“There is something at work in my soul, which I do not understand.”
― Mary Shelley, Frankenstein | jason todd x f!reader
Chapter 1:
“Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?” ― John Milton, Paradise Lost
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★word count: 5.2k
The tears of angels do not console the broken heart of one who has lost.
Especially not on a day as bitter as this, as Lord Wayne buried his second son's body, lost far too soon, far too easily. Surrounded by much too many people for his - and for his lost son's - liking, their ongoing pitiful sorrows only reminding him how young his sweet son was, succumbing to harrowing injuries in his arms.
Lord Wayne - or, Bruce, for we will be dearer friends with him, won't we - lived in the oft peaceful countryside. Surrounded by beautifully green pastures, ongoing moors (as far as the eye could see) and tall, imposing manor houses, housing only the finest and best of the country. Within his own household, however, was never the cold, bitterness one could expect from such… fine people. No, Bruce lived with his two sons, Richard and Jason, their butler, Alfred (who, really, was more family than house help) and the manor staff. Rarely was there a quiet day at the Wayne's Manor, but for today's horrifically silent walls.
Jason Peter Todd had been graciously adopted into the Wayne household, just as Richard Grayson had been, forever stirring rumours of Lord Wayne and his secret lovers. He had been loved, doted on and cared for dearly, not just by Bruce, but by his dear older brother, Alfred and (for the most part) everyone who had met him.
This is not a story of joys. For had Jason Peter Todd-Wayne remained happy - or alive, for that matter - we wouldn't be here, would we? Stuck, in the Heavens' downpour, mourning the loss of a sweet little angel, returned to the stars, nestled in the arms of celestial beings. Attempting awkward small talk, as Lord Way- a father grieved the loss of his son. As a brother grieved the loss of his best friend. As a man, considered almost a grandfather to the children, mourned the loss of the one who'd tip toe, oh so quietly down to sneak treats before breakfast.
So, when Bruce lowered his son's coffin into the ground, he did not cry. He wished he had. He wished he could. But crying didn't erase the image of his sweet angel's battered, decrepit body, scarred and damaged as he lay in his father's arms, who's aching tears, nor begging and pleading with the Gods, could not bring his son back. Nor did it change how every time he closed his eyes, Jason's final breaths echoed in his mind, shallow, scared and weary.
How could such a sweet boy endure so much?
Where Bruce did not cry, Richard wept. Poor, young Richard. His best friend, his partner in crime, who'd sneak out to rooftops with him, was dead. Irreversibly dead, rotting in a wooden box, coated by piles of earth as he wept into the soil that covered him. He was inconsolable, as everyone attempted to pull him back, away from Jason's sweet soul, to let him rest. Yet he continued weeping, sorrows tremoring down his eyes, his face, hitting the already wet soil beneath him.
Even the tears of the Heavens' lessened, allowing him to mourn his loss, until Bruce pulled him up, holding him close.
Alfred, by far, was the worst. It was awfully clear how much the sweet child meant to him, given how he'd attempt to keep himself together. If not for himself then for the family, only to weep quietly in the corner, when he'd thought nobody was looking. Painful, was the word most would use, when looking at this situation, as not a single person could find the words. What does one say? 'He lived a good life' doesn't quite apply, when the mourned soul is snatched so soon from the earthly realm. Nor are comments of the weather appropriate, or memories of the deceased.
Yet it was clear the boy was loved.
It was clear, that Bruce Wayne had loved his son dearly, and it was clear he was a father in mourning first, and everything else latter.
People began to file out, quietly leaving, allowing the family their own time with their son, buried in Saint Lidwina's Church's graveyard. Gotham was quiet today, giving the family time and space, the only extra people remaining being Commissioner Gordon and the priest who had blessed the poor boy's soul, wishing peace upon him. Richard clung desperately to his father, who only absentmindedly stroked his head in return. Was he soothing himself, or his son? Or both?
A single crow, perhaps, is another guest, mournfully cawing as the winds rippled against its feathers, its screams permeating the wind, howling round and lifting bladed leaves. Nature itself had joined in the grief, as the skies only darkened more and more as time passed.
Truly then, it is a shame that not one soul had paid attention to the figure in the distance, grazing across the graves before leaving as not to arouse suspicion.
After what could have been an eternity, the Commissioner led the family away from the grave, towards their carriage, lifting Richard inside, helping Alfred seat himself, and allowing Bruce to sit. As he closed the door, Bruce reached out to his arm, tapping it softly,
"Gordon."
"Lord Way-"
"No formalities lie between us, old friend. Will you see to it, though, that my son's…"
Killer? Torturer? Murderer?
The Commissioner nodded hurriedly, the realisation that young Richard was still in their presence quickly dawning upon them as he rested his hand over Bruce's,
"I will do my utmost best, and more. That wretched fool will be found, one way or another."
Bruce nods, leaning back into the carriage as the Commissioner sat in front, choosing to drive the family back himself, unable to trust another soul with their safety. So whilst outside, all of the Heavens and Hells paused their awful battles to mourn the loss of a sweet innocent, inside the carriage, three exhausted humans' souls suffered as they ached for the fourth. Richard - who'd often play about in the carriage with Jason, teasing each other, staring out into the skies for strangely shaped clouds as their giggles and joys echoed round - now sat in silence, eyes boring out, begging the skies for some answer.
The skies often do not respond to mere mortals, for they have their own concerns and battles to fight. Today, no strange shapes appear themselves to him, and he sighs. Richard's eyes, usually filled with joy, excitement and whimsy, now dull over the clouds, dropping to the passing moors, attempting to distract himself.
Yet all he can think of, is how Jason's laugh would haunt him forever. How he'd never be able to unhear the soft giggles when he looked up at the skies, pointing up at clouds and making funny faces. How he'd never be able to unsee him, throwing his bread rolls at Richard, behind Bruce's back. He'd never rid his mind of the image of his pale, shaking form, begging to let him in at the dead of night, when the Gods' Wrath had scared him past sleep.
The journey back was long, and unkind on everyone (especially when they had no choice but to take a diversion to avoid the puddle that wasn't really a puddle anymore, and more of a deep lake, stretching across the path, mirroring their guilts and anxieties back to them), but eventually, the Manor was reached. The Commissioner escorted all three back inside, never failing to be entirely awestruck by the Manor's imposing exterior, and somehow even more intimidating interior. Externally, as they walked up, the Manor comprised of a beautiful structure, ensnaring visitors simply by how perfectly built it was. Tall glass windows, that would often glimmer back remnants of the sun into the ground, now shook hauntingly, barely trapped in their brick foundation. Speaking of, each and every wall was soaked - coated in thick layers of rain, dribbling down the brickworks and pooling below the stairs. He shuddered, and Bruce waved it off,
"Nothing out of the ordinary, James. The Manor may be old, but she still holds well."
He has no choice but to nod, following the family inside as an attempt to help them. Or was he clearing his conscience? After all, the young child had died on his watch as Commissioner. No one would blame him, paranoid in his attempt to still protect the family.
And upon entering the interior, he only felt sicker. Each wall seemed to remember him. Somehow, he could hear Jason's giggles, chased by Richard, the two tumbling down the stairs to greet him on his visits. He could practically see it, the boys, rushing forwards, chasing after a toy as Bruce gently reprimanded them. His heart ached, as he refused Alfred's offer for tea, suddenly remembering how his wife had expected him home. Naturally, the family understood, guiding the Commissioner back out, bidding him farewell.
For the first time in many a moon, the Manor was devoid of all joy, happiness and jouissance, replaced by a numbingly empty void.
Richard, for one, locked himself in Jason's chambers, refusing to speak for the day, barely allowing Alfred inside to see him, or to bring food. He spent most of the day wrapped in Jason's old blanket, sobbing uncontrollably until his own exhaustion and fatigue brought on his slumber.
Bruce was no better, retreating to his study, pulling out an old drawer of letters he had kept from both sons. Specifically, he spent the afternoon and evening, sorting through each and every letter Jason had written him. He was often out for work, away from the boys and the Manor, and would return to two stacks of letters, piled high with joys, sorrows and fears only childhood can create.
He hadn't realised, that his tears strolled down his face.
Nor that the heart ached slightly less, memories of little Jason, waddling into his room after a particularly harrowing nightmare.
Not until his tear slipped, and spilled onto the last letter. Specifically, the last part of the last letter, slightly smudging the handwriting, that he desperately attempted to save, blotting his tear off with cloth. Fortunately, he had caught it in time, just enough that Jason's final letter was still preserved. He wiped his tears off his face, his eyes trailing back over the letter, over where his tear had almost ruined the last living remnant of his son,
"I love you dearly, Father. You, Grand Alfie, and Richie." — Jason.
And if he wasn't crying before, Lord Wayne most definitely was weeping now, his head lowered to the table as he knelt in front of the desk, tears dropping over various documents.
Not that they mattered. Properties, businesses - what one would oft expect a businessman to busy himself with - no longer mattered.
Lord Bruce Wayne, of Gotham, had suffered the world's greatest loss - one that he'd truly never recover.
As the family mourned, their sweet boy's rotting corpse rested.
Or did he?
The moon did not shine her light tonight, her blessings empty over the skies as she hid pitifully, behind warring clouds and treacherous skies. Clouds circled, their winds howling as they spun, their wrath unforgiving and unrelenting. A crow - perhaps the very same from before - landed across his gravestone, as though he were awaiting something… or someone. Sharp, bladed leaves billowed round, as rumbles of thunder echoed through the ground, shattering the weak bones of old bodies. Though rainfall rarely stopped in Gotham, tonight it was particularly hellbent, as though attempting to mask some.. sort of conspiracy from occurring.
Yet all seemed to quieten, just a little bit, as a shadowy figure sauntered towards a.. newer grave.
Oh dear, Jason Peter Todd. Had the poor boy not suffered enough? Beaten, black and blue until his father barely recognised him, coated in scars and injuries few could even imagine surviving, let alone coping with, holding on long enough with faith.
This world, is cruel, and very rarely cares for the sweet innocent's wants and needs. Not even if the sweet innocent has passed, moved on, to be welcomed by heavenly bodies, can his soul rest, as the Shadow'd One dug his grave, lifting the coffin and pulling the body out from within.
A pungently rotten smell permeated the air, mixed with fresh soil, and sweet rain, infiltrating its nose, as it beckoned others towards it, holding his body out to them. The others tilt their heads, as it sighs, finally opening its mouth, revealing only a horrid set of teeth, barely visible under the darkened skies, a hoarse voice just about whispering out of its throat, the intonation incorrect - as though it had just learnt to speak,
"T..en and..uuuuhhhh….. t….eeennnnuuuuh yeeeee… aaaaarz. Lhe… ss tha… hn th'Maey… su.. ter rey… quee…. red. He weeei… ll soof… ice.." (And for those not well versed in such speak, allow me to translate - 'Ten and ten years. Less than the Master requested. He will suffice.'. Translate, I can, but meaning? Nay, I have less than you, my dear reader.)
Of the 'Others', two step forward to take the body, bundling him into cloth and wrapping him round, tying at various points with ropes. The other two help the original Shadow'd One recover the grave, throwing an old body (which, between us, we can both imagine to be some innocent soul who crossed their evil path) into the grave, and refilling with the very soil that once laid him to rest.
This, dear reader, is how Jason Peter Todd's body was immediately desecrated, robbed, in the dead of night, without a soul present to object.
Once satisfied with the state of the grave, Jason Todd's body was carried, far from his dear home, where at least he could have visitors, or rest with ease. No, now it lay in a barely put together carriage, smuggled away from Gotham.
Richard woke up screaming, his arms reaching out as he howled out, tears once again forming in his eyes as his memories haunted him.
"Richard? Richard! What happened, are you-"
"I'm fine, I'm… I'm fine.. Father, I.."
"…"
Bruce knew his childre-. Apologies - his child, well enough to know when one sought his comfort. He called for Alfred (who had been just round the corner, as it was), instructing him to prepare a gentle tea for the boy, before sitting with him, letting him curl up against him as he held him in Ja-
Jason's chambers.
He hadn't realised, that these were his chambers. His very essence, still lingering and haunting the room. Bruce looked down at Richard (and it is now a good idea to inform you, dear reader, that though Richard was of twenty four years, in his dear father's eyes, he was no more than the sweet small child he had once taken in), his shaking form as he clung to Bruce's night shirt, and carefully picked up Jason's old blanket, wrapping it around him.
"Richard… my sweet son… I.."
Yet neither father nor son could find the correct words, to console one another. There they sat, the two of them curled up in grief, as Alfred perched on the side of the bed, two cups in a tray with him,
"Now, I must implore the both of you to finish these fully, hmm? Here, Master Grayson, with your favourite biscuits, and Master Wayne, for you."
Neither one spoke, but silently took their cups, quietly sipping their teas, minds calming ever so slightly as they did. Each sip felt like a burden eased, a weight slightly lifted from their chest, and a warmth enveloping their hearts. The full weight of their burdensome grief would not lift so easily - Alfred knew that - but at the very least, the two should allow themselves rest.
Richard succumbed to sleep first, with Bruce taking his cup and returning it to the tray as the younger man lay his weary head, fatigue quickly taking over. Bruce's hand rested over his eyes, lowering his eyelids and finishing his own cup, weight yet to be eased.
He knows better than to think a cup of tea would fix him. But it's not that which he seeks. Unfortunately, he also knows that what he seeks is impossible.
Lord Bruce Wayne, of Gotham, was no stranger to loss, nor sacrifice, nor the pains and struggles of life. Common knowledge, around these parts, was his story, how he had lost his parents in a horrific struggle, at the young, precious age of eight and secluded himself to his Manor, unseen by the public. Many years had passed between his parents' passing and his returning to Gotham's social life - to the point that many had begun to suspect his own untimely passing.
So why did it hurt, still? Why did his heart pour open, bleeding across his chest as he ached and mourned? Surely a man created in grief would handle grief better than this, no?
Bruce had long forgotten that he too, was human, and to be human is to love wholly, and grieve deeply, painfully, and to allow yourself to feel.
Alfred plucked the cup from Bruce's hands, as he lay down to sleep too, exhaustion finally overcoming the man. He draped the blanket over the two, before stepping back, a sigh unknowingly releasing itself from his throat. Had it been any other day, time or year, perhaps this would've been a much sweeter moment. He shook his head, carrying the tray back down to the kitchen, and providing the staff with their final orders of the evening - final cleaning and preparation for the next morning - before retiring to bed himself.
His routine for bed was simple. To wash was first, then he'd methodically change into his nightwear, attend to his teeth, his face and finally, rest his head.
Tonight was different, as his eyes lingered over his beside table, fit with drawers. He finds himself tugging open the lower drawer, unwrapping old drawings Jason had gifted him. Portraits of him, of Bruce, Richard and Jason, various land studies from his time sat in the gardens. All sorts of different pieces, each one kept safely in his drawer. He sighs again, shaking his head as he places them back in their resting place, snuffing the candle as he lay in bed.
Sleep did not come as easy for him, not when Jason plagued his dreams.
Speaking of, the Others had finally made it to the harbour. Truly, it was the Waynes' own misfortune that they lived so close, the sea within two hours of Old Gotham. Two of the Others carried the body again, this time bundled into a chest, claiming 'precious cargo'. As they moved to board the Oceanids, hired help did very almost search their chest, were it not for the Shadow'd One slipping gold coins into each man's pockets, perhaps their precious cargo would've been lost.
For their own sakes, at least, it was a good thing that hadn't happened.
Aboard the ship, the chest was bundled into their quarters, shoved under various luggages and general items, so as to deter any wandering persons from exploring. It took around six and a bit days to reach Oslo, from Portsmouth, England, and then a further month's travel from Oslo to their Master's residence in Marstrand, given they had to travel slow, in order to raise less suspicion.
The Shadow'd One took rest first, as the Others sat still - unblinking, unmoving. If one were to walk into this scene, perhaps they'd walk right out, immediately shocked by the strangeness of their behaviours. Perhaps they'd stand confused, unsure of what to make of such a situation, before quickly returning to their own quarters and avoiding that area of the ship in its entirety for the remainder of their journey.
It was not the concern of the Shadow'd One nor the Others, what people would do upon seeing them. Their primary (and only) concern was the transport of precious cargo to their dear (terrifying) Master, who of course, would reward them well (their deaths would be prolonged, long enough to be grateful, naturally). Which was more than what could be said for most of their Master's servants.
Praise be then, to their oh, so kind Master, for graciously allowing them to live.
As for the Shadow'd One, under the pale candlelight - barely gracing their dull quarters with its presence - one could just about see its ever glowing eyes, unclosing even in slumber. 'Twas a strange creature, standing about eight feet tall, shrouded in a long cloak and layers of mystery. None dared to approach such a hulking mass, which only further helped their cause. Perhaps this creature had a tale of its own, to be told. Perhaps it was conflicted, twisted and depraved. But where one could barely see its eyes, how could one tell of its soul?
So whilst the ship slowly sailed, bobbing across the sea with a steady pace, the Others kept guard as the Shadow'd One rested. Every four hours, one of the Others rose, filling a syringe with an unpleasantly unsettling green liquid and flicking off the excess before approaching the Shadow'd One. It spreads an arm out, allowing the Other to inject it with the substance. As the Other pulls the syringe away, a small splodge of green oozes back out of the wound, simmering slightly before drying down onto patchy skin, before the Shadow'd One covers its skin again.
Clearly, the creature needed this to live. Neither the Others nor the Shadow'd One rose for food, nor did they seek out water, relying on such strange sustenance to survive. By day three, the ship's crew had gotten suspicious of the group, sending down the ship's bosun to check exactly what was happening.
The Shadow'd One awoke to three polite knocks and a voice,
"Sire? Does you require food? Drink?"
Yet it did not open the door, speaking through the boundary,
"Uhn…..ayeed…yed,… we…. buhr…ayuu…. ngggg…. aw…. uhn…"
(Translation, for you: 'Unneeded, we bring own.' Of course, we know this is not the case. Well, the unneeded is true, but how one could call such a thing… food, is beyond me.)
The bosun's face contorts, confused before he shakes his head, sighing. The chest they brought, or the various bags upon them must've carried their own food, of course,
"Understood. Tell us, if'ya needs it."
Perhaps, if those hearing the bosun's voice were noblemen travelling the seas, they'd dismiss him with a smile and wave, before returning to their chambers, throwing insults of his limited vocabulary. Instead, it returned to the makeshift bed, lying down with its eyes open once more, a harrowing glare cast upon the ceiling above it. It's a good thing the bosun merely assumes it is from some foreign land, rather than casting suspicion upon it, and walks away, returning to his duties.
The rest of the ship's journey is smooth, albeit quiet and the strange group's quarters are undisturbed, sailing quietly through day and night until the bosun arrives again on the sixth day, knocking to signal his presence,
"Sorries for the disturb'nce."
The Shadow'd One merely grunts, having not had its sustenance. The bosun takes this as a good enough response, continuing on,
"We approach Oslo, 'bout an hour left. Time is eight pm, Cap'n sends his regards."
Another grunt, and the bosun returns, leaving the group to their activites. Had he paused, merely another moment, the thick scent of rotting flesh may have hit him. Lucky bosun, leaving when he did.
The Shadow'd One gestures to the Others, instructions of gathering and preparation signed across to them. One Other approaches again, with a syringe. The liquid is more green than usual, a special preparation for the longer and more demanding travel upon land, injected into its veins.
As the ship entered harbour, the Others stood, assuming position in front of the Shadow'd One, walking as one unit, collectively, through the ship's floors until they waited patiently on deck.
The Shadow'd One readjusted its hood and cloak around it, before stepping out onto the deck, alongisde the Others. The pale moonlight shone unkindly upon them, almost threatening to spill their hidden secret. Luck, however, was on their side, as the thick smell of the sea, and old fish kept in barrels coated the air, easily masking the carcass.
The group steps off the ship in unison, stepping to the side, into an alley quietly hidden from the moon's watchful gaze. The streets are quiet tonight, with most respectable folks tucked away in their warm abodes, and those less respectable hidden into the shadows' cold embrace.
A carriage draws close, blue smoke huffing into the wind as horses come to a slow stop. A being, similar to the Others, sits in the front with the reins in its hands, signalling to the group to enter. They push the chest in first, sliding under the back seat, before seating two of themselves on the opposite seat. The two Others seat themselves with the carriage Other, and the Shadow'd One sits on the seat above the chest, protecting it.
The journey through the wilderness of Norway, avoiding civilisation where possible, across the border into Sweden, where Marstrand lay was long and dreary. The average human would fall asleep, with ease, on such a lengthy journey. They'd spend the days staring out of the windows of their carriage, taking in the beautiful scenery - the way the sun shone through the leaves, glimmering lights dancing across watery bodies. How the clouds softened the sky, one gentle shape at a time and how birds sang their sweet songs, welcoming the day and bidding all warm greetings.
The carriage, however, could not travel in the day. Cloaked figures would not be so easily accepted in the day, even if they avoided civilisation. Naturally, this had lengthened their journey, dragging out from a simple two weeks to a drained month. In between, every two days, one of the Others would inject the carcass with more of the strange green substance, keeping it from fully rotting.
In the day, they'd set up camp, secluded areas (usually hidden by the trees, greenery or old abandoned structures, where they could manage hiding as such), the Others keeping watch as the carriage Other and the Shadow'd One rested, recuperating under their careful eyes.
And so, when a long (and dreary) month finally passed, the strange group finally entered the gates of Hell - or, rather, the mortal equivalent.
Towering structures bore their spindly arms down, reaching out to the group with their sharp fingers, leaves dropping off onto the ground below. The skies did not bless the night - obscured by the fogs of Satan himself - a secular haze coating them, hiding the sins of the night from watchful celestial bodies. Two of the Others reach to the gates, their sickly hands pushing them open as they sigh and creak, moaning with the suffering of pained souls.
The carriage continued through the grounds, past the Lake of Lost Souls, reaching out as they moan for repentance, mercy and forgiveness. It's especially mournful tonight, almost as though the begging souls are aware of the sins to be committed on this very unholy night. The Manor itself impedes upon the mortal world, as though it mocked all who dared even gaze upon it. A cold, blue shadow cast itself out of the Manor, trickling around the grounds in the unholy fog, pooling round the cold earth below.
The carriage drew to a slow stop, horses shaking their heads as the Others stepped off, awaiting the Shadow'd One to join them before they took out the unsanctimonious chest. The doors of the Manor swung open with a hiss, more blue fog billowing out into the air, hitting their feet with a cold breeze. Within the Manor, a voice boomed out, calling to them,
"Well, my faithful servants return, hmm? Do you bring One of worth, or do you fail me?"
Images of the Lake of Lost Souls simmer in their minds, how failed servants would suffer beyond eternity for their failures. The Others lay down the chest in the foyer, allowing their Master to step forward, down from the stairs to inspect the chest.
He swiftly unlocks the chest, swiping it open as an Other steps forward to unravel the wrapped package, cloth and ropes coming loose, as the Corpse of Jason Peter Todd tumbles out, falling at his feet.
He huffs, nodding as the Others rebundle the remaining cloth, shunting the chest away and awaiting their Master's judgement. His eyes trail over the frail body, noting that (this time) the Others had followed his instructions well, injecting as needed. The Master gestures to the body and the Others, who lift the Corpse up, following their Master without a word of complaint. The Shadow'd One follows too, only to be stopped halfway, as a long leg steps in front of it. Its eyes trail up the leg, crossing the torso and resting upon her face, as she sighs pitifully,
"Ahhh… you thought…! You thought you could follow Father into his laboratory? Now, now, little dove, you cannot have possibly considered yourself this important, hmm? Come, Master Al Ghul has had your… chambers, prepared."
It huffs, but follows her swaying hips and sage'd eyes through the corridors, winding and confusing, down through the old tunnels until they once again, were at its personal Hell. She turned to it, sighing as she inspected her nails. Two Others, stronger than those sent with it before, grabbed it by the arms and dragging it along the ground through thick, old, musty blood. The liquid seeps into its clothing, past the boundaries and layers into its skin, sinking over its still unhealed wounds as the Others shackle it to the wall once more, bound and tied for its Master's bidding. The woman keeps watch, amusement trickling over her face as she gestures to the Others, ensuring they shackle all of its limbs against the wall,
"Good job, little dove. Master has more plans for you, and you will comply, won't you?"
It grunts out in agreement - past experience has taught it better. For to deny Lady Talia Al Ghul, daughter of the reclusive and fabled Lord Ra's Al Ghul, was to beg for her mercy and to pray she'd kill you sooner than later. The old marks and scars only serve as reminders, and it knows better than that.
"Good. Perhaps you will be more useful than we thought."
Meanwhile, Lord Al Ghul (or, the Master, as we shall continue referring to him as) led the two Others, and the body in their arms, towards the laboratory. A room filled with books, tables covered in research, shelves stocked with each and every alchemical substance any mad doctor would dream of. Candelabras swung, somewhat feverishly, but provided just enough light for even the most maddened of men to know what they were doing.
The two Others strapped the Corpse to a table, as the Master prepared his surgical tools, breathing in the sickly sweet, pungently rancid smell - letting it infiltrate and permeate his nose, his airways, his lungs as he hummed blissfully.
This time, he was bound for success.
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