Obra pulled up in a shabby, rusted Ford that emitted the characteristic diesel exhaust. After climbing into the passenger seat, I was able to get a better look at my companion. She turned out to be a rather elderly woman with slightly curly gray hair. The smell of tobacco smoke clung to her, and her clothes bore obvious signs of working with machinery—oil stains and burn marks from welding were unmistakable.
"Hello... hey, what are you doing?" I asked warily when this crazy woman splashed some liquid on me.
"Holy water," she shrugged, replying as she grabbed the steering wheel and gear shift, and the van started moving.
"Ugh," wiping the water from my face, I huffed and made it clear how displeased I was with her actions. She had seen that I had been standing under the sun calmly! "So, are you a vampire hunter too?"
"I was, once," she muttered, focusing on the road and choosing to ignore me from thereon. "Time and injuries prevent me from actively dealing with the problem anymore. But I still help others, and the girl with the katana, included."
"Can you tell me her name? It's a bit awkward talking about someone when you don't know their name."
"Call her Blade, and she's not exactly human."
"Well, I've noticed that already," I chuckled, trying to engage her further. "She seems more like a vampire, am I right?"
"Partly," she mumbled, keeping her focus on the road.
Half an hour later, I was dropped off... somewhere. It looked like either a former warehouse by the dock or something similar. Now, it appeared more like a half-abandoned auto repair shop. I started to feel a bit uneasy, but surprisingly, everything went smoothly. Obra led me further into the building, and behind another door, I was surprised to find a rather comfortable, clean living space. She was limping slightly, and I guessed that was the injury she referred to when mentioning how it prevented her from continuing her vampire hunting.
Obra Whistler sat down at the computer, opened a document, and began writing. It turned out she was asking for my height, weight, blood type, age, and other such details. She also asked if I had any special preferences for my future documents and explained some of the process involved. The procedure took a good two hours, as she even had to take a photo of me and almost drew blood from my finger. The latter was, of course, a joke.
After outlining the timelines and finalizing all the details, she offered to take me back to where she picked me up. I wasn't going to turn down free transportation. But as soon as she got up from her seat, switched off the computer, and took a few steps, my eyes once again caught sight of her leg.
"Hey," I spoke up. "Blade, did she tell you that I'm a mutant?"
"Yeah, yeah," she responded indifferently.
It seemed like she didn't care about anything that wasn't related to vampires.
"Hm, the other day I discovered new aspects of my power. Tell me, could I take a look at your leg?"
Now, I had her attention. She stared at me with a pair of steely gray eyes. Creepy, I tell you! This woman had a truly iron will and steel nerves, if her gaze could rattle even me! Well... maybe just a little. Did I mention how modest I am?
"You don't hear that kind of thing from a guy often," she said, and I didn't realize it was a joke at first. It must've been a joke. "What are you planning to do?"
"I want to see if I can fix it."
"Hm, alright."
She sat back down and rolled up her pant leg to nearly the top. On the outer side of her thigh was an old, leather-bound, torn wound. I crouched down to inspect the damage.
In truth, I had never done anything like this before. Most of my work had been with skin and the subcutaneous layer. But here, the muscles were damaged, some even missing. This was definitely no simple task—this required a top-class surgeon, not a beginner cosmetologist.
Though... I had an idea!
"Obra, where's your fridge?"
My new acquaintance turned out to be quite resourceful, and she had not only a fridge but also a fully stocked freezer. It was almost as if she were preparing vampire corpses, but I had seen with my own eyes that they turned to dust after death.
After rummaging through the freezer, I picked out a tender cut of beef and quickly returned to the patient. Pulling on gloves, I touched the damaged area of her leg with one hand, while holding the cold piece of meat with the other.
Masquerade could seriously graft octopus tentacles onto Callisto's arms and was confident it would work. More than that, he believed she could control them! So, what makes me any different?! The plan was to start by blocking the nerve endings leading from the damaged leg, then isolate the damaged muscles and remove them.
Next, I selected muscle fibers from the beef, heated them, and implanted them into the leg's vacant space. I adjusted the compatibility, instructed the antibodies to accept the new tissue as native, and checked everything was working. After that, I restored the sensitivity and repaired the skin around the wound—well, former wound. Ha, done!
Wiping the sweat from my brow, I let go of the woman's leg and collapsed onto the floor, exhausted.
"Holy crap..." Obra muttered, staring at the smooth, unremarkable spot on her leg with a trembling hand.