The stench of human desperation has a distinct aroma—sour, sticky, laced with sweat, fear, and futility. It clings to walls, seeps through concrete cracks, mingles with the fumes of sewage and smoke from makeshift stoves. Here in Dharavi's slums, it's so thick it feels omnipresent.
Or maybe that's just the reek of local waste. Who could tell?
I stand by a shattered window on the tenth floor of a dilapidated building—once a factory or warehouse, now a crumbling brick-and-rust shell, carved into countless tiny hovels where humans cling to life. My senses, honed by centuries of hunting, catch every sound, every scent of this human anthill.
Through the thin wall to my right, a baby's monotonous wail—hoarse, pitiful—drags on for its third hour. The mother snaps at it in Hindi, her voice cracking with exhaustion and despair. She hasn't slept in days; I smell it in her sour, stress-soaked sweat. The child is sick, possibly dying, but they lack money for a doctor. Just these walls, this poverty, and the slow death of hope.
To my left, a deep, wet cough ends in groans. Disease, likely, eating lungs from within, turning each breath into agony. Death is coming, and everyone knows it, but no one can act. Death here is as routine as sunrise.
A floor below, someone smokes crude marijuana, its acrid fumes rising through ventilation pipes, blending with smells of cooking, unwashed bodies, and human waste. A radio blares a Bollywood love song, absurdly out of place in this den of misery.
I inhale deeply, letting this cacophony of suffering fill my nostrils. Revolting. Pathetic. And vibrantly alive. Life's variety is as repulsive as it is fascinating.
In my hands, a crystallized blood sphere—dark red, walnut-sized—spins slowly, trapping the final moments of a dozen lives. I shaped it last night after finishing those soldiers in the warehouse. Their blood was rich—full of adrenaline, resolve, discipline. An interesting group paid me a visit. Long forgotten by the righteous, they thought they'd won. But as they say, cut off one head, two grow back. Apt. I'll deal with them later.
The sphere, infused with my blood, is a new tool I devised today. For now, it's a fidget toy, something to twirl while pondering existence's twists.
Through the broken window, I gaze at Mumbai's distant business district. Skyscrapers gleam—white, gold, blue light bouncing off glass facades, an illusion of cleanliness and progress. There, bankers, tech moguls, entrepreneurs rise above this swamp of despair.
The irony. Mere kilometers separate two worlds—filth and gold. Yet the chasm between them is wider than an ocean.
"Look at this," I say aloud, not turning. "The contrast, Kingo. There, civilization's lights. Here, its refuse. Both humanity's work. Your charges."
Behind me, a muffled whimper—pathetic, wordless, from a tongueless throat. I tore out Kingo's tongue hours ago, tired of his prattle about duty and pursuit. Now he can only moan, struggling to form thoughts without speech.
I turn, eyeing my prey.
Kingo—or whatever his true name is—no longer resembles a Bollywood star. His face is a pulp of bruises and cuts. His left eye, gouged hours ago, leaks a pinkish-gold fluid, mixing with blood and tears. His arms, broken in multiple places, hang at unnatural angles, bone shards piercing skin. His legs are worse—knees and ankles pulped into mush. Yet his chest heaves, heart stuttering but beating. Eternals are resilient, even under exquisite cruelty. A mortal would've died from shock, but Kingo clings to life with stubborn futility.
His bones, oddly, aren't quite bones—greenish material with golden patterns, more like me than humans. Curious.
"What amazes me most about you Eternals?" I say, turning back to the window, the blood sphere casting red glints on peeling walls. "Your blindness. Monumental, staggering blindness."
The baby's wail grows weaker, hoarse. It's dying—maybe in an hour, maybe two. The mother's voice shifts—not anger, not despair, but acceptance. She's preparing for loss, praying to her gods.
Hilarious. One of her gods lies here, whimpering.
"Thousands of years," I continue, watching the skyscrapers' glow. "You lived among humans, guided their progress, fought Deviants, taught crafts and arts. And what's the result?"
I gesture at the room, though Kingo likely can't see clearly with one eye in the dark.
"This. Slums where children die of curable diseases. A world where kilometers separate paradise and hell. A civilization built on poverty's bones."
Below, a fight erupts—harsh male voices, blows, a woman's scream. A drunken man beats his wife or daughter. Normal here. No one intervenes; everyone has their own burdens.
"You lived among them, Kingo. Watched their evolution, their triumphs, their failures. Thousands of years, you and your kin observed. And what? They built bombs, the internet, landed on the moon, invented penicillin. Progress, sure. But they still kill over skin, faith, or land. Let children starve while dumping tons of food. That's on you."
Kingo groans, maybe trying to speak, maybe just in pain. I ignore him.
"Poverty, murder, drugs, corruption, racism, zealotry—all that filth is on your hands, Kingo. You Eternals shaped their path. You're responsible."
I hold the blood sphere to the dim light. Frozen air bubbles—victims' last breaths—gleam within. My craft is evolving, and this is beautiful.
"What's worse? You're no different from them. Same vices—pride, greed, lust, wrath. Same petty desires. You, an actor. Not a scientist, philosopher, or leader to uplift humanity. An actor, chasing fame and coin, entertaining while kids starved nearby. So small."
The baby's wail stops. Silence descends, heavy, final—the silence of death. The mother is quiet, likely staring at the tiny body, wondering what's next.
"Another one," I whisper. "Another casualty of your grand human experiment."
I turn to Kingo, spinning the sphere. His single eye glares with murky hatred, but beneath it, fear. He fears me, this ancient warrior who fought Deviants at civilization's dawn. That fear—delicious.
"You call yourselves Eternals," I say, stepping closer. "Immortal guardians. But look at you—wounded, terrified, trembling like any mortal. Your golden blood is just fluid. Your flesh tears, bones break, organs fail, even if they're hard to find in that mechanical mess. Where's your eternity? You're too good a mimic, too human."
Kingo tries to speak, but only gurgles, blood dripping from his tongueless mouth.
"What intrigues me?" I crouch, holding the sphere before his face. "Humans worshipped you as gods. Built temples, offered sacrifices, prayed to your names. Egyptians, Babylonians, Greeks, Romans—all knew you. I've read the histories."
The sphere spins, casting red flickers on his ruined face.
"But here's my question, Kingo, nagging me for hours," I lean closer. "Why did they call you gods? What's divine about you?"
His eye widens—pain or realization.
"You shoot energy blasts—impressive. You're stronger, faster than humans—admirable. You live millennia—enviable. But where's the wisdom? The omniscience? The divine compassion?"
I stand, pacing to the window. "Gods should be perfect. All-powerful. All-knowing. You? Just longer-lived humans with tricks, burdened by their flaws and biases."
Police sirens wail below. Someone reported the fight or the baby's silence. They won't come soon—cops avoid slums at night. Too dangerous, too many unknowns.
"Humans called you gods because they knew no better," I say, staring at the distant lights. "They saw your powers and thought it divine. They were wrong. You're tools, made by Celestials for a purpose. Biological machines, programmed to protect and guide."
Kingo groans louder, maybe protesting, maybe in agony.
"The funniest part?" I turn, smiling. "Even as tools, you failed. Look at the world you helped create."
I lean out the window. Mumbai's warm night air carries spices, exhaust, sweat, sewage, campfire smoke. In the alleys below, dark figures move—drug dealers, prostitutes, street kids, criminals. The slums' nocturnal pulse.
"See them, Kingo?" I ask, though he can't reach the window. "Your charges. The fruit of millennia under your guidance. Selling drugs, bodies, killing for rupees. Where's your divine touch? Your wisdom's harvest?"
Sirens grow louder but remain distant. I have time to finish.
"Now tell me," I crouch, my face level with his eye, "if you Eternals are so flawed, so limited, what does that say about your creators?"
The blood sphere glows faintly, resonating with my emotions. Its power isn't just blood—it's lives, memories, fears, hopes, all mine now.
"The Celestials," I whisper. "Your gods. If they made such imperfect tools, what does that say about their perfection?"
Kingo's eye trembles—he sees where this leads.
"Maybe perfect gods don't exist, Kingo. Just layers of imperfection. You're less perfect than Celestials, humans less than you, and I…"
I pause, savoring the moment.
"I stand outside this hierarchy. Not built to serve or protect. Not programmed to love humanity. I'm a predator, pure and honest. There's beauty in that. I kill to live."
Sirens cut off nearby. Maybe the cops reconsidered the slums. Maybe something bigger distracted them. No one will interrupt us.
"So, Kingo," I hold the glowing sphere close, its light reflecting in his pupil, "why did humans call you gods?"
He opens his mouth, gurgling blood and air. His eye screams despair, helplessness, fear of what I'll do next.
"Because they needed gods," I answer for him. "Any gods. Even flawed ones like you."
I stand, gazing at the skyscrapers' glow, stark against the slums' dark. Light and shadow, wealth and misery, hope and despair—all shaped by humans under Eternal guidance.
"But you know, Kingo?" I say, not turning. "Maybe humanity's ready for real gods. Not limited creatures like you, but something… purer."
The sphere pulses brighter, feeding on my emotions. Its power—lives, memories, struggles—fuels me. Soon, it'll fuel another.
"Maybe it's time for a new era," I whisper, eyes on the city's lights. "An era where old gods fall to newer, hungrier ones. An eternal slaughter."
Kingo moans faintly, still clinging to life. His time, and his kin's, is running out. False gods will fall.
I turn, crushing the sphere in my fist. Red light seeps through my fingers, painting the walls blood-red.
"Now, Kingo," I say, leaning over the broken Eternal, "will you open your mouth again?"
Kingo's jaw trembles as I force it open, shoving the blood sphere inside. He swallows, no choice, eyes widening in shock—not from pain, but realization. The sphere carries thirty soldiers' final moments—their fear, agony, futile fight. Now it flows through his veins, mingling with his golden blood.
"Feel them?" I ask, watching convulsions rack his face. "Their last thoughts? Their pleas? Tastes good, doesn't it?"
But the theatrics aren't the point. The real work begins now. With surgical precision, I manipulate blood droplets to reset his bones. One by one, ribs crunch back into place. Wrists grind as shards align. Joints snap wetly into sockets.
Kingo screams—silent, tongueless, only gurgling moans escaping. I continue, not out of mercy, but curiosity. How fast will he heal with bones set?
His left leg, a mess of bone and cartilage, takes effort. Eternals are marvels—bodies programmed to restore their original form. Once I align the fragments, regeneration kicks in.
Slowly at first, then faster. Muscles knit, vessels sprout, skin seals, leaving faint scars that soon vanish. In an hour, he's nearly whole, save the empty eye socket and missing tongue. Those need more time.
I sit, watching, reflecting on what happened after he swallowed the sphere.
Kingo's blood.
Oh, his blood.
Unlike anything I've tasted in millennia. Not just blood—liquid cosmic power, organic yet celestial. Each drop exploded with energy, every cell vibrating with ecstasy.
Golden, like molten metal, warm and alive. Sweet as nectar, with a bitter edge—millennia among humans, duty's weight. His resistance, even as I drank, added complexity, like fine wine.
The best part? Memories. Eternal blood carries their past. Drinking his, I saw Babylon's quarrels, Egypt's pyramids, Deviant battles in ancient forests, his Bollywood debut. Millennia flashed like a sped-up film, all tied to his naive, blind love for humanity.
It repulsed me.
But the blood… divine.
I open my eyes, gazing at Kingo. He lies still, breathing unevenly, nearly restored. Eternals are remarkable.
I recall Gilgamesh's blood, tasted millennia ago in those mountains after I killed him. Simpler, honest—pure war, victory, no human taint. Bitter with enemies' blood, salty with battle sweat, raw power.
Kingo's was layered—protector, mentor, actor, lover. Each role added flavor, a symphony of notes forming something exquisite.
What will Sersi's taste like? Thena's? Ikaris's? I'll find out soon.
I stand, approaching the window. Below, Dharavi's grim life churns—dealers divvying turf, prostitutes calling, kids scavenging. A typical night.
But something shifts. My senses catch a low hum—engines, distant but closing. Heavy, armored vehicles with powerful motors. Coming here.
I close my eyes, focusing. Three vehicles, approaching from the north on the main road. Ten people each. Thirty pounding hearts, blood thick with adrenaline and resolve. Soldiers. Trained, disciplined, armed.
Hydra.
A smile creeps across my face. They didn't forget last night's warehouse massacre. Ten of their own turned to pulp, their blood now a sphere I fed Kingo. It stung them.
Good. Very good.
I'm bored of this hole, philosophizing about existence. Time for what I do best—hunting. And they're eager to kill or capture me. Perfect.
Their blood pulses like beacons, guiding me to prey. They think they're hunting me, but they're the quarry now.
The engines grow louder, weaving through slum alleys. Soon, they'll surround the building, deploy teams, sweep floors. Hydra's playbook—overwhelming numbers, coordinated strikes, high-tech gear.
It won't help.
I glance at Kingo, still motionless, chest rising and falling. His eye socket knits, tongue budding. By morning, he'll be whole.
What will he do? Flee? Seek his Eternal kin? Or stay, pondering what he's learned?
No matter. He'll draw the others.
Engines roar closer, reaching the slum's edge. They'll spot the building, set guards, start the assault.
Time to move.
I leave Kingo, descending the stairwell, reeking of urine and rot. Ten floors to the ground, where fun awaits.
Each step echoes in empty halls. Most residents hide after dark—too many dangers. They don't know the greatest threat is here.
Ninth floor. Eighth. Seventh.
Engines grow louder. I hear orders, radio chatter, weapon clanks. They're prepping hard.
Sixth. Fifth.
The first vehicle stops below. Doors slam, soldiers form ranks. Hearts beat in sync—trained, experienced.
Fourth. Third.
Second and third vehicles take positions, encircling the building. No escape. Touching—they think I'll run.
Second floor. First.
I pause by the entrance, leaning against a wall. Dim streetlights and neon signs cast eerie patterns through a broken window.
Outside, commands ring out. Thirty voices respond—Hydra's iron discipline. My hearing catches every whisper.
"Alpha team, north side."
"Bravo, south entrance."
"Charlie, block all exits."
Textbook. Surround, trap, clear floor by floor. Methodical, minimal losses. Against a human, it'd be perfect.
But I'm not human.
"Target is highly dangerous," the commander says. "Shoot to kill. No warnings."
Cute. They know talking's pointless. Smart boys.
Boots hit the stairs—slow, cautious, covering each other. They double-check each floor.
I have time.
I slip into the lobby's shadows. Kingo's blood makes me faster, stronger. Cosmic energy blends with my own, creating something new. Beautiful. What will it do? Peter's blood surprised me; I hope Kingo's doesn't disappoint.
Second floor. They find a dealer's body I left yesterday. A stifled curse over the radio—they know they're in a predator's den.
Third. Fourth.
My mind sharpens, maybe from Kingo's blood—Eternals focus like no other. Or maybe the hunt's thrill hones my senses.
I plan ahead. After these thirty, Hydra will send more. And more. They'll never stop until I'm dead or they are. Their fanatical drive.
Fine. Let them come. I have eternity to kill them.
Fifth. Sixth.
The real hunt begins with the other Eternals. Sersi in London, Thena in a hidden lair, Druig in Amazon jungles. Each a unique quarry, with powers and flaws. The others, scattered. But they'll gather.
I know it. I want it.
Each a new blood flavor. Together, a feast.
Seventh. Eighth.
I imagine hunting them—studying habits, finding weaknesses, setting traps. A long, refined game, not mindless slaughter. Each kill a masterpiece, each drop a brushstroke.
Ninth.
They reach Kingo's room. Shocked gasps, rapid radio chatter. Someone checks his pulse; another calls for medics. The commander demands answers—how did their target vanish, leaving another victim?
Three soldiers climb higher, to the roof. Standard protocol. I hear their heavy breathing, heartbeats, gear rustling.
Eleventh floor—technical, nearly empty. Just the roof access.
It's time.
I move.
Not running—gliding. My body flows through corridors, silent. Kingo's blood sings, cosmic energy making me faster than anything here.
Stairwell. Their steps echo above, nearing the roof. I follow, a silent shadow.
Roof door. Three silhouettes, rifles ready, backs to me, scanning for signs.
The first turns, catching a sound. Too late.
I rip out his throat before he can scream. Blood sprays the concrete; he collapses, clutching the wound. His comrades turn, but I'm already moving.
The second raises his rifle. I grab the barrel, bending it like clay. Metal snaps. Shocked, he drops it. My fist crushes his solar plexus—ribs crack, lungs collapse, heart stops.
The third fires. Bullets tear through my shoulder and chest, but I don't slow. Wounds close instantly, fueled by Eternal blood.
I seize his head, twisting. Vertebrae snap; he slumps like a ragdoll.
Three dead. Twenty-seven left.
A radio crackles: "Charlie-One, report. Heard shots."
I grab it, mimicking the dead man's voice: "All clear. False alarm."
Silence, then: "Copy, Charlie-One. Continue sweep."
Fools. They'll notice when the team misses check-in.
Minutes are enough.
I descend, hunting.
Ninth floor. Seven soldiers surround Kingo's room; three guard the stairs. Focused on the Eternal, they're vulnerable.
I glide to the stair guards. Shadows cloak me, silent. Humans rarely look up.
The first, back to me, watches the hall. I snap his neck, catching his rifle before it falls.
The second hears, turning. I smash the rifle butt into his temple—skull cracks, he drops.
The third raises the alarm: "Contact! Ninth floor!"
Gunfire erupts, bullets whistling, sparking off walls. Clinging to the ceiling, I duck around a corner, letting them waste ammo.
They fire wildly, fear overriding aim. Perfect—scared soldiers err.
"Alpha team, to ninth!" a radio barks. "Target spotted!"
They reposition, pros despite fear. But skill won't save them.
They reload. I strike.
I hurl the rifle at one, crushing his chest, ribs snapping through his vest. He slams into a wall, cracking concrete.
I leap, roll, leap again. Bullets can't track me.
Another aims, tracking. I crush his hand—bones splinter, he screams, dropping his gun. I lift him, hurling him into the ceiling. Debris rains.
The third retreats to his team. No chance.
I charge the doorway, slamming two guards down. We hit the floor in a tangle.
One draws a pistol. I snap his wrist, take it, and fire into his head. Brains splatter.
The second shoots, grazing my arm. No pain. I tear his throat; blood gushes, he chokes.
The rest back to a wall, firing. Smoke, gunpowder, and blood fill the room. Kingo lies amid it, untouched—soldiers avoid hitting him.
Their mistake.
I use a corpse as a shield, bullets shredding it. I reach a shooter, claws slicing his face to bone. He screams, cut short as I crush his jaw.
The last two have nowhere to run. I strike—broken bones, torn arteries, pulped organs. In moments, they're gore on the floor.
Ten dead. Seventeen remain.
I wipe blood from my hands on a dead man's gear, glancing at Kingo. His eye tracks me, horrified—not at the carnage, but at my capability.
"See?" I say, leaning close. "How easily your beloved humans die? Thirty elite soldiers, cut down like wheat."
Kingo gurgles, tongue still regrowing.
"Save it," I say, heading out. "I've got better things than your sermons."
A radio crackles: "Alpha, report. You're five minutes overdue."
I grab it: "Alpha's gone," I say in my voice. "Who's next?"
Silence, then chaos: "All teams, fall back! Repeat, fall back!"
"Bravo, block exits!"
"Charlie, prep explosives!"
Explosives. Predictable. Can't take the target, level the building. Hydra's go-to for tough foes.
It won't work.
I drop the radio, heading downstairs. Soldiers' boots echo, retreating but disciplined.
Eighth. Seventh. Sixth.
Through windows, I see them rigging charges on load-bearing walls. They'll collapse the structure. Smart. Even if I survive, tons of rubble would trap me.
Fifth. Fourth.
But I won't wait. Kingo's blood changes me—cell-deep, evolving. I'm more than faster, stronger. Different. I'm eager to test it.
Third. Second.
Soldiers flee, aiming for safety. A sapper counts down on a detonator.
Time to go.
Not through the door—too obvious.
I sprint, crashing through a window. Glass shatters, and I plummet ten stories.
Soldiers below shout, firing. Bullets trace fiery arcs, but Kingo's blood lets me twist midair, dodging.
I land like a meteor, cracking pavement, shockwave toppling three soldiers. I rise, surrounded by seventeen, rifles trained, armored vehicles' headlights blinding.
"Fire!" the commander roars.
Bullets swarm. I move.
Not running—walking. Every step calculated. Bullets miss; I'm a blur among flashes. They can't hit me.
The first doesn't see it coming. One moment he fires, the next his head rolls, my bladed hand severing it. Blood paints a vehicle's headlights red.
The second retreats, reloading. I catch him, punching through his chest, shredding lungs and heart. He stares at the hole, then falls.
Panic breaks their formation. They fire wildly, hitting each other more than me.
I seize a third by the leg, hurling him into his team. Bodies collide wetly, rifles clattering.
Fourth, fifth, sixth—dead in seconds. Throats torn, spines snapped, skulls crushed. The pavement becomes a red slurry of blood and guts.
An explosion rocks behind me.
The building collapses, ten stories imploding into dust and debris. The shockwave topples the remaining soldiers, shatters vehicle windows, hurls garbage skyward.
It masks my steps.
As the dust settles, I stand amid seventeen corpses. Blood drips from my hands and face, mixing with concrete grit. Broken headlights flicker over the carnage.
Thirty Hydra soldiers, gone.
I look at the ruins. Somewhere under the rubble lies Kingo. Alive? Eternals are tough, but even they have limits. No matter—I feel he's alive. He'll crawl out or be found.
Sirens wail in the distance—police, fire, ambulances rushing in. It'll take hours to sift the debris. By then, I'll be long gone.