Micheal Morbius was startled awake as he heard a key twist the lock of his cell door. No one ever opened his door. No one was fed this time of day, and the tray—his with a blood packet—was just slid through a slot on the floor. Occasionally the guards liked to bang on the clear plastic walls to annoy prisoners, but they rarely opened doors. Never for him.
He stood with his hands in front of him and open to show he held nothing and intended less. Those who didn't find him a joke were easily agitated by the smallest movement from him, and everyone was armed.
He wasn't human to these men. He hadn't been human to himself for a long time. He had spent seventeen years as a thing, with only a few moments of someone else seeing past the result of an experiment gone wrong. No one saw past it here.
Once he had gotten into trouble for trying to talk to the janitor. He used to get into trouble on purpose, getting himself sent to the medical ward, creating a distraction, and disappearing for hours only to be found in a supply closet or air duct with stolen medical journals and his injury having healed so poorly he was sent back to the medical ward.
He didn't do that anymore. Others still told anyone who would half listen about how superior intellect or hatred of certain superheroes while he had long been silenced by giving him a new book to read every few days. He had even become much less amusing to the guards. Prisoners still complained though. No one wanted to be in the same hallway as him and everyone near him would spread terrifying rumors anout him.
No one ever wanted to be near a vampire. Or a close approximation. He wasn't a real one, but he was close enough to hate. He had wanted to cure himself of a fatal condition only to make himself fatal to others, giving himself something far more impossible to cure.
There was no danger now. They supplied him with enough blood that there was not urge to feed and seek out the only sustenance he could consume. So long as his appetite was quenched, all he wanted were his books.
Yet, he was no less of a vampire for it. His nose and ears had been changed his already unattractive features to a grotesque mockery, a hideous farce of a man and a pale shadow of the bats he once studied. He'd lost his ability to protect himself from the sun and gained acute and sensitive hearing and mild psionic powers. All anyone saw were his glowing red eyes, the black of surrounding them like on an animal, and his fangs he couldn't keep hidden when frightened. It all combined made for a terrifying visage on a man who just wanted to be cured of the curse he'd created.
"Out!" one guard demanded. They were already mad they were handling a vampire, they weren't about to walk into his lair and pull him out. Even if the lair was just him and two large medical journals in a small, white box. No matter how little he did, he always tended to rub people the wrong way.
The other criminals were silent as they watched, fixated on Morbius and the guards. This was a rare chance to see some entertainment. He was known for being stubborn, and his fights with Spider-Man had always lasted quite a while, according to the grapevine. Then again, he was a runner. Maybe they'd get to see him fly. A bit of chaos on The Raft would certainly brighten things up for most residents.
Michael slowly stepped out, his hands in front of him, awaiting the restraints one of the guards held. As the cuffs were locked in place, a string of loud groans of disappointment came from the nearby cells. Interest didn't die out. These cuffs were meant specifically for S.H.I.E.L.D. operations. The Raft and other specialized prisons, Hulkbusters, and other teams. They were meant to hold people who could throw tanks or shoot lasers through one. Michael, as far as anyone knew—including himself—had done nothing more than throw garbage cans and lasted longer than most other foes in battle.
As soon as they stopped, they were replaced with laughter, and speculation that tried to milk every theory possible from the mysterious situation.
Every theory was thrown out as Michael was led down the polished white walls. No one could be swayed from their suspicions of his fate be it a formal execution, deportation, or even taken to a lab to be studied. Michael didn't doubt any of them, even the thwory that they'd just toss him overboard and leave him to whatver happened next. The prisoners kept chatting, clinging to the latest theory about him until he was escorted out of view.
Michael hadn't paid much attention when he arrived. He didn't think he was ever leaving unless the entire prison sank. He was surprised—and very disturbed—when he was led outside onto the deck of The Raft, a helicopter waiting as close as possible in the shade.
Inside everything was white and rounded and safe. Safe on the inside and safe on the outside. Everythign ran on the latest technology—key cards, remotes, voice activation. Inside was almost...delicate. Outside on The Raft, it was a large sea carrier. It was tough, rugged, sharp, rusted, and everything was wires and gears and simple machines intertwined to make something huge and intimidating.
"Knock it off!"a guard said, smacking him in the head from behind as he tried to shield himself from the bright sunlight shining off the tarmac. "Get in."
Obediently, Michael entered the craft and let the guards shove him into a seat and fasten the seatbelt around him. No one wanted to touch him, as quiet and still as he was. It took several minutes for the guards, trying to avoid coming in contact with Michael at all to strap him in. When they finally had him strapped in, those who sat next to him immediately shifted as far away from him in their seats as they could comfortably manage.
"Where are we going?" he finally asked. The windows were tinted, obviously to prevent UV-rays from getting in and the back was partitioned off entirely. All he could tell was that he was moving in yet another sealed off room.
"You're someone else's problem now," the guard lucky enough to be sitting across from him said. Michael took the hint that the guard wanted nothing to do with him. This worked out well, as Michael didn't want anything to do with him either.
Michael had no idea where he was being taken, but S.H.I.E.L.D., or at least these men working for it, wanted him taken here as soon as possible.
The second the helicopter landed, he was shoved into an armored car. From there he was rushed into into a building, shoved through the entryway, past a receptionist desk he barely got a glimpse of and into a room.
The door hadn't yet closed behind him when the argument started. It was muffled by the walls and plexiglass windows. For insisting her was now someone else's problem, the guards spent a good time yelling about him. Or, rather, 'it'. Only the receptionist referred to Michael as 'him'. Michael couldn't make out much more of the argument, something about forms and another thing about regulations.
He looked around, hoping to deduce where he was, or at least discover some directions as to what to do. A small camera silently flashed it's tiny red lights at him as he stared back at it. The wall next to him was a giant window, from floor to ceiling, only interrupted by a support beam in the middle. Outside was nothing new, flawlessly clean and colorless everywhere and several numbered doors along corridors. The other walls were solid, save for the one behind him. Part of it was a thin, tall window that overlooked the receptionist, who wasstill arguing. He couldn't make out the writing on any signs near her from any angle. He'd started in a small white, empty room in a maximum-security prison, and he had ended up in a larger, white, almost empty room hat might as well be in a different prison.
The room was lined with chairs with a low table in the middle of the room and a television silently running a show about rainbow monstrosities. There was a child's toy near it, made of wires and wooden beads. Michael was sure even touching it would reduce the IQ of anyone who interacted with it.
If it weren't for the receptionist and what appeared to be a waiting room that he'd been left in, he suspected he'd been returned to The Raft after some sort of money-wasting joke.
The argument continued for several long, dull minutes. S.H.I.E.L.D. had seemed to have jumped the gun about whose problem he was now.
Eventually someone new arrived. She sped down the hallway as her professional attire and luggage would let her. She glanced at him through the large window, her smile immediately melting into stern anger and she turned away.
'Wonderful,' he thought. 'I pissed someone off by just standing here.' Still cuffed, even.
The argument ended abruptly as she arrived at the scene and everyone was silent. A few seconds later the door opened and the woman somehow manage to drag one of the S.H.I.E.L.D. guards into the room, while struggling with her clipboard and luggage.
"Now!" she yelled, pointing at Michael, or rather, his cuffs. She shoved the S.H.I.E.L.D. roughly away and began balancing her items in her arms. "You're already violating several rules."
"Your funeral lady," the guard scoffed, pulling Micheal's hands as far from the rest of him that he could before unlocking them reluctantly.
"If that happens, you and your facility will likely be held responsible. Now take your stuff and get out!"
Michael stared at the door as the guard left and slammed it closed. The receptionist was pleased when they were finally gone. He, though, wasn't sure about his predicament. She was much more intimidating than the guards, who always carried tasers. He hoped she wasn't armed. Then again, she wore a large lab coat over her simple business suit. If he had been sent to be studied, her being armed was the least of his worries. He suddenly took note that the windows weren't made of glass, but a more shatter-proof plastic.
"I am so sorry for that," she said, sitting down and opening her notebook on her clipboard. "Do you prefer to be addressed as Dr. Morbius or Michael? Or something else?"
"Um...Michael," he answered. 'What kind of question is that?'
"Alright, Michael, my name is Linda Stevens. You're free to call me whatever you like," she said, opening up her suitcase and taking out one of two smaller cases. "If you need anything to feel more comfortable, go right ahead and tell me. If you have any questions about any part of this, please don't hesitate to ask. This is a rather easy assessment; it should take about 20 minutes to complete, but there's not penalty for going over. Take all the time you need." She lifted a thin laptop from the larger case she had pulled out, and a mouse and mouse pad from the smaller one still in the suitcase.
'She's bad at this,' he thought. It wasn't unusual for doctors to try and trick him into complacency before pulling out the knives. They tended to be a lot more subtle than outright offering anythign tio him. 'Might as well call her bluff.'
"I'd like to know where I am."
She froze in the middle of plugging the mouse into the laptop. At first he'd thought he'd won, shown her for what she was and waited for threats or even for her pull a syringe out of one the pockets on her lab coat. The reaction he got wasn't what he expected.
"Oh, Dear Lord," she muttered angrily as she grabbed the bridge of her nose. "I'm sorry, the sheer incompetence from S.H.I.E.L.D. is appalling. It's practically self-sabotage. Was none of this explained to you at all?"
"Only that I was your problem now." And if he felt like he wanted to be a problem for her, he would be.
Her eyes flicked away from him and her lips pulled back from her teeth slightly as she forced herself not to inwardly hiss at struggling where to start. "This is...going to be quite the transition. Please try not to be alarmed."
Michael narrowed his eyes at her. He wasn't fond of people stalling and he didn't like her new tactic sugarcoating things for him. Her statement definitely indicated he should be alarmed.
"This is the Brooklyn Institute for Mental Health. Your friends have produced a writ of Habeus Corpus and are suing for compensation. However Ms. Jaffrey heard about the case and has filed a counter suit, demanding you be moved to Bellevue Hospital under maximum security. Given the evidence presented and what's legally allowed, the judge has asked for a mental health screening. Usually we do that in a court office, but that's held during the day; S.H.I.E.L.D. is being held in question and no local jails have the facilities do handle your...condition."
He was sure he found it, the hole in her claim. He could use this chink in her armor to force her to tell him what her real scheme was. "I don't have any friends," he stated, crossing his arms.
"Hector Baez and Max Modell are the ones who presented the case on your behalf," she said, her pen loudly scratching away at her notepad. "Neither of them are your friends?"
Micheal's shoulders sagged and his arms fell into his lap. Even if she was just another nasty scientist trying to coerce him onto a dissection table, the situation in question had been his fault entirely. "They both hate me. Especially Max." He wanted to look away, but focused on keeping his eyes on her while he faced his hands.
"You're not upset with them about anything?" she asked, her pen halting on the spot. "You don't think any feelings toward you were undeserved?"
"I don't really have the right to," he mumbled at the floor.
"They're coming tomorrow afternoon to pick you up," she said, her voice growing softer. "You're going to stay with them in a hotel room they've reserved until the legal proceedings are finished."
He looked up at her. ector didn't care, he just hated him on principal of considering Michael a huge nuisance. He didn't want to talk to Max. He didn't want to be in the same room as Max. He didn't even want Max to know where he was. Thinking about how much of Max's memories and feelings for him was already painful. Standing next to the real resentment would be hell.
On the other hand, this was still just another prison. Take away the cuffs and replace it with an annoying woman who asked mindless questions and it was the same. He probably wouldn't be able to get his hands on medical books, this time around, they'd be on to him. He'd have to deal with this lady or other doctors if he wanted to stave off boredom. If they felt like letting him.
"Here." She offered him a tissue from her pocket and indicated to his lip, which twitched under one of his sharp fangs. "Why don't I give him a call and you can ask him if he can arrange something else."
Michael nodded, accepting the tissue. Bleeding everywhere wasn't going help his image. Even if he didn't care, Max and Hector would. He did still owe Max...even more now that he'd ruined things. More than once.
She pulled a phone out of one of her large lab coat pockets and began to dial. "I'm sure they'll understand. If they don't, I'll talk to them. Complicating things now won't help anyone."
'Except Ms. Jaffrey' Micheal thought. 'Either way, I hurt someone yet again.'
"Hello, do you have time to speak with Dr. Michael Morbius? No, it's just that nothing has been explained to him until just now and he's concerned about your plans for later." After a few seconds she handed the phone to him.
Michael forgot about everything else as he took the phone. He didn't care if his lip was still bleeding after biting it in worry. He didn't remember Sajani at all, just that someone had been an unfortunate victim right in front of his good friend—former good friend. 'How mad is Max? How much more angry will he be if I try to back out?''
"...Max...?" he managed to whisper before nearly lost control. He grabbed his arm holding the phone to steady it as it began to shake. "...I'm sorry...I'm just...I'm so sorry."
"Michael, calm down. Everything will be fine."
"But-" Michael pleaded, barely listening.
"It's not your fault. Really. We've got video footage of the incident and Hector found a lot of court cases and laws that we can use in your favor. You're innocent and we can prove it."
"I don't think I understand," Michael said. He didn't know how to react to this. Why wasn't Max mad at him?
"You told me everything about what you were like and I still wanted you at the lab. I got caught up in seeing my friend who'd disappeared and then I was too busy and excited about everyone's work, especially yours. I should have kept a better eye on things. Spider-Man should have, too. A lot more."
Michael ignored the last two sentences, though was now reassured about making amends. He might not be able to put their friendship back together, but if he could finish a project or two he could fix the damage to Horizon's reputation he'd caused and more than earn the money to make up for the physical damages.
"Are you okay?" Max asked.
"I think so," he answered. He had no idea about his situation. "They want me to take some sort of test."
"Go on, it's just a formality," Max said. He wasn't a good liar. He was worried. "They're not going to find anything wrong with you." That was the lie, or at least the source of the unease that Max was trying to hide.
"I will," Michael replied. Whatever Max wanted. And this seemed easy. He hoped it was.
"If they want to do anything or for you to sign anything, you can always call me again."
"Yes," was all Michael could think of to say.
"I gotta go right now or I'll miss checking in for our flight."
"Your what?" How much more had no one bothered to explain to him?
"Horizon's in California now. Y'know, you did a lot less damage compared to other guys. Two people blew up the last lab...or misplaced it, we never figured out which. And Peter and Sajani...long story. I gotta go." The last word was cut off as Max hung up.
"I guess I should take your test," Michael said, handing the phone back to Linda.
It was just a computer. It couldn't cause any harm, could it?