Jeremy doesn't seem to show up too much in fanfics, so I thought I'd write about him. He's half Boy Scout, half horndog ... there's something interesting right there. RIGHT THERE, I tell you! Yes. Anyway, this is a rather short introduction to what will hopefully be a much longer story. Comments/criticisms are very much appreciated.

Library

She watched the skin separate and bleed detachedly, like somebody else was holding the scalpel, and making the incisions. The ones she'd been timing since she'd left had scarred over in an uneven line up the inside of her forearms. Every time she completed this ritualistic experiment, she went into the same strange trance. Somebody else was injecting the poison, now, and somebody else was sitting here in this anonymous bathroom, rocking the bandaged limb back and forth, waiting for the dosage to fully hit her again.

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Brigitte pulled out an aging copy of Bloodletting from its place in between Diseases of the Blood and In the Year 1800, thumbing through it as she settled down on the hard library floor. She hadn't found too much that would help here, but attempting to find a cure was better than sitting around idly until the virus couldn't be staved off any longer. There had to be some way, and she'd find it if she just kept reading, and reading, and reading. There'd be some sort of … miracle. Her stomach turned at that word as the thought reverberated. Pam used to say that word. And now, for once she wanted her mother to be right about something.

The unpleasant sound of a throat clearing cued her to look up at somebody peering over the end of the bookshelf.

"I'm onto you."

The librarian, Jeremy. How … perfect. She shot him an annoyed stare, which he disregarded, pulling out a random book and thumbing through it while he spoke. She dropped her gaze and listened to his voice, which was so normal it almost didn't fit. "You come in here late at night, you stay until all the other avid readers are gone. You're attracted to me, but you fear rejection." She looked back up at him, trying to appear inquisitive. "So you bide your time, just kind of waiting for that perfect moment. Don't worry; I've been dealing with this all my life." His smile quickly disappeared. "I'm kidding."

That's exactly it. She tucked Bloodletting under her arm, along with a thinner book she'd been perusing earlier about transformations in mythology, and walked past him.

"Your fly's open." She approached the main desk, and the sound of a zipper followed her. He trotted over to the desk on which she set down the books. Hastily pulling out her library card, she didn't even look at him, silently panicking over the pressing need to leave and get back to the room

"Okay … perfect." He picked up the thicker volume, glancing at the gory cover. "Yeah," he said, scanning it. "Yeah, I indulge in the occasional bloodletting myself," he remarked with the faintest hint of sarcasm. Some people try a little too hard, she thought to herself. "Okay. Brigitte Fitzgerald." He looked down at the screen of the institutionally grey computer, as he drew a deep breath, clearly concerned. "Unfortunately, you have quite the overdue account." She eyed the exit door. She didn't really need these books, time was running out. "And technically, if you have more than six dollars owing, I'm just –" She walked briskly away, hearing "Okay, well, see you later," as she yanked open the door, and quickly descended the stairs, pulling on her coat. Cold air rushed into her face as she stepped outside, maintaining her restrainedly frantic pace. She heard the door swing open again, followed by muffled laughter, but when she turned around, it was only two other women leaving the library, headed in the opposite direction. Some steam issued from a vent in the side of a building she was just about to pass, but something implored her to stop, and look into the alleyway beside it, which stretched on for a few meters, losing itself in darkness. She thought she felt something's presence, and the wind stirred her hair as she tried to determine whether it was the product of a fearful imagination or an actual threat. She forced herself to push past it, past the orange neon sign, and towards the motel parking lot. Room 34.

Unwrapping the bandage from her left arm, she ran her finger down a perfectly healed scar, the newly formed skin of which had healed in a considerably less pale tone. The cheap digital clock, 12:23. She flipped through a few notebook pages and recorded "4 hrs 32 mins" in one column of a lengthy chart, and "Healed" in the next.

You're healing faster, aren't you? Drew a fingernail to her mouth, then stood up and turned away from the table. That shit's not a cure, you know. It just slows the transformation. Pulled open the refrigerator door and look down at the vials of purple liquid, the only contents. It doesn't stop it, B. Nothing will stop it. Syringe needle poked into the top of one of the vials. What are you doing? You already dosed today. Clumsily tied a tourniquet around her upper arm. It's poison, B. You can't keep shooting it. Syringe drops, needle catching in the carpet. Into bed, taking the toothbrush from the bedside table. Ginger falls, out of nowhere. Remember that game we used to play when we were little? The one where we would make ourselves hold our breath until we passed out? She laughed, a little bitterly. Then you'd always get scared and call Mom, and I'd get in trouble? She paused, watching Brigitte's anxious eyes as she prepared for the monkshood to wash through. That game really sucked. Brigitte rose shakily from the bed and walked to a wide window by the side of the door. Do you feel it? Only a few lights had been left on, but the parking lot stayed lit. When she looked behind her, Ginger was back again, her usually piquant face panicked. You're not alone. He's found you again. The next few minutes were a rush of collecting – clothes, a photograph of the sisters, and the monkshood.

The door opened for her to run away through, to run anywhere, and she was looking at Jeremy again.

"Hi, this is a major breach of library policy, but I brought you the books." She pulled the toothbrush out, and found that she had to draw more air into her lungs, because they were leaking, and it hurt, and she didn't know what was happening. He looked over her shoulder and into the now-vacant room. Well, vacant except for the syringe that was still sticking out of the carpet. "Are you okay? What did you take?" She fell forward into him, felt herself being carried. "Okay. Come on, come on. Get in the truck. Watch your head. I'm gonna get you some help, okay?" She dragged herself into the passenger's seat as he ran around to the other car door. "Okay, okay. You're gonna be okay, okay? I'm gonna get you some help." He fumbled with her seatbelt, clicked familiarly as the clasp fastened.

And then the world roared. The car accelerating, the crunch as something passed under it. Violent, desperate movements, and then perfect stillness.