Angel test his sensory enhancements
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 13
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Angel stood motionless in the junkyard’s center, seven feet of sculpted perfection bathed in the harsh glow of floodlights. The night had grown quieter—only distant highway hum and the occasional creak of settling metal. Cherri hovered nearby, still breathless from watching him dismantle machinery like it was paper. She hadn’t spoken in minutes. She didn’t need to. Her wide eyes and shallow breathing said everything.
Angel tilted his head, white hair shifting like liquid moonlight. His new senses had been humming since the transformation—sharper, louder, overwhelming—but he hadn’t fully tested them yet. Time to play.
He closed his eyes.
The world exploded inward.
First came sound.
Not just the obvious—the low buzz of the floodlights, the distant rumble of a semi-truck on the highway two miles away. No. Everything.
He could hear Cherri’s heartbeat—rapid, erratic, 112 beats per minute—each chamber contracting with a soft, wet thump. He heard the blood rushing through her carotid artery, the faint hiss of air through her slightly parted lips, the microscopic creak of her knees as she shifted weight. He heard the individual strands of her strawberry-blonde hair brushing together in the breeze.
He heard ants marching across a discarded soda can thirty yards away—tiny legs scraping aluminum in precise rhythm.
He heard a bat’s wings slicing air high above the yard—ultrasonic chirps painting the darkness in echolocation bursts.
He opened his eyes slowly. Vision sharpened to painful clarity.
The floodlights weren’t just bright—they were blinding constellations of individual photons. He could see the microscopic pits and scratches on the metal gate fifty yards away, the faint heat shimmer rising from the crushed car hoods, the individual freckles on Cherri’s cheeks even in the dim light. His peripheral vision stretched impossibly wide—almost 220 degrees—without losing focus. Colors were hyper-saturated: the rust on the scrap was a dozen shades of burnt sienna, the moonlight on his own skin shimmered with pearlescent undertones he’d never noticed before.
Smell hit next.
The junkyard wasn’t just “smelly.” It was a symphony. He could separate every layer: motor oil (bitter, metallic), old rubber (sweet decay), wet concrete (mineral and fungal), Cherri’s skin (warm vanilla and faint arousal musk), the distant pine sap from the uprooted tree, exhaust fumes from the highway, even the ozone tang left by the broken hydraulics.
Taste followed—air itself had flavor: cool iron from the metal, faint salt from distant ocean wind, the lingering sweetness of his own earlier cum still on his tongue.
Touch was last—and most overwhelming.
The night breeze didn’t just caress his skin; it mapped every pore, every fine hair, every vein. He felt the individual ridges of his own fingerprints pressing against his palms. He felt the subtle vibration of distant traffic through the soles of his feet—each tire tread rolling over asphalt like a seismic drumbeat.
He inhaled deeply—pecs thrusting forward, nipples tightening further—and laughed. The sound echoed unnaturally clear, bouncing off metal in perfect stereo.
“Everything,” he breathed. “I can feel everything.”
Cherri took a hesitant step closer. “What… what do you mean?”
Angel turned to her slowly. Even that small motion felt hyper-detailed—he could track the exact trajectory of each strand of her hair as it moved.
“I can hear your pupils dilating,” he said softly. “I can smell the adrenaline spiking in your blood. I can taste the salt on your skin from ten feet away.” He closed the distance in a single, fluid step—too fast for her to react. “And I can feel your heartbeat speed up the second I get close.”
Cherri’s breath hitched. “That’s… impossible.”
Angel cupped her chin with one massive, delicate hand—thumb brushing her lower lip. “Impossible was yesterday, baby. Today I’m rewriting the dictionary.”
He released her and stepped back, eyes scanning the yard with predatory focus.
“Let’s play.”
He blurred—supersonic again—but this time he didn’t just move. He hunted.
He darted to a pile of discarded car batteries thirty yards away, picked one up (lead-acid, 60 pounds, still faintly charged), and tossed it straight up—two hundred feet into the night sky.
While it arced, he closed his eyes.
He tracked it by sound alone: air rushing over the plastic casing, faint slosh of electrolyte inside, the whistle of wind across terminals. He felt the minute electromagnetic field it generated as it rose and fell. He smelled the faint sulfuric tang drifting down.
When it reached apex, he leaped—vertical jump clearing forty feet—caught it one-handed mid-air, and landed without a sound.
He set the battery down gently.
“Enhanced proprioception, echolocation-level hearing, electromagnetic sensitivity, olfactory range of a bloodhound, visual acuity that makes eagles look blind.” He ticked off on long fingers. “I can read a license plate three miles away in moonlight. I can hear a heartbeat through concrete. I can smell fear pheromones from a mile off.”
Cherri sank slowly to sit on a flattened hood, staring up at him.
“You’re… you’re not human anymore.”
Angel crouched—still towering over her—and tilted her chin up again.
“No, Sugar Tits. I’m better.”
He stood, stretched—muscles rippling in waves of power—and turned toward the city lights on the horizon.
“Time to see what else these senses can do.”
He inhaled deeply—chest expanding massively—and froze.
A faint scent reached him—distant, but unmistakable.
Sweat. Gun oil. Fear.
People.
Coming this way.
Angel’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smile.
“Company,” he purred. “And they smell… nervous.”
Cherri scrambled to her feet. “What do we do?”
Angel flexed once—every muscle popping into brutal definition—and laughed softly.
“We wait.”
He turned toward the approaching scent, eyes gleaming in the dark.
“Let’s see how durable they think I am.”
The night suddenly felt much smaller.
And Angel Dust had never been hungrier.
Angel tilted his head, white hair shifting like liquid moonlight. His new senses had been humming since the transformation—sharper, louder, overwhelming—but he hadn’t fully tested them yet. Time to play.
He closed his eyes.
The world exploded inward.
First came sound.
Not just the obvious—the low buzz of the floodlights, the distant rumble of a semi-truck on the highway two miles away. No. Everything.
He could hear Cherri’s heartbeat—rapid, erratic, 112 beats per minute—each chamber contracting with a soft, wet thump. He heard the blood rushing through her carotid artery, the faint hiss of air through her slightly parted lips, the microscopic creak of her knees as she shifted weight. He heard the individual strands of her strawberry-blonde hair brushing together in the breeze.
He heard ants marching across a discarded soda can thirty yards away—tiny legs scraping aluminum in precise rhythm.
He heard a bat’s wings slicing air high above the yard—ultrasonic chirps painting the darkness in echolocation bursts.
He opened his eyes slowly. Vision sharpened to painful clarity.
The floodlights weren’t just bright—they were blinding constellations of individual photons. He could see the microscopic pits and scratches on the metal gate fifty yards away, the faint heat shimmer rising from the crushed car hoods, the individual freckles on Cherri’s cheeks even in the dim light. His peripheral vision stretched impossibly wide—almost 220 degrees—without losing focus. Colors were hyper-saturated: the rust on the scrap was a dozen shades of burnt sienna, the moonlight on his own skin shimmered with pearlescent undertones he’d never noticed before.
Smell hit next.
The junkyard wasn’t just “smelly.” It was a symphony. He could separate every layer: motor oil (bitter, metallic), old rubber (sweet decay), wet concrete (mineral and fungal), Cherri’s skin (warm vanilla and faint arousal musk), the distant pine sap from the uprooted tree, exhaust fumes from the highway, even the ozone tang left by the broken hydraulics.
Taste followed—air itself had flavor: cool iron from the metal, faint salt from distant ocean wind, the lingering sweetness of his own earlier cum still on his tongue.
Touch was last—and most overwhelming.
The night breeze didn’t just caress his skin; it mapped every pore, every fine hair, every vein. He felt the individual ridges of his own fingerprints pressing against his palms. He felt the subtle vibration of distant traffic through the soles of his feet—each tire tread rolling over asphalt like a seismic drumbeat.
He inhaled deeply—pecs thrusting forward, nipples tightening further—and laughed. The sound echoed unnaturally clear, bouncing off metal in perfect stereo.
“Everything,” he breathed. “I can feel everything.”
Cherri took a hesitant step closer. “What… what do you mean?”
Angel turned to her slowly. Even that small motion felt hyper-detailed—he could track the exact trajectory of each strand of her hair as it moved.
“I can hear your pupils dilating,” he said softly. “I can smell the adrenaline spiking in your blood. I can taste the salt on your skin from ten feet away.” He closed the distance in a single, fluid step—too fast for her to react. “And I can feel your heartbeat speed up the second I get close.”
Cherri’s breath hitched. “That’s… impossible.”
Angel cupped her chin with one massive, delicate hand—thumb brushing her lower lip. “Impossible was yesterday, baby. Today I’m rewriting the dictionary.”
He released her and stepped back, eyes scanning the yard with predatory focus.
“Let’s play.”
He blurred—supersonic again—but this time he didn’t just move. He hunted.
He darted to a pile of discarded car batteries thirty yards away, picked one up (lead-acid, 60 pounds, still faintly charged), and tossed it straight up—two hundred feet into the night sky.
While it arced, he closed his eyes.
He tracked it by sound alone: air rushing over the plastic casing, faint slosh of electrolyte inside, the whistle of wind across terminals. He felt the minute electromagnetic field it generated as it rose and fell. He smelled the faint sulfuric tang drifting down.
When it reached apex, he leaped—vertical jump clearing forty feet—caught it one-handed mid-air, and landed without a sound.
He set the battery down gently.
“Enhanced proprioception, echolocation-level hearing, electromagnetic sensitivity, olfactory range of a bloodhound, visual acuity that makes eagles look blind.” He ticked off on long fingers. “I can read a license plate three miles away in moonlight. I can hear a heartbeat through concrete. I can smell fear pheromones from a mile off.”
Cherri sank slowly to sit on a flattened hood, staring up at him.
“You’re… you’re not human anymore.”
Angel crouched—still towering over her—and tilted her chin up again.
“No, Sugar Tits. I’m better.”
He stood, stretched—muscles rippling in waves of power—and turned toward the city lights on the horizon.
“Time to see what else these senses can do.”
He inhaled deeply—chest expanding massively—and froze.
A faint scent reached him—distant, but unmistakable.
Sweat. Gun oil. Fear.
People.
Coming this way.
Angel’s lips curled into a slow, wicked smile.
“Company,” he purred. “And they smell… nervous.”
Cherri scrambled to her feet. “What do we do?”
Angel flexed once—every muscle popping into brutal definition—and laughed softly.
“We wait.”
He turned toward the approaching scent, eyes gleaming in the dark.
“Let’s see how durable they think I am.”
The night suddenly felt much smaller.
And Angel Dust had never been hungrier.
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·
June 13
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