vyn’s art blog :3

The first time you saw him was in Raccoon City.

Your mission sounded simple on paper, an order given to hundreds of agents hired by hundreds of companies; retrieve the sample, return it to us. Your employer (who even you didn't know the true name of) seemed to think it that easy, anyway, with the way they dropped you off at the city's edge with little instruction or direction to your objective. Maybe you were being too harsh, though; you weren't here to grab the main attraction *just* yet, instead mapping out your route for future visits to ensure everything ran smoothly. They had great faith in you, but not *so* great as to send you in guns blazing on your first visit. You'd never even captured a sample before.

An earpiece soon rattled off gathered data too loudly into your head, and you resisted the urge to spit back venom at your handler. As if the helicopter blades weren't loud enough on the ride here. You got the gist regardless. Raccoon City Orphanage. Electronic relays. Find the source, and we've probably found our target, so they say. Your handler's final words catch you off guard, the static permeating the receiver only serving to further intimidate you,

"Word of BSAA forces deployed within the area. Stay alert. Initiate contact only when necessary for extraction. Good luck."

Your breath catches in your throat, and you consider tossing the earpiece against the ruin grounds. The thought of it being some kind of electronic voodoo doll that would harm your employers brings you a momentary comfort in your frustration. BSAA? Nobody told you about the BSAA being stationed here. They only dropped you off in the loudest chopper they had, why *would* the BSAA being here matter to you? You were only one person with your wits and weapons about you, why *would* the threat of armed-to-the-teeth military forces be important to know of?

At the very least, your employers *had* offered you an extensive arsenal of gear; a handgun sat heavy on your belt next to combat knives and a double set of flash grenades, rope and hook kept snug with extra ammunition in a small bag over your shoulder. Your pièce de résistance? A sleek bolt-action rifle with an equally sleek aluminum scope slung on your back. Of course you were capable of handling yourself in a fight, but when given the option between dodging bullets up close or picking someone off from afar, you'd always take the latter. It always helped that she handled cleanly.

It also helped you weren't new to this. Though sneaking around Umbrella facilities hadn't yet become second-nature, you had enough experience as to not fool yourself into thinking it would ever be easy. You'd been hunted by B.O.W's, other agents, the works-- all for far less than entire samples. If documents caused such a stir, you couldn't imagine what a virus might start.

An entire virus...

The further you drag yourself towards the city's center, the further you let your mind wander. A virus had already caused all of... *this.* You knew what you were supplying and to who, always have. However, the silence stretching football fields worth of once bustling buildings was so deeply unfamiliar to your usual assignments. BSAA were violent, often deeply selfish people hiding behind a mask of organization, and B.O.W's were no longer people at all. You didn't mind... "dispatching," these things. A total absence of life, though, just made you uncomfortable. It tugged you out of your contented disconnect from the reality at hand.

What you did could do this, you thought, staring up at the remains of the orphanage. You could hardly even call it remains. Only the gates stayed standing tall, still welcoming you inside years after any children had stopped coming. You stepped through them, like a portal to another world, and--

A bullet whizzes past your ear.

Jumping for cover behind the gate walls, a barrage of gunfire suddenly pounds against the other side, familiar bootsteps stomping away from afar. You can already hear them talking amongst themselves; if they didn't do that, you could hear all of their equipment clanging against them instead. You imagined the BSAA to be aiming right at you, now.

"Contact forward. Engaging. Spread out."

More steps began to close in on your concrete refuge, rifles drawn and ready to kill you without a second thought. Once again disconnected from the world around you, you only waited to strike, flash grenade tugged off your belt and clutched in your hand. Exhales held your count.

1... 2... 3.

The grenade launched into the middle of their formation, having not even gone off yet when you began climbing over the gate walls with exercised precision. You dropped onto the other side, desperately sprinting past the agents who quickly turned to take aim. Looking away, you only waited for the flashbang to explode before their trigger fingers activated. You squeezed your eyes shut, one hand on your pistol as a last resort.

It did. You couldn't hear anything, anymore.

You nearly trip, the blast deafening you, but more importantly the soldiers. Even through closed eyes and no facial contact, the blinding light still gave you an instant migraine. Your whole world was ringing and shining with disoriented light, but you couldn't stop running, not when the chance to slip past was right here. The agents cursed, spinning in place and trying not to clutch their helmets in pain.

"Target behind! Target behind! Fucking flash!"

Your feet carried you faithfully through the tunnel ahead, your rifle slamming against your back with every frenzied step. Something behind you fires, fires, then stops, with a sickening *crunch* you can hear even through the now thankfully dulling ringing in your ears. What the fuck? Was there friendly fire? As you drop down to the subway tunnel below, there's more yelling, more shooting, more *cracking.*

Then, there's nothing.

You rub your eyes, never stopping your crash course below the orphanage. You were supposed to remember this for later, weren't you? Forcing open a valved door with all your might, you come to what might be the largest ravine you've ever seen; a giant, empty chasm consuming what could almost be the length of Raccoon City, stretching below you and beckoning you down with its call of the void. When you stare down into it, you're forced to remember the full extent of what you're here for.

With nothing sounding out behind you, you allow yourself at least to breathe again, your heartbeat calming as you click on your earpiece,

"I think I've found what we're looking for. Prepare imminent extraction over target area. I've got a good idea of what we're dealing with now."

"You think? Or you know?" Your handler questions, the only things keeping you from lunging at them being distance and the backpack you're currently emptying.

"I *know,*" you hiss, tying and digging your hook deep into the ground in preparation for your rappel downwards, "it's not rocket science. You can't miss it, it's a canyon. I'm heading down now-- I scout it out, climb back up, and the heli will be here by the time I'm done. Are you going to send them out or not?"

On the other end, your handler sighs.

"Preparing for extraction. Estimated arrival in 30 minutes. Don't be late."

You shake your head. You wish a company less frustrating would have hired you instead. Peering down into the depths, you wrap your fingers around the rope, legs clenching so hard you thought you might give yourself a cramp. You didn't even notice the slow, quiet bootsteps approaching over the sound of rocks crunching and tumbling down into nothingness below your dangling body. No, you didn't notice a thing.

Cold metal presses against your forehead, the hammer clicking back as your eyes shoot up to meet your assailant's.

Well, they would, if you could see his.

An equally cold (and equally metal) visor stares back at you, tilted with curiosity that still manages to ooze through the simple lenses. Forcing the gun further against your skin, your head leans back to accommodate newfound pressure. Fuck. If you weren't just hanging here...

"And who might you be?" The man asks, much softer than you ever expected of him. He sounds deep, smooth, like what the flavor profile of an old whiskey might sound like through a gramophone, "You're not uniformed. A bit lost, don't you think so?"

Your brows furrow. He may sound smooth, but he looks far from it. Cracks and lesions litter his old skin, the scar on his chest in particular staring you right in the face from your spot far below him. Your hands white-knuckle the rope.

30 more minutes. That was all you needed.

"Am I? I wasn't sure." You reply, the grotesque man above you only chuckling and tilting his gun. There's blood on his coat, you finally notice; otherwise luxury snakeskin splattered with fresh gore and dirt. It somehow looks like part of his outfit.

"Oh, aren't you funny," he deadpans, "you caused quite a stir back there. I'm sure you haven't forgotten. Not to worry, though, I... took care of it for you. Nuisances, they are."

Your arms and legs shake. The pressure of trying to hold yourself up and steady is starting to become too much. Unknown to you, the man's eyebrow raises.

"How nice of you," you spit, breath heavy on your tongue. Your own blood tastes sharp inside your nose.

"That's no way to say thank you."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You just need more time. You just need to find a ledge, or somewhere to place your feet, or something-- but when you glance down against the wall, all that remains is fragile slate, breaking into pieces when you make contact with it. Your shoulders are burning, your rifle wanting desperately to drag you down into gravity's path.

The man snickers through his nose, a deep laugh that reverberates through his throat and stomach to reach you. He's pocketed his gun, utterly taken with watching you struggle; imagining the feeling between your palms, rope burning away your delicate skin. Maybe your hands would look like his after this. If you lived, anyway. He doesn't mind either way.

"I'm still not hearing one. That's hardly how you treat a stranger."

You scowl, choked gasps of pain leaving your throat as the rope gradually slips from your hands. You can't hold it anymore. Your eyes are wide, imagining your fate when you inevitably plummet to the bottom; would something impale you? Or would you just splatter against the rocks like smashed berries? The rope slips again, again, again, and--

"Thank you! Thank you, thank you for the--"

Grabbed tightly by the throat, you're cut off from speaking. You didn't realize how huge his hands were until now, only one wrapping around your whole neck and constricting your airways as he pulls you back onto the ledge. He holds you in front of himself for a moment, amused with your harsh eye contact. Very feisty...

You gasp for air, dropped onto your feet with a thud. A hand clamors for your pistol, but the man shuts that down as fast as it began, his revolver back to your skull in an instant as he tuts. It feels like you swallowed a pill that was too large, lodged in your throat with a dull ache that permeates every movement of the muscle.

"Ah, ah. I thought we were starting to get along," He frowns, clearly exaggerating.

"Who are you?" You glare, rubbing your neck. Your eyes catch the glimmering rings around his fingers, the way his snakeskin coat shines in the sunlight, and, when he smiles-- glittering gold teeth, slick with spit, gilded and grinning at *you.*

"Forgive me for not giving a proper introduction. How frightening that must be, hm?" He bows down, one hand flourishing to his front in a dramatic gesture, "Dr. Victor Gideon. And I presume you are...?"

You briefly consider your options. You have... very little. At the same time, sharing your name somehow doesn't seem *so* bad. If he wants to know your name, then it probably means he isn't going to blow your head off where you stand. Probably.

When it leaves your lips, he-- Victor-- nods slightly, his smile never leaving his face. He's all too pleased to repeat it under his breath, annunciated like he's learning how to speak for the first time again. His gun slowly lowers, a tilt of his head silently asking if you're going to *behave.*

You are. Even if you don't quite know why.

"Why'd you do that?" You dust yourself off, but it's mostly to distract you from his towering form.

"Do what, my dear?"

The pet-name makes you jump, but no negative feelings attach themselves to it, "Those soldiers. Me, on the cliff. What do you get out of this?"

"Shouldn't I be asking the questions, still? You never answered me before. I'll tell you, I do hate liars."

Is the mission technically compromised if you tell him? The name is so disgustingly familiar, but you really can't place where you've heard it before. You'll ask about it when extraction gets here, you think. Their database is so vast...

"I'm not sure I'm supposed to tell you that. A bit top secret, yeah?" You laugh. Victor laughs too. You feel it drumming in your heart.

"I have a feeling I'm already aware of it," he folds his hands behind his back, circling you like a predator closing in, "and I, unfortunately, have to tell you to turn back."

"Why's that?" You spin your head to meet his gaze as he walks, "That's hardly how you treat a stranger, don't you think?"

He stops, hovering over you, tongue darting out between his teeth. Forked? He doesn't look like any human you've ever seen, but you've certainly never fought a B.O.W with his kind of intelligence. That visor...

Your hand clutches the last remaining flash grenade on your belt.

"No... no, it isn't. But, I must insist. There's nothing for you in there," he motions to the chasm, "but death. And that would just be disappointing for both of us."

"Both of us? You're flattering me," You snicker, hand squeezing tighter. Your muscles twitch, working overtime to make up for nearly collapsing on the rope earlier. The faint sound of helicopter blades catch your ears. You're almost there.

"You seem to be quite the... person of interest."

"So do you."

"Oh, how kind of you."

When the helicopter circles overhead, Victor clicks through another lens on his visor, gun drawn but hanging slack at his side. He only watches you, paying no mind to the chopper.

"Leaving so soon?"

"I'm afraid so."

"I'm not sure I can let you do that, you know," he takes aim, hissing your name, "I would hate to do something like this."

You finally let it loose. You make a mad dash towards the descending helicopter, flashbang dropped behind you with a deafening blast just as you've jumped for the hanging ladder. You cling to it as your lifeline, listening to Victor groan in pain behind you. Your rifle slams against your back, aluminum digging into your shoulder blades. Whatever vision problems you're having because, you're certain his are *much* worse.

You wave at the doctor through your ringing ears, finally being carried out of Raccoon City to report everything you've learned about Elpis' supposed location. You didn't have to tell them you couldn't make it down.

"I'll see you later, Dr. Gideon!" You shout, smiling despite your headache.

One hand presses against his visor as he keels over, the other pointing up at the chopper and firing, but...

Nothing comes out. The gun was never loaded. Victor smiles to himself.

"Yes... I suppose you will."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

The last time you saw him was in Raccoon City.

Today was meant to be *the* day, your real operation, your *real* mission. Today was the day they dropped you off back at that chasm, watching you rappel down into nothing to, presumably, retrieve their sample. You never did tell them about much of anything that happened that day (besides the BSAA, of which you were sure to chastise them about for not telling you sooner). You lied through your teeth about your experience down in the canyon, weaving a not-so-tall tale about a hidden laboratory that kept their precious virus from the world. When it came to Victor, saying he was infected as a result of the laboratory seemed to placate them, no matter how farfetched it may or may not have sounded. Your insistence that you were only distracting him while waiting for extraction made them stop asking about it.

Sitting in a helicopter far above the city, you waited, watching with your head in your palm. You really hadn't stopped thinking about Victor. You'd brought the name up to your employers like you wanted, saying he'd had a name-tag on him that you glimpsed when being attacked, but they seemed more shocked than you imagined. Something about a recently attacked care center, that his infection in Raccoon City must've been in relation to that, or...

You kind of stopped listening. You grasped that he was ex-Umbrella, a respected scientist and virologist, and that was it. His presence at the chasm felt much clearer to you, now, but you didn't need to know much else. You were both fighting over the same sample.

But why hadn't he gotten it if he'd been down there already? You chewed on your lip, staring at the ruins of the city below you. If Victor hadn't retrieved the sample... did it even exist? Were you even in the right place, actually? Your employers knew about as much about this hidden lab as you did. Were you being sent into a death trap for nothing? Is that what Victor meant, back when he said he had to stop you?

A black dot zipping across the city grounds pulls you from your thoughts. You squint, attempting to track it bare-eyed with little success. Pulling your rifle from your back, you sit the butt against your shoulder and aim down your sights, your scope showing you a much, much clearer view;

"Jesus, Victor. What the hell are you doing?"

The mad doctor revs his motorcycle, riding across the debris like it's nothing but regular road. You watch him aim back and fire at... someone, but as for who, you're not sure. Changing position, you look further back, at his victim this time.

Some random guy, you think. He's got a motorcycle, too, and he's firing away with just as much vigor as Victor is. Huge, grotesque dog-like creatures emerge like living dead from the rubble to take chase, you assume at the doctor's behest, and you wait to watch the man get turned into puppy chow.

Instead, he merely puts the animals down like he's done it a thousand times before. Their corpses fall and stumble against the road, skidding to a stop with trails of blood spotting the dusty concrete beneath them. He's really gaining on Victor, you think.

Fuck.

"Steady the helicopter," You yell into your earpiece, desperate to be heard over the screaming of the blades.

Your handler answers back, monotone, "Why?"

"I'm already getting your sample. Listen to me and steady the helicopter."

Their tone is edged with anger, trying to slice deep enough to where you'll give up. Watching Victor through your scope, you don't. "We don't have time for these games, the priority is--"

"The priority is me, because I'm the one retrieving your goddamn sample. Now steady the chopper, I swear to god, or I'll steady it myself."

The handler doesn't respond. You're prepared to yell through the earpiece again, readying your voice for maximum volume until you notice the helicopter coming to a slow stop in the air.

"You better hurry up whatever you're doing."

"Hurry up, my ass," you mutter, scoped in on the man behind Victor, "you look lost."

You fire, the shot hitting the bike's frame and making the man wobble. You'd need much more than that, you think, looking at the path laid out ahead of him with a grin on your face. You remember Victor's golden teeth smiling back at you. Yes, you had the perfect idea.

Aiming for the most delicate part of the building ahead's remaining infrastructure, you fire again, the concrete giving way after 28 years of pressure and collapsing in front of the man in a heap. He squeals to a halt, taking a hard turn around to an alternate route, and you nearly growl behind the gun in frustration. He could be determined, but you were more so, and for reasons you didn't even know.

If he was chasing Victor, then he had to have known about Elpis too, right? Realistically, you're just helping to eliminate a mutual threat. Yes, you think to yourself. A mutual threat. Victor's dark laugh echos in your mind at that, at you or with you, you can't tell.

You look even further ahead of him. Even more debris, heavier too-- piles upon piles of metal rebar and rubble all being held up by the world's weakest supports-- you felt like you were being blessed by an angel. This had to hold him back for longer, didn't it? At least, enough for Victor to get his wits about him?

You fire once. A miss. Reloading, you fire again. The supports crack, but refuse to give in. As the man approaches, sweat drips down your cheek, quickly blown away by the chopper's winds. You fire one more time.

It's a hit. The supports fall apart under the pressure, rebar nearly staking the man to the ground. He brakes just before he would've been crushed by a particularly large sheet of concrete, circling around to avoid further collapsing rubble and to, presumably, find another way around again. He circles back a few times, no obvious trail sticking out, and you can only keep smiling.

Your scope is back on Victor, far ahead by now thanks to your intervention. He pauses, resting on his bike with the kickstand out, visor clicking a lens over to watch *you,* now, from the ground below. He's smiling, too, those beautiful teeth you remembered still shining in the sun above you both.

Your handler cuts through, "Are you done?"

Are you? You back off the scope, looking around the helicopter. When your eyes lock onto *that* case, you know immediately that no, you aren't.

"Lower the chopper."

"You're fucking kidding me. We don't have anymore time to--"

"5 minutes max. Lower it, over that highway."

You only hear a sigh come through before the helicopter begins to descend. Victor's features only become clearer and clearer, every unique texture of his outfit and body becoming easily identifiable. You wished you had time to really *feel* them, but that was how the job was. Go in, grab, leave, get rid of what you grabbed. You assumed his was the same.

He waved up at you, shaking his head in slight disbelief, "So it's you again." Your name leaves his mouth, a certain fondness cradling it as it enters open air.

"So it is. I told you I'd see you later, didn't I?"

Victor nods, "That you did. You're quite a help."

"I can't stay long," you yell, dragging a heavy case out to the side of the helicopter, "but I've got something for you. Call it a little present."

"Oh, really now?"

"Hey, I didn't hear a thank you."

Victor *laughs,* really laughs, not like any chuckle or snicker or held-back half-laugh he did before. It's a real laugh, open mouth and uncontrollable and you've already catalogued it in its own file away in your mind. When he finally stops, grin stretching ear to ear, he answers you earnestly;

"Thank you."

You toss the case down, the heavy material clattering at his feet with a bang. Your handler is back, again. Your heart wants to sink, but his laugh makes it swim. He doesn't even look at what you threw him; he just keeps looking at you.

"No more fucking around, we have to go."

With a final glance at Victor, you nod, taking a seat back in the helicopter, "Fine. Continue the route."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Heavily amused, Victor watches you depart, only looking at the case once you're out of earshot and nothing more than a little black dot, just like you once saw him. He clicks open the latches, large hands lifting the top to reveal...

You, unfortunately, aren't here to hear his laugh this time. The sight of two rocket launchers, sat neatly in carefully molded places, just makes him burst.

You weren't sure what was *wrong* with you. Nobody did.

Well, that wasn't entirely true.

You were sick, unbearably so, trapped in a slightly-too-hard bed with slightly-too-painful needles and tubes plastering your arms from the wrist up. Nausea plagued your mind from the minute you woke up to the minute you went to sleep-- if you could manage that. You couldn't even chew your own food, let alone swallow it without immediate reflux; a feeding tube had been administered through your stomach to supplement you instead.

This wasn't even a hospital. It felt weird being holed up in a sanatorium of all places instead of an emergency room, but your initial fears were quieted as fast as they were spoken, your husband's voice trying to reassure you over the beeps of the heart monitor he'd rolled in. He'd insisted on monitoring you himself, that if those quacks at the clinic couldn't figure out what was wrong with you, they'd only make things worse dosing you with medications willy-nilly.

You loved Victor. Deeply. More than life itself, you'd say. So, when he'd pushed for in-job care at his own burden, you couldn't just refuse. You let him prod at you with a variety of medical instruments you didn't have the knowledge to name, blood draw after blood draw coming up with inconclusive results, frustration staining his face over every passing month. Another month wasted, he'd think. You never thought like that, though.

You'd had a morbid, but shockingly calm thought. The thought that you were going to die soon. As your body continued to fall apart, you never blamed him for wasting your months or for filling your days with miserable medical drivel; you thought of them as the highlights of your now limited time, hours spent with your husband trying desperately to bring you back from the brink. Few men cared that much. You held his face between your hands once, thinking that you were so, so lucky to have ever had somebody to try for you, that you were so, so lucky to have had him in this life. You never said this out loud. You didn't want to upset him with the idea of your own mortality.

It filled you with a guilt that sunk your lungs down to your legs. You heard patients in nearby rooms screaming, crying without control of their emotions, and you simply covered your head with your pillow. All this attention on you, there was no way Victor was doing his actual job here at the care center. Every time you needed something, it was Victor at your beck and call to get you water or help you to the bathroom. These people had potential lives ahead of them being put on pause, all for... you. You, who was going to die.

You recognized the look in his eyes when he sat by your bedside, analyzing your most recent results with bated breath. It was the same look he had when you'd met him for the first time. He knew something. Knew he loved you back then. Knew what was wrong with you now. And he wouldn't say a single word of it.

You squeezed his hand, voice light and croaked like feathers covered in tar, "Victor? ...What's the matter?"

He cleared his throat. Whether or not he could tell you were feigning ignorance, he didn't say. He ran his palm up your arm, gently reaching under any exposed tubes.

"Inconclusive," he muttered through clenched teeth, though his fixed gaze at the papers told you otherwise, "again. My dear, I'm..."

His voice was so gentle. Your eyes wet, trying to sit yourself up to comfort him in whatever he'd found out. You couldn't even be mad at him for not telling you. Why would he? What would you gain from him saying don't have much time left? Especially when you'd already known it; you, who was going to die.

He places a hand on your shoulder to keep you firm against the pillow, shaking his head.

"No, don't move too much. You might pull something. Your I.V."

You smile weakly, "Victor. Please. You can tell me what's going on, I promise," your fingers reach to grace his cheek, "nothing can scare me. I just want you to be honest. Did you... see, something?"

He remains stoic, the only movement being his eyes darting from his papers, to you, to his papers again. Your hand cups his face, cradling his chin to face you like a man. Green eyes meet yours, and the collapse is instant. Like a sinking ship, Victor's large frame engulfs yours entirely, strong arms squeezing you as tight as he thought you could handle (which wasn't very tight at all) as sobs wracked his body. You smoothed your hands down his dirtied labcoat and felt every strangled gasp of air he struggled to take in. The guilt sunk you further, past your legs now-- likely through the floor. Tears gathered in a puddle at your collarbone.

Through the floor, into the crust of the Earth itself; that's where your guilt was dragging you. Did your subconscious mind need to give you a taste of what 6 feet under would feel like soon? You could only stroke his back, quiet apologies leaving your lips, though never reaching his ears. Something disgusting wormed its way into your brain, regret soon joining the shame deep down in the grave you'd dug for all three of you. Had another morbid thought cracked your cognizance?

You were going to die, and Victor was going to see it happen. That wasn't the thought, though. Running his greying hair through your weakened fingertips, you began to wish for things you didn't really mean. You'd thought you wished you'd never met him in the first place. Bile bubbled in the bottom of your throat. He'd expended every resource he had, every penny available, demanded the most out of everything but *you.* He *needed* to save you. The idea of not being able to satisfy him with something as simple as that because it's you-- you, who was going to die-- you wanted to spill your guts right here in his arms. At least then, you'd afford him the comfort of trying to piece you back together.

His head left your neck, pale complexion an abnormal shade of pink and red around his eyes. His blood vessels must have burst. The tubes in your arms stung like fire with the unfamiliar movement, and the electrode stickers plastered across your chest pulled your skin tight as the wires on them constricted. You winced. It was hardly the worst pain you'd been in today. The low-dose morphine pumping through you never seemed to do anything.

"I'm sorry. I'm..." Victor sighed, trailing off. He shut his eyes and tapped his foot, swallowed hard and grabbed his coat tight at the chest, the concept of soothing escaping him, "I did. I lied. I saw it. I saw..."

"Victor..." Your energy for the day was expended, yet you attempted to pathetically squeeze his arm anyway. A breath left you like dead air as your strength fell apart, hand falling to the bed with a soft thud. You cringed.

"No, no, my dear. It's okay. I saw it, I..."

That look in his eyes came back as the silence stretched on. That glint that told you something clicked; he seemed to rapidly un-tense as his sudden realization dawned on him. There was *hope* in him again, if only slightly. You almost wanted him to ignore it. Not almost-- you did want him to ignore it. He was making everything so much harder on himself. You couldn't bare to see your husband like this anymore, as equal as he couldn't bare to see you like *this* anymore.

"Yes. I saw it. I see it. I *see* it."

He stood, head darting around the room. Bootsteps paced near your bed, to the nearby counters, then back to your bed in a frenzy.

"I know it. I know it, I just..."

"Victor?"

Your soft voice makes him pause, the way your brows are pressed together slowing him to a stop next to your various medical monitors and machines. Your heart continued to beat, rate rising on the machine's display. Your morphine continued to pump, the dial turned to allow a low flow. You felt that familiar guilt again, but it wasn't coming from yourself.

"It'll be so quick. I'll be so fast, my dear, I promise. I need you to not be scared. Can you do that?"

"What? Victor, what are you talking abo--"

He lowers his head, his voice growing increasingly desperate, exacerbated by the rapid beeping of your heart through the electronic filter. Your own confusion overwhelms you with the bright lights and sounds of your bed-bound prison.

"Nothing can scare you. You said that. I need that, my dear. Can you do that for me? Can you do that?"

You open your lips to speak, but nothing comes out.

"Please."

Was it the least you could do? You wanted him to accept things as they were, to stop fighting God and to let you live your last months in your husband's arms, but...

That disgusting thought came back again. If you'd never met him, this distress would fade into make-believe. He would be your happy, gentle, eccentric Victor again. Just not *your* Victor. And you wouldn't know who he was, anyways. It was so stupid. Your mind could be so, so stupid.

If you couldn't afford him the pleasure of saving you, you could at least let him keep trying. If that hope is all he has until your final breath, who are you to take that away?

You nod, his intentions still unknown to you, "Okay. Okay."

Relief floods his face, and as sudden as you'd made your decision, he cranks the dial on your morphine to the highest flow. Your breathing wants to pick up in panic, but it doesn't have the physical strength to do so. You'd thought you were ready to go, but Victor being the one to head it somehow made you sick. You wanted a peaceful exit, him laying next to you as you dreamed through your last memories together; your final memory of him was going to be him murdering you?

Your clammy skin twitches against the bedsheets as you fight for your remaining consciousness. Nothing moves. You kick and scream and flail, but nothing moves. Your lips beg him to wait, that you're sorry, that you weren't ready yet and that you know he just wanted to help, but nothing moves.

You are you, who is going to die.

It isn't as bad as you thought it would be.

It's plain. Nothing. It's what you'd see if you asked a blind man what his vision was like. You try to reach into the void in front of you, but nothing moves. Your body doesn't exist anymore, only a fleeting feeling flowing through space and time, molecules preparing their imminent reuse in the atmosphere. For the first time in years, you didn't feel sick anymore. You didn't know what sick meant. You weren't sure who You were. Nothing moves.

Nothing moves.

Nothing moves.

Nothing moves.

Something moves.

Something sharp shoots up through Everything, a feeling you'd long forgotten the word for ages ago ripping its way into the heart of your paradisal Nothing. Something wriggles and writhes and latches onto Everything like a sick disease. Your Nothing is falling apart the more it gnaws and bites and tightens and you feel what you remember is your body being pulled closer into its grasp. The Something crawls its way up your spine, every step up your vertebrae making you retch, Nothing spasming in open air. Your head feels like it's going to explode.

Something whispers in your ear. You were you, who was supposed to die.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You shoot up, a gasp of air filling your lungs, hands rushing to feel out your surroundings. What the fuck happened? The tubes are gone, the stickers are gone, even the machines are gone; it's as if the room was cleared for a move, and the only things they forgot were you and your bed. You blink rapidly to clear your vision. You're still so... sore. You still feel disgusting. Sick. You want to sleep forever. You miss when nothing moved.

A figure across the room steps closer, cautiously, if you were interpreting their slow approach correctly. When your eyes finally clear (were they always this bad?), you almost scream. Almost. Your tongue feels foreign in your mouth, so what leaves your lips is more of a choked gargle.

Victor-- you assume that's who this thing used to be-- stares you down with newly dark eyes, arms open and reaching out for you. You don't pay attention to his affection, only to the scar peeling down his middle. It didn't look fresh, but how long could you have possibly been out? His grey skin is unrecognizable compared to the man you used to know, deep, scaly cracks lining his cheeks and staining his hands. You couldn't imagine holding either of those things now.

"My dear, oh, my dear, it worked-- I told you, I knew it, I saw it, I heard it--"

"Who the fuck are you?" You hissed, bristling at his attempt at contact. You were good at feigning ignorance, weren't you?

Victor only chuckled, placing a hand over his heart, "It's a jarring change, I know. But I... I fixed everything. We, us alone, we're some of the first to undergo this process. It's exactly as I imagined it would be."

You glance down at your body. You forgot you had one again. Maybe you don't remember what you looked like before, but you know it wasn't this. Similar splits in your hands gave way to black flesh underneath, dark veins like heroin shooting up the entirety of your arms. You reach to touch your face and reel back in terror once you feel the leathery skin under your roughened fingertips. The tongue sliding and sloshing around your mouth almost feels like a separate being from you; its two forked sides fighting themselves amongst bitter saliva.

It's only when you touch your own chest, mirroring Victor, that your breath begins to pick up again. Had you been breathing at all? Did you have to? You'd been torn open from lip to stomach, necrotic black rot spreading across your midsection, and you didn't feel a thing. Just sore. Just sick.

"I fixed... everything. My dear, you know I hate keeping things from you. Come here. Please," Victor reaches for you again, "I can finally, finally, tell you *everything.*"

You miss when nothing moved. You want to sleep forever. The fear you felt when that dial turned; it was nothing compared to the warmth that rushed in after. No, that wasn't right. It was Everything compared to Nothing. More like Something. You want to sleep forever.

You slap his hand away with shocking force, the thing that used to be your husband recoiling backwards up against the counters. Confusion rushes across his face in waves, and you do remember something. Yes, your final memory together. You felt like that when he was killing you.

You don't say anything, his words grating against your skull and rattling your ringing ears. When you dart your tongue out, you taste the desperation on his skin. Fear. You breathe it in in waves, swallowing the flavor deep in your gut. You'd already afforded him the pleasure of saving you. He'd kept his hope, all the way until your final breath. That was all you owed him. You were not someone to go back on your words so suddenly. No, that wasn't you at all.

You rush out of the room, your heavy footsteps loud against the ceramic tiles lining Rhodes Hill. You'd never been this fast before. You felt like you were floating again, if only briefly, before Victor's curse damned you back to reality. Despite no urge to vomit, nausea overwhelmed you. You keep running. You don't care what he did. You know it wasn't natural. You know you aren't you.

You keep running.

You think you heard Victor behind you. You aren't sure.

You keep running.

The forest surrounding the facility takes you in, foliage hiding your dark scales, branches breaking under your weight. You remember weightlessness.

You keep running.

You keep running.

You stop.

Nothing moves.