buffy summers. altered carbon verse. i’m a slayer. ask me how.
she didn’t ask for it. she didn’t want it. but that’s the thing with fate, it doesn’t bother asking these things before throwing you smack dab into the middle of a war you have no interest in fighting. the protectorate claimed, afterwards, that the contagion bomb detonation had been accidental. that the virus that infected her home world had been meant for research purposes only, that it had been scheduled for destruction -- in the end, though, she found it really didn’t matter, the why, the who, the how. the virus erupted, twisting the human occupants of the world into something sick. twisted and depraved, enhancing flesh and eating away at the minds, stripping away the morals and the mandates and the memories that made them human, turning them into savage beasts whose hungers were unnatural in every way.
the percentage of the population that was, by chance, immune, was slim, and they died, slowly, screaming. she wasn’t immune. but she wasn’t one of them, either. she was something else, a one in a billion freak chance, her genetic material manipulated, enhanced, but her mind intact. she escaped her world, a graveyard with only the shambling dead that didn’t know they were dead yet. she’s been on the hunt ever since, to find the ones responsible, to find the scientists that developed the virus, to find those that ordered the development, the study, the deployment - the soldiers that had swept in with their flame throwers and their mobile incinerators -- she does what she has to. kills who she has to for information, for resources; she works as a bounty hunter / mercenary, sometime assassin, always in her own skin, working her way across the Earth one shit city at a time until she can find the ones she intends to hold accountable.
