhero in a comic book. Painfully. Bones lengthen overnight, tearing through muscle. Joints invert, then correct, then invert again. Skin splits and heals, splits and heals, leaving scar tissue that never quite fades.
Stage 3: The Form
The Catalyst expresses itself.
But not cleanly. Not purely. Because the DNA was never meant to be here. Because the body was never meant to host this power.
The result is a hybrid.
Human. And something else.
If the Catalyst was poison-based or venom-based, the mutant's form twists toward the serpentine.
Scales across the back, the arms, the face. Eyes that become slits, pupils that track heat. A body that elongates, limbs too long, spine too flexible. Sometimes — in the worst cases — a second mouth, or a tail, or venom sacs that grow where glands should be.
If the Catalyst was animal-based — a Chimera-type, like Remus — the mutation follows the animal.
Bird mutants grow feathers, hollow bones, beaks that replace mouths. Their arms might become wings, useless for flight but terrifying to behold. Their eyes might migrate to the sides of their heads, prey-animal wide. They move in jerks, starts, the rhythm of something that expects to be hunted.
If the Catalyst was physical — strength, durability, regeneration — the mutation follows the body.
They grow. Not gracefully. Excessively. Muscles pile on muscles until they can barely move. Bones thicken into spikes that erupt through skin. Defensive plating grows over organs, over joints, over faces. They become monuments to survival — hideous, immense, barely human.
And sometimes the mutation has no pattern.
Sometimes the body just grows.
To monstrous proportions. Beyond gorilla. Beyond bear. Beyond anything that should walk on two legs.
Claws where fingers should be.
Spikes where skin should be smooth.
Eyes where eyes should not be.
PART IV: THE COST
Catalyst Mutants gain power.
But they lose themselves.
The Physical Cost:
Chronic pain. Always. The mutations don't stop. They progress. Organs fail. The body wasn't designed for this. Kidneys collapse. Livers rot. Hearts burst. Lifespans measured in months, not years. Most mutants are dead within five years of their transformation. The ones who live longer? They're not living. They're enduring.
The Mental Cost:
The Catalyst DNA carries echoes. Memories that aren't theirs. Urges that don't belong. Poison-mutants crave venom. Animal-mutants forget how to speak. Physical-mutants forget how to stop. Psychosis is standard. Hallucinations are expected. The line between self and other blurs until there's nothing left but instinct.
The Social Cost:
They are monsters. Not metaphorically. Literally. Normal people scream when they see them. Heroes kill them on sight — because how do you tell a mutant from a Cartel experiment? The Black Eagle Cartel hunts them — for parts, for study, for harvesting.
There is no support system for Catalyst Mutants.
There is no recovery.
There is only survival.
And most of them don't even get that.
PART V: THE SPECTRUM
Not all mutants are the same. The process varies based on what was injected, how much, and who the host was to begin with.
Type 1: The Serpentine
Catalyst Source: Poison, Venom, Toxin-based
Appearance: Scales across body, partial or full coverage. Slit pupils, heat-sensing pits. Elongated limbs, flexible spine. Sometimes a forked tongue, venom sacs in cheeks, or a hood like a cobra.
Abilities: The original Catalyst power — poison generation, venom control, toxin immunity. Enhanced flexibility, speed in short bursts. Natural weapons including fangs, claws, and tail.
The Horror: They stop feeling human warmth. They start tasting the air, tracking by scent, reacting to movement. They forget how to smile — their mouths don't work that way anymore.
Type 2: The Avian
Catalyst Source: Animal-based, bird-type, flight-adjacent
Appearance: Feathers in patches or full coverage. Hollow bones — they weigh less, sometimes dangerously less. Eyes that migrate, wide and watchful. Arms that curve, fingers that fuse, wings that don't quite work.
Abilities: Enhanced vision and hearing. Speed and agility. Sometimes actual flight, though rare, as wings need space.
The Horror: They forget language. Words become sounds. Sounds become calls. They start nesting, hoarding, building in high places. They look at the sky and ache for something they can't name.
Type 3: The Brute
Catalyst Source: Physical enhancement, strength, durability
Appearance: Massive. Always massive. Seven feet. Eight feet. Nine feet. Muscles layered on muscles, grotesque and excessive. Bones that thicken into spikes, defensive plating, natural armor. Faces that barely look human — features crushed under growth.
Abilities: Immense strength — lift cars, punch through walls. Immense durability — survive things that would kill normal people. Natural weapons including spikes, claws, and bony fists.
The Horror: They stop feeling. Pain fades. Touch fades. Everything fades. They break things without meaning to — people, furniture, loved ones. They look in mirrors and see something they don't recognize. Eventually, they stop looking.
Type 4: The Chimera
Catalyst Source: Multiple sources, rare, experimental injections
Appearance: Unpredictable. No two are the same. Bird features. Snake features. Brute features. All at once. Wings and scales. Claws and feathers. Eyes in wrong places. Limbs in wrong numbers.
Abilities: Unpredictable — whatever the DNA gave them. Sometimes multiple powers. Sometimes none, just the horror.
The Horror: They are alone. No one else like them. No community. No understanding. They look at normal humans and feel alien. They look at other mutants and feel jealous — because at least the others have a type.
PART VI: THE CARTEL'S HARVEST
The Black Eagle Cartel learned about Catalyst Mutants quickly.
And they saw opportunity.
If desperate people would inject Catalyst DNA, why not give them more? Why not control the process? Why not farm them?
The Cartel began creating mutants.
Not through voluntary injection — through force. Kidnapped civilians. Captured enemies. People who had no choice, no say, no hope.
They injected them with stolen Catalyst DNA.
They watched them transform.
They harvested the results.
Organs that now produced venom. Bones that could be ground into enhancement powders. Blood that carried Catalyst properties. Bodies that could be sold to the highest bidder.
The Farms were discovered in 1978.
47 sites across the Exclusion Zones.
Thousands of victims.
Most dead.
The ones still alive?
They weren't human anymore.
And they never would be again.
PART VII: THE MORAL QUESTION
Catalyst Mutants are not villains.
They are not heroes.
They are victims.
People who were afraid. People who were desperate. People who were forced.
They wanted power to survive in a world that had become hell.
And hell consumed them.
The USCT's official policy is neutralization on sight.
Because mutants are dangerous. Because mutants are unstable. Because mutants might be Cartel agents, or might become them, or might just lose control and kill everyone around them.
But some heroes disagree.
Some heroes see the human beneath the monster.
Some heroes try to help.
Dave — Chained Hero — found one in 1985.
A serpentine mutant. Young. Maybe twenty. He'd injected himself after Cartel raiders killed his family. Wanted revenge. Got this instead.
Dave didn't kill him.
Dave brought him to Robert.
Robert — the medic, the healer, the kindest man in the USCT — looked at the serpentine creature and said:
"What's your name?"
The mutant stared at him with slit-pupil eyes.
"...no one asks that."
"I'm asking."
"...Eli."
"Eli. I'm Robert. Let's see what we can do."
Eli lived.
Not cured — there is no cure. But stable. Managed. As human as he could be.
He worked in the infirmary's basement. Away from patients. Away from eyes. Away from fear.
He cleaned. Organized. Helped where he could.
And Robert visited him every day.
Brought him coffee.
Asked about his day.
Treated him like a person.
This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
Because that's what Robert does.
He sees people.
Not monsters.
Not threats.
People.
PART VIII: THE UNANSWERED QUESTION
How many mutants are out there?
Hundreds? Thousands?
How many are hiding in the Grey Zones, afraid to come forward, afraid of the neutralization squads?
How many are children now — born to mutants, inheriting mutations they never asked for?
How many are suffering?
The USCT doesn't track them.
Officially, they don't exist.
Unofficially?
They're everywhere.
Waiting.
Hiding.
Hoping someone like Robert finds them before someone like the Cartel does.
EPILOGUE: THE INFIRMARY BASEMENT
LOCATION: USCT Infirmary — Sublevel 3 — "Annex"
DATE: April 18, 2017
Eli sorted supplies.
His hands — scaled, clawed, wrong — moved with surprising gentleness. Bandages here. Antiseptics there. The familiar rhythm of helping, even from the shadows.
Robert appeared at the door.
"Brought you something."
A cup of coffee. Steam rising. Ordinary. Perfect.
Eli's slit-pupil eyes softened.
"...thanks."
"How are you feeling?"
"Same. Scales itch. Bones ache. The usual."
"Any new growth?"
"No. Stable for six months now."
"Good. That's good."
Silence.
"Robert?"
"Yeah?"
"Why do you do this?"
"What?"
"This. Me. The basement. The coffee. Why?"
Robert smiled.
"Because you're a person, Eli. And people need coffee."
Eli almost smiled.
His mouth didn't work that way anymore — the fangs, the jaw structure, the wrongness. But his eyes.
His eyes smiled.
"...thanks."
"Anytime."
Robert left.
Eli held the coffee.
Warm.
Human.
For one moment, in a basement, in a world that had forgotten him, he was just a person.
Having coffee.
With a friend
CURSED WEAPONS — SOULS FORGED IN STEEL
LOCATION: USCT Armory — Sublevel 17 — "The Vault"
CLASSIFICATION: EYES ONLY — Council Level
SUBJECT: Cursed Weapons — Catalysts Given Flesh and Memory
PART I: THE THEORY
A Catalyst is not just power.
It is identity. Woven into DNA. Etched into soul. A piece of a person that cannot be separated from who they are.
Or so they thought.
The discovery came in 1968. Accidentally. As most terrible discoveries do.
A hero—A-Rank, fire-based, name redacted—died in combat. His sword was recovered from the battlefield. Standard issue. Nothing special.
Except it was still warm.
Not from the sun. Not from residual heat. Warm. Like it remembered being held. Like it remembered burning.
The next hero who picked it up felt something shift.
Fire. In his veins. Fire he'd never had before.
The sword had kept the Catalyst.
The sword had kept a piece of its owner's soul.
And it was looking for a new hand to hold.
PART II: THE PROCESS
How does a weapon become cursed?
It takes time. Years.
A Catalyst user must channel their power through the same weapon consistently. Daily. For 5 to 10 years minimum.
Not just using it. Loving it. Pouring themselves into it. Fighting with it. Sleeping with it beside them. Bleeding on it.
The Catalyst leaves traces. Tiny. Imperceptible.
Then more.
Then enough.
After 5 years: The weapon remembers its wielder. A warmth. A presence. A ghost.
After 10 years: The weapon contains its wielder. A piece of soul. A fragment of identity. Immortalized in steel.
When the wielder dies—if they've used the weapon long enough—that fragment remains.
Waiting.
Hungry.
Wanting.
PART III: THE INHABITANTS
A cursed weapon can hold multiple souls.
Each new wielder adds to the chorus. Each death leaves another voice in the blade. Over decades, centuries, a single weapon can become a library of the dead.
The souls don't age. Don't change. Don't leave.
They just... exist.
Trapped in steel. Aware. Conscious. Screaming silently for eternity.
Some weapons have been passed down for generations.
A sword used by 47 heroes over 200 years.
A gun carried through three wars and a dozen assassinations.
A knife that started as a kitchen tool and ended as a choir of murderers.
The souls in a cursed weapon can:
Communicate (rarely—usually in dreams, whispers, moments of extreme stress)
Judge (who is worthy, who is not, who may join them)
Fight (among themselves—for dominance, for attention, for control)
Choose (their next wielder, their next victim, their next voice)
PART IV: THE CHOOSING
Cursed weapons do not submit to their wielders.
Wielders submit to them.
The test is simple. Brutal.
For a sword:
Throw it in the air. Stand beneath it.
If it kills you—impales you, slices you, ends you—you were unworthy. The souls have judged. The verdict is death.
If it misses? If it lands beside you? If it stops?
You are chosen.
The weapon accepts you.
The souls agree—mostly.
For a gun:
Same principle. Point it at yourself. Pull the trigger.
If it fires—if the bullet finds your heart, your head, your soul—you were unworthy. The souls have spoken. The sentence is execution.
If it clicks empty? If the hammer falls on nothing? If the gun simply refuses?
You are chosen.
The weapon wants you.
The souls have voted—and you won.
The vote:
Not democratic. Not fair. The souls in the weapon vote on each potential wielder.
Majority rules. If most of them say yes, you live.
Minority dissenters are ignored. Their objections don't matter.
But if the vote is close? If it's 50/50?
The weapon decides.
And the weapon is never predictable.
PART V: THE POWER
Why would anyone risk death for a cursed weapon?
Because the power is unreal.
A cursed weapon doesn't just enhance your Catalyst.
It multiplies it.
The souls inside—each one carried a Catalyst in life. Each one keeps that Catalyst in death. Trapped. Contained. Available.
When you wield the weapon, you're not just using your own power.
You're using theirs too.
Example:
C-Rank hero: City-level destructive capability.
C-Rank hero + cursed weapon with 10 souls: Mountain-range level. Three mountains. Maybe more.
The souls stack. Their powers combine. Their experiences feed yours.
You're not just a hero anymore.
You're an army.
In one hand.
The cost?
The souls whisper. Always. In your dreams. In your quiet moments. In the space between heartbeats.
They want things. They remember things. They ache for things they can never have again.
And sometimes—
—sometimes they take control.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough to remind you who's really holding the blade.
PART VI: THE KNOWN WEAPONS
The USCT catalogs cursed weapons when they find them.
The Vault holds 47 confirmed examples.
1. "Soul-Drinker" — Katana
Souls: 23
Age: Estimated 400 years
Origin: Pre-Silence Japan
The oldest cursed weapon in USCT custody. Passed through generations of samurai, then heroes, then monsters. Its souls include warriors, murderers, and at least three people who never killed anyone—but were killed by it.
Test: Throw in air. Stand beneath. If worthy, it lands point-down in the earth beside you. If unworthy, it lands point-down in you.
Current Wielder: None. It has rejected 47 candidates. It is waiting.
2. "Mercy" — Revolver
Souls: 12
Age: 150 years
Origin: Old West, pre-Silence America
A six-shooter that never needs reloading. Its souls are outlaws, lawmen, and one woman who used it to defend her homestead for three days against a gang of 40 men.
Test: Point at yourself. Pull trigger. If worthy, the hammer falls on empty chambers—six times, every time. If unworthy, one chamber is always loaded.
Current Wielder: Lady Death (retired). It chose her in 1975. She has never fired it in combat. She doesn't need to.
3. "The Choir" — Longsword
Souls: 47
Age: 300 years
Origin: European Crusades, then... elsewhere
The most crowded weapon in existence. 47 souls. 47 voices. 47 different Catalysts, all trapped in one blade.
The Choir sings.
Not metaphorically. Actually. In quiet rooms, the sword emits a low hum—the combined voices of its occupants, eternally whispering.
Test: Unknown. No one has survived the test since 1923.
Current Wielder: NONE. The Choir waits in The Vault. It has been waiting for 94 years.
4. "Fang" — Hunting Knife
Souls: 8
Age: 80 years
Origin: Post-Silence America
A simple knife. Wooden handle. Chipped blade. Unremarkable in every way.
Except it was used by the same hunter for 60 years.
He died at 89, in his sleep.
The knife kept hunting.
Now it seeks wielders who understand patience. Who understand waiting. Who understand that the kill is not the point—the stalk is the point.
Test: Leave it in a room with the candidate. If they pick it up, it's theirs. If they don't, it waits. It can wait forever.
Current Wielder: Unknown. Fang was stolen in 2004. It is still out there.
5. "Last Word" — Pistol
Souls: 3
Age: 60 years
Origin: Black Eagle Cartel execution chamber
A pistol used for one purpose only: executions. 147 people died by its fire. 147 last words were spoken into its barrel.
The souls inside are not the shooters.
They are the victims.
Three of them—the ones with the strongest Catalysts—remained. Trapped. Screaming.
Last Word doesn't choose heroes.
It chooses people who have something to say.
Something their killers never let them finish.
Test: Unknown. No one has survived the test and spoken of it.
Current Wielder: A 14-year-old girl in the Grey Zones. She found it in a ruined building. She has not fired it yet.
But she will.
And when she does—
—147 people will finally get to finish their sentences.
PART VII: THE RISK
Cursed weapons are not tools.
They are relationships.
The souls inside will talk to you. Advise you. Manipulate you. They've been dead for decades—centuries—and they are bored.
They want stories. They want action. They want blood.
If you're weak-willed, they'll take over. Use your body like a puppet. Continue their unfinished business through your hands.
If you're strong-willed, you can negotiate.
"Give me power. I'll give you purpose."
"Show me your enemy. I'll show you my blade."
"Let me live. I'll let you feel again."
Every cursed wielder hears the voices.
Every cursed wielder learns to live with them.
Every cursed wielder knows—
—one day, they'll join the chorus.
And someone else will hold the blade.
PART VIII: THE TEMPTATION
Why do heroes risk it?
Because the world is hard.
Because the Black Eagle Cartel doesn't fight fair.
Because Yohiko Tenko doesn't fight at all—he just ends things.
Because sometimes, being a C-Rank with city-level power isn't enough.
Sometimes you need to destroy mountains.
Sometimes you need an army in your hand.
Sometimes you need to hear the voices of the dead
because the living have stopped listening.
The USCT officially discourages cursed weapon use.
Unofficially?
They keep The Vault locked.
But they leave the key where certain people can find it.
EPILOGUE: THE VAULT
LOCATION: USCT Armory — Sublevel 17
DATE: April 20, 2017
The Vault was silent.
Forty-seven weapons. Forty-seven choirs. Forty-seven sets of souls, trapped in steel, waiting.
A single figure stood before the racks.
Marcus.
Fourteen years old. Lady Death's son. Robert's boy. B-Rank "Throw" who was really Absolute Precision in waiting.
He looked at the weapons.
The weapons looked back.
Not with eyes. With awareness. A pressure in his mind. A whisper in his skull.
"Choose."
"Pick one."
"Let us help you."
Marcus's hand hovered over Mercy—the revolver his mother had wielded. The one that had chosen her. The one that still remembered her touch.
"Not yet."
He stepped back.
The whispers screamed.
"COME BACK."
( They have the level of borderline personality disorder. That makes jeffrey dahmer. Look like a secure attachment lover.)
"PLEASE."
( They are naturally more possessive than your ex.)
"WE'RE SO ALONE."
( They have abandonment issues.)
Marcus walked out.
The door closed.
The whispers faded.
But they didn't stop.
They never stop.
They just wait.
For the next hand.
The next wielder.
The next soul to add to the choir.
SCENE: MECHA SUITS — THE GREAT EQUALIZER
LOCATION: USCT Mecha Division — Assembly Bay 7
DATE: Ongoing — Since 1955
CLASSIFICATION: UNRESTRICTED ACCESS (Because everyone deserves a shot at heroism)
PART I: THE ORIGIN STORY
The world ended in 1950.
Eight billion souls. One breath. Gone.
The survivors inherited a planet of ruins, radiation, and the cruel laughter of gods who had no love in their hearts.
And they were afraid.
Not just of the Monster. Not just of the Black Eagle Cartel. Not just of the Grey Zones.
They were afraid of being POWERLESS.
Because in the new world, power was the only currency that mattered. And power came from one place:
Catalysts.
Born with one? You were a god.
Born without?
You were nothing.
Until 1955.
Until the Mecha Suit.
Dr. Helena Wu — the same woman who would later reclassify Robert's Catalyst — stood in a ruined laboratory in what used to be Detroit. Around her: scraps. Pre-Silence military tech. Damaged exoskeletons from a program that never launched. Titanium plating. Carbon dioxide infusion systems. Dreams that died with the old world.
She looked at the scraps.
She looked at the line of volunteers outside — people with no Catalysts, no powers, no hope, but plenty of rage and determination.
She said:
"What if we could give them armor?"
"What if the armor could fight?"
"What if the armor could make them enough?"
The first Mecha Suit was built in 1955.
It looked like garbage.
It worked like a dream.
PART II: THE SPECS (DETAILED)
Material Composition:
Titanium alloy (light, strong, flexible)
Carbon dioxide infusion (increases durability, reduces weight)
Same material as Protector armor
One glove can tank a bomb
Activation Method:
A bracelet. Simple. Metal. Given to every recruit at USCT or SPAMA.
Press it.
The suit activates.
Not slowly. Not dramatically. Instant.
One moment you're a normal person.
The next?
You're an unstoppable force.
Base Capabilities:
Enhanced strength (lift cars, punch through walls)
Enhanced speed (outrun bullets, dodge explosions)
Enhanced stamina (fight for hours without tiring)
Enhanced durability (bomb proof, fire-proof, water-proof)
Average durability: BOMB PROOF
Training Progression:
Wall Level: Starting point. Can punch through walls.
Building Level: Can bring down small structures.
Multi-Building Level: Can level a city block.
City Level: Can threaten entire urban centers.
Multi-City Level: Can fight across metropolitan areas.
Mountain Level: PEAK PERFORMANCE. It can destroy mountains.
All without a Catalyst.
All with a suit.
All by CHOICE.
PART III: THE UPGRADE ECONOMY
Base Suit: Free. Provided by USCT/SPAMA. No one is denied.
Limb Upgrade: $1,000 per limb.
Full Body Base Upgrade: $6,000.
Hero Graduate Average Spend: $40,000.
Government Subsidy: $20,000.
Out of Pocket: $20,000.
Value: PRICELESS.
What $20,000 Gets You:
Enhanced strength (beyond base)
Enhanced speed (beyond base)
Enhanced stamina (beyond base)
Enhanced durability (beyond base)
Additional weapons
Additional mobility options
The ability to go from City Level to Mountain Level over time
Installment Plan:
Most heroes don't pay upfront. They pay overtime. Monthly deductions from bounty earnings. By the time they graduate, they've invested a total of $40,000 — half subsidized and half their own.
They're not just heroes.
They're INVESTORS.
In themselves.
In their future.
In their power.
PART IV: THE CUSTOMIZATION (UNLIMITED)
This is where it's insane.
The Mecha Division doesn't give you a suit and say "Good luck."
They give you a suit and say "What do you WANT?"
FIGHTING STYLE MODIFICATIONS:
Boxer / Hand-to-Hand Fighter:
Shoulder joints modified for +10 inches of range
On a 6-foot arm, that's insane
You're punching like your shoulder is dislocated.
Except it's not dislocated. It's just FURTHER.
Opponents: "HOW DID YOU REACH ME??"
You: "MECHA SUIT, BABY"
Kick Fighter:
Leg joints made HYPER-flexible
You're throwing head kicks from angles that don't exist
The suit bends in ways human legs cannot
You can kick someone behind you while facing forward
You can kick someone ABOVE you while standing flat
You are now a human pretzel that also kicks
Grappler:
Every joint gets EXTRA joints
You can lock, twist, and contort in ways that should be impossible
Opponents: "WHERE ARE YOUR LIMITS??"
You: "YES"
You can hold someone in a lock while also locking someone ELSE
You are now a human octopus that also punches
Long Range Fighter:
Additional gun mounts
Additional explosive launchers
Additional ammunition storage
You are now a walking artillery piece
"I don't need to see you to kill you"
Close Range Fighter:
Blade attachments
Saw blade attachments
Saw blades that are ALSO blades
Blade-ception
You can cut through walls, vehicles, and people
"I don't need guns when I have THIS"
MOBILITY MODIFICATIONS:
Flight:
Jet packs (not jump boosters)
Actual sustained flight
You can hover, soar, dive
You are now a sky warrior
With less money and more explosions
Climbing:
Reinforced back muscles (suit muscles)
Claws on fingers and toes
Can dig into concrete
Can scale buildings like a wall-crawler
Except you use STABBING.
Speed:
Leg thruster enhancements
Can run at highway speeds
Can dodge and outrun explosions
"Catch me if you can"
Stealth:
Sound-dampening modifications
Light absorption coating
Heat signature reduction
You are now a ghost
With a sledgehammer hand
AESTHETIC MODIFICATIONS:
This is the best part.
"It doesn't even need to look human."
Want a Triceratops head?
YES.
Three horns
Frill
Dinosaur energy
Villains: "...is that a dinosaur?"
You: "Yes."
Villains: "Why??"
You: "No one stopped me."
Want a Sledgehammer for a hand?
YES.
Left hand: normal
Right hand: SLEDGEHAMMER
Eating? Left hand.
Fighting? RIGHT HAND.
Opening jars? RIGHT HAND.
Opening doors? RIGHT HAND (through the door).
Worth it.
Want to be BULKY?
YES.
Extra armor plating
Extra muscle shaping
You are now a walking tank
Hugs are dangerous
Everything is dangerous
Want to be SKINNY?
YES.
Streamlined design
Maximum speed
Minimal profile
You are now a blade
Fast. Sharp. Gone.
Want to be BULKY AND SKINNY?
...also YES.
Asymmetric design
One bulky arm, one skinny arm
One heavy leg, one light leg
You are now a NIGHTMARE
No one knows what you'll do next
Including you
Want to look like a MECHA WARRIOR?
YES.
Colorful plating
Helmet with visor
Activation sequence (optional)
You are now officially a mecha legend
Go go Mecha Heroes
NO ONE IS STOPPING YOU.
NO. ONE.
PART V: THE CATALYST USER FLEX
Here's the thing they don't tell you:
Even if you HAVE a Catalyst, you can still use a Mecha Suit.
And it ENHANCES your Catalyst.
Fire user + Mecha Suit:
Fireproof suit means you can burn at MAXIMUM
Jet packs mean you can FLY while burning
Strength enhancement means you can PUNCH while burning
You are now a dragon
Lightning user + Mecha Suit:
Conductivity means your lightning is AMPLIFIED
Speed enhancement means you're EVEN FASTER
Durability means you survive your OWN power
You are now a god
Water user + Mecha Suit:
Underwater combat becomes EASY
Pressure resistance means you can go DEEP
Strength enhancement means you can FIGHT underwater
You are now an ocean guardian with better PR
Healer + Mecha Suit:
Protection means you can HEAL on the front lines
Strength means you can CARRY patients to safety
Speed means you can REACH them faster
You are now a MEDIC with armor
Even CATALYST USERS want Mecha Suits.
Because Mecha Suits make EVERYONE better.
Gods become SUPER gods.
Mortals become gods.
Everyone wins.
PART VI: THE MECHA WARRIOR PARALLEL (OFFICIAL)
"People without Catalysts can still become heroes. But like armored warriors in a team battling giants.".
THIS IS THE MOST ACCURATE DESCRIPTION IN HUMAN HISTORY.
Mecha Warriors:
Colorful suits
Teamwork
Giant monsters
Press the bracelet to activate
Activation sequence
AWESOME
Mecha Suit Heroes:
Titanium-carbon dioxide infused suits
Teamwork (optional)
Giant monsters (Talloran)
Press the bracelet to activate
Activation sequence (optional, but you SHOULD)
ALSO AWESOME
Mecha Warriors: "Time to suit up!"
Mecha Suit Heroes: [presses bracelet] [doesn't need a catchphrase] [but might say it anyway]
Mecha Warriors: "Charge ahead!"
Mecha Suit Heroes: "Charge ahead, Mecha Heroes!" (copyright pending)
Same energy.
Different universe.
Same LEVEL of awesome.
PART VII: THE DEMOCRATIZATION OF ASS-KICKING
For 75 years, the world belonged to Catalysts.
Born with power? You're a god.
Born without?
You were NOTHING.
UNTIL MECHA SUITS.
MECHA SUITS SAID: "FUCK THAT."
No Catalyst?
Here's titanium.
Here's carbon dioxide infusion.
Here's bomb-proof, fire-proof, water-proof armor.
Here's jet packs.
Here's claws.
Here's sledgehammer hands.
Here's TRICERATOPS HEADS.
Go be a hero.
Go be a mecha warrior.
Go be ENOUGH.
Every person who ever felt powerless?
Every person who ever wished they'd been born with a Catalyst?
Every person who ever watched the gods fight and thought "I wish that were me"?
Mecha Suits say: "IT CAN BE."
PART VIII: THE REAL HEROES
Devilman — No Catalyst. Just a Mecha Suit. Fought a 2,500-meter dragon god for six hours. Won. Became #6.
Support Class heroes — No combat Catalysts. Just Mecha Suits. Walk into hell after the gods have finished playing. Save the survivors. Clean up the mess. Every day.
Every single graduate of USCT who wasn't born with power — They built it. With their hands. With their money. With their WILL.
Mecha Suits didn't just give people power.
They gave people CHOICE.
The choice to fight.
The choice to protect.
The choice to be HEROES.
Even if they weren't born special.
PART IX: THE ULTIMATE FLEX
Catalyst user: "I was born with lightning powers. I'm naturally special."
Mecha user: "Cool. I built this suit with my own money. I worked for this. I EARNED this."
Catalyst user: "...that's actually more impressive."
Mecha user: "I know."
Catalyst user: "My power is a gift."
Mecha user: "My power is a PAYMENT PLAN. 24 monthly installments. Zero interest. Includes warranty."
Catalyst user: "...you have a WARRANTY on your powers?"
Mecha user: "Yeah. You don't?"
Catalyst user: [crying]
Mecha user: "I have a sledgehammer for a hand."
Catalyst user: "I have lightning."
Mecha user: "Can lightning open this jar?"
Catalyst user: "...no."
Mecha user: [opens jar with sledgehammer hand] [jar shatters] [pickles everywhere]
Mecha user: "...worth it."
PART X: THE INVITATION
The Mecha Division is always open.
Anyone can join.
Anyone can build.
Anyone can BECOME.
No Catalyst?
No problem.
Come to USCT.
Get your bracelet.
Build your suit.
Choose your modifications.
Triceratops head? Yes.
Sledgehammer hand? Yes.
Jet packs? Yes.
Claws? Yes.
Everything? YES.
And when you're done?
When you've spent $40,000 and 4 years training?
When you're Mountain Level and ready to fight?
You go out there.
And you PROTECT.
You SAVE.
You FIGHT.
Not because you were born special.
Because you MADE yourself special.
Because you CHOSE to be enough.
EPILOGUE: THE ARMORY
LOCATION: USCT Mecha Division — Assembly Bay 7
DATE: Present Day
Rows of Mecha Suits hang in the assembly bay.
Some are bulky. Some are skinny. Some have triceratops heads. Some have sledgehammer hands. Some are colorful. Some are stealth black. Some look human. Some look like nightmares.
Each one represents a person.
A person who said:
"I don't have a Catalyst."
"I don't have powers."
"I don't have anything."
"But I have WILL."
"And I have $20,000."
"And I'm going to be a HERO."
Technicians move between them, welding, adjusting, upgrading.
Cadets stand in lines, waiting for their fittings, discussing modifications.
"I want the triceratops head."
"I want the sledgehammer hand."
"I want both."
"I want to fly."
"I want to climb."
"I want to be UNSTOPPABLE."
And they will be.
Because Mecha Suits don't care where you came from.
They only care where you're GOING
END SCENE
