Terra City. It had been Marisa's home for a few weeks while she recovered from yet another barrage of medical tests. Her father had moved to Terra to make use of their science facilites and medical appropraiations, but he hadn't expected the corruption that ran rampart through the city's streets and sewers. Between the Army of Wrath, and all those costumed vigilantes running around, it just wasn't a safe city.
Sure, those costumed 'heroes', as they thought themselves, ran around trying to 'protect the innocent' and 'punish the wicked', but they just usually wound up doing more harm then good.
The Army had claimed her father as a casualty of a raid, and it infuriated her. Seventeen, and without a living relative. Her body was weakened by disease and diagnostic, strengthened by machine and motor. When her legs failed her, machine picked up. When her arms failed her, motor picked up. When her heart would inevitably fail, her life would end. But for now, more machine then human, she would try to purge the city of that which corrupts it. Villain, hero, vigilante, or otherwise.
She let out a hacking cough as she sat up in bed, her legs swinging over the edge of the bed. The heavy green metal boots which sat next to her bed beckoned her, promising her the freedom to feel the ground move beneath her feet. Though not paralyzed, her legs were too weak to keep her standing.
She reached over and took hold of the costume lying next to her bed which she had set out the previous night. Lying down, she slipped the neon green skirt over her legs and waist, clipping it in the back. She sat up and slipped her feet into the boots, the monsters clicking to life with her touch. Two sharp needles pierced her leg muscles, stimulating them enough to get her to move. She stood for the first time in her life. The boots clanked against the wood as she moved around, feeling more powerful. Pulling the sleep shirt off her head with great difficulty, she tossed it weakly to the bed.
The gloves on the bedside table were designed by her father, just as the boots were. As she slipped one hand inside, two needles pierece her muscles, supercharging them. Strength. She put the other on and flexed her fingers. She pulled the green sailor suit over her head and made sure it fit nicely. Perfect fit as she planned. The small golden tiara sat, calling to her. On the inside of the metal were the words 'For my little Princess ~ Dad' lovingly carved. A final message from her father. The emerald set inside shimmered in the dim light. She placed it on her head, and looking very much like one of her favorite cartoon characters, she smiled and coughed again.
"To walk..." She muttered, looking down at her self. Most people in her shoes would have been wheelchair bound for the rest of their life. But not Marisa. She would walk, she would run. She would give chase. "Thank you, dad..." Clumping over to the closet, she threw the doors open, the large pair of wings attached to the backpack staring at her. Pulling it off the hooks, she slipped it on her back, the large mechanical wings flapping happily. A small button on her right wrist clicked to life as she felt the pack settle in. With a push, she felt herself hovering off the ground. "Thanks for everything, father..." She muttered to herself, pushing the button again to drop.
To walk. To run. To fly. She had truely become something she never thought she could. She'd become normal, and more. The doorbell rang. She marched over and opened it.
"Package for - uh..." The delivery man studdered, staring at her. "Uh, Package for Marisa Cole?" He held out the box. She took it from him, coughing some. "Are you sick?" He asked.
"Yes. What of it?" She responded in a cold voice. Everywhere she went, no matter where, it was always the same 'Are you sick?' or 'Don't cough on me.' or her favorite 'I don't want what you have.'
'Slight Genetic Abnormality' is what the doctors had called it. A hiccup in her genetic makeup that turned her into a living conduit of viral infections and diseases, a strange cross between telepathy and pestilence, caused by her years of being a medical ginuea pig. Ten years being on so many different medications finally paid off. She stared at the man, held her hand out, and smiled.
"Thanks for this. Why don't you take the day off? You look like hell." She spoke, the man starting to cough and hack. Not fully understanding what was happening, but man gave a weak nod and hobbled away. Living conduit of infection and disease, walking pestilence.
Sailor Pestilence. A fitting name for a fitting person. As the man hobbled away, she tossed the package onto her bed, and walked out of her small room, seeing the world outside for the first time in seventeen years.