((The story of how Glyph escaped the lab in Lighthalzen, according to him. Counterpart to the story from Maxwell's PoV.))
His vision was hazy, coloured motes drifting in and out of the foggy, narrow tunnel that comprised his vision. The tranquilizers they'd pumped into his containment vat before moving him were keeping him on the brink of consciousness. For now, he could only feel the cold steel of the cart against his back, and the leather on his wrists and ankles. He was cold.. always cold.. so cold..
Selene! Alicel..! Guile.. A voice unheard, but more felt drifted through his mind, along with spasmodic, uncontrolled sobbing. Glyph's lips twisted into a scowl as he mentally shoved his weaker, past self down into silence. Maxwell.. he spat the name even in his mind, like some kind of venomous, diseased object that would infect him if he even lingered too long on it.
Suddenly, he was immersed in a thick, tepid liquid, almost like runny JELL-O, except much more sinister to him. He took a breath against the sudden chill running along his spine, and the fluid surged into his lungs inhindered, bringing with it a sharp, but seductive pain, that promised him release. Release from this torment, release from this cruel world, where even the monsters had forsaken him. Release... death's sweet embrace that would take him to the roots of Yggdrasil, and further, into Niflheim, that he might await the call of a Valkyrie, and be reborn.
Do monsters go to Niflheim? Humans do. But you're a monster!
His eyes snapped open, and he jerked, trying to cough, but only inhaling more of the fluid. It tasted bittersweet, and just wrong to him. He couldn't see a thing, but he was used to that, and it dimmed, a useless sense at this point. He was blind, he knew it instinctively, that's why he could only see faint colour, and even that was consumed by the white glare.
Release...
No!
Glyph thrashed in the tube, his clawed fingers swishing through the liquid, adrenaline perfecting his movements into a flowing, deadly dance. He knew the person who'd done this to him was on the other side of the glass, he knew he would die if he stayed.. He had to escape.
Suddenly, Glyph rammed his hand, fingers hooked, claws pointing out towards the glass, through the liquid. He met some resistance when he hit the glass, and thought he heard the unique crunching of bones breaking, but the pain didn't register. Liquid poured forth, and he continued to thrash, gulping at the air as fast as he could. Lines cut deep into his arms and legs by the glass appeared, blood flowing freely, though his wounds began to close nearly as fast as he acquired them.
The blue-haired man fell out of the tube on his hands and knees, quievering for a moment. There were tubes in his arms, legs, all over him. And they -hurt-. He growled, tearing them out without a single wince, his demeanor feral at best. His hand snapped out, grabbing a cloth they'd used many times to keep him from screaming due to the pain his eyes caused him in the light, and tied it tightly behind his head. Glyph was purposely moving slowly at this point in his escape, aware that other scientists, the ones he wanted, were nearby.
With a sharp, quick explosion of noise, he hurled himself at one woman with horns like his, slamming both arms into her, knocking her to the side like a simple sheet of cloth. He didn't care entirely if she was hurt by the fall, but now she was out of his way. A wicked grin formed on his lips, as he 'looked' around, swiveling his head to hear the fearful gasps of men and women who thought they were enough to toy with nature.
He could smell gunpowder, prevailant through this level of the laboratories, where they developed weaponry. Convenient that they would choose to terminate subjects with weapons nearby, just in case. He sensed approach, and skipped to the side, before reversing his direction and ramming his hand, flat like the blade of a knife, into a man's belly. He jerked upright, and his limbs flopped weirdly, while Glyph wormed his hand up into the man's chest, seized his heart, and squeezed.
Oh, how he'd been waiting for this, his revenge on the bastards who'd tortured him for so long. Glyph fairly moaned as the man's screams heightened, and a small pop in his hand told him the deed was done. Blood soaked him, and he let the man drop, lifting his gore-covered hand, and licking his fingers slightly, "Best served cold? Body temperature's fine..." his voice was hoarse, but even then almost melodic in it's intrinsically seductive nature.
Most of the people there were captivated by such a horrific sight, and Glyph cut through them without mercy, ripping them apart. Limbs flew, the heavy stench of blood; coppery and acrid, filled the air. Oh, he loved it, but it was time to be going, and there would be armed men and women further out, especially with the noise he was making.
The man followed the smell of gunpowder to the armory, and threw himself bodily against the door once, twice, and again. The third time, the doors blew open, and he slammed into a glass case. Shattered glass rained down on and around him, then he felt around, scooping up a pair of pistols that felt comfortable. He slipped his bloody body into a long coat, and dropped extra bullets in the pockets, tearing out of the room and down the hall.
Screams and the small explosive barking of his handguns filled the air, along with the occasional cackle of glee, or moan of sheer ecstacy. These last two came from a man exhulting in his revenge, dancing through the blood, the gore, and the death.
Let them chase him this time. He'd be ready for them.