Title: State of Mind
Author: Invision
Rating: R (language, plus it's a dark story)
Summary: Darien thinks back on life and finally snaps.
Spoilers: Nope, unless you haven't seen the pilot, but it's nothing you shouldn't already know.
Disclaimer: I don't own "The Invisible Man" or any of its characters. I'm definitely not making any money off of this.
Statement: This is my first fan fic of any kind, so if it's completely and utterly a failure, just keep that in mind. :)
State of Mind
"I tired hard to mend my wicked ways
Acted like a lunatic for years
Lord knows I try to be good
I'd keep my promises if only I could"
Hi, my name is Darien Fawkes, and I used to care.
Yeah, that's right. I used to have a conscience.
But as I look back now, I think: Why did I care? People who couldn't give a shit about me, people I didn't even know, and I cared about them. Hell, I even went so far as to say I'd rather take a bullet than hurt someone else.
Yeah, they'd get someone to kill me and then they'd rip open my skull and take what they wanted. No problem.
Oh, you don't even really know what I'm talking about do you?
See, I have this gland, this "gift", that can make me invisible. Gift my ass. If one of them had this thing in their head they'd think otherwise.
When my brother first offered me this great opportunity, I was stupid enough to believe that my luck was shaping up for once. Having a gland implanted in my skull didn't excite me too much, but it sounded better than jail time.
The operation, which I thought would be the most difficult part, went pretty smoothly. Then everything went to Hell.
To make a long story short, we soon discovered that my "gift" takes the liberty of throwing my sanity out the window because the Quicksilver and my bloodstream don't quite get along together. Therefore, I have to get weekly shots of Counteragent.
It'll kill me if it's removed, or so they tell me. Anymore, I'm not really sure if that's true or not.
My brother, along with pretty much everyone else working on the project, was killed by a terrorist named Arnaud de Fohn. I've come so close to killing that son of a bitch so many times, but it seems that the gods have other plans.
That little event led to my "employment" with The Agency. It's run by this fat guy named Charles Bordin. He's not too big on telling me the truth.
My "keeper" is just like him. She's supposed to look after my health. I used to think I could trust her, but that all changed last week.
Last week, Monday evening to be exact, I was in for my shot when she tells me she ran out.
"It went bad," she says.
I had about 35 minutes left of sanity.
She told me it was my fault for cutting it so close. She said it was my fault for not coming in that morning when the Counteragent would have still been viable. She told me she was in the process of making more, but it would take awhile.
I had to wait two and a half hours.
She put me in the straight jacket and that damned padded room. I'm not really sure what all happened, but I think she stopped and came over to watch me, her experiment, to see what the prolonged madness would do. I think she planned it that way.
But one thing I know I remember is my partner, Bobby Hobbes. He was there the whole time. She wouldn't let him come in. I'm glad she wouldn't, but I remember his voice.
He said, "Be strong Fawkes. I know you can do this, man. I'm here with you."
He's the only one who ever cared about me, not the gland, me. He's the only one who ever really looked at me like a person instead of some kind of lab rat.
I hope he knows that none of what I am going to do is his fault.
What I am going to do.
That brings us back to where we started.
Like I said before, I used to care. I used to want the Counteragent. That's all in the past.
It's Saturday evening. As I glance at my tattoo, I see that I don't have too much time. My head is already beginning to throb.
When I find the Keeper, I'm going to tell her that it's her fault. It's her fault that I'm going to wrap my fingers around her pretty little throat and strangle her.
I haven't decided on what to do about good ol' Charlie. Should I kill him, or should I put this gun to my head and destroy his precious little gland? I'll definitely have to think about that one on the way over there.
I hope Bobby won't hate me for this.
I hope he'll understand.
"I tried hard to mend my wicked ways
The damage done and nothing left to save
And I tried... and I tried..."
-"Wicked Ways" by: Garbage-
End
Author: Invision
Rating: R (language, plus it's a dark story)
Summary: Darien thinks back on life and finally snaps.
Spoilers: Nope, unless you haven't seen the pilot, but it's nothing you shouldn't already know.
Disclaimer: I don't own "The Invisible Man" or any of its characters. I'm definitely not making any money off of this.
Statement: This is my first fan fic of any kind, so if it's completely and utterly a failure, just keep that in mind. :)
State of Mind
"I tired hard to mend my wicked ways
Acted like a lunatic for years
Lord knows I try to be good
I'd keep my promises if only I could"
Hi, my name is Darien Fawkes, and I used to care.
Yeah, that's right. I used to have a conscience.
But as I look back now, I think: Why did I care? People who couldn't give a shit about me, people I didn't even know, and I cared about them. Hell, I even went so far as to say I'd rather take a bullet than hurt someone else.
Yeah, they'd get someone to kill me and then they'd rip open my skull and take what they wanted. No problem.
Oh, you don't even really know what I'm talking about do you?
See, I have this gland, this "gift", that can make me invisible. Gift my ass. If one of them had this thing in their head they'd think otherwise.
When my brother first offered me this great opportunity, I was stupid enough to believe that my luck was shaping up for once. Having a gland implanted in my skull didn't excite me too much, but it sounded better than jail time.
The operation, which I thought would be the most difficult part, went pretty smoothly. Then everything went to Hell.
To make a long story short, we soon discovered that my "gift" takes the liberty of throwing my sanity out the window because the Quicksilver and my bloodstream don't quite get along together. Therefore, I have to get weekly shots of Counteragent.
It'll kill me if it's removed, or so they tell me. Anymore, I'm not really sure if that's true or not.
My brother, along with pretty much everyone else working on the project, was killed by a terrorist named Arnaud de Fohn. I've come so close to killing that son of a bitch so many times, but it seems that the gods have other plans.
That little event led to my "employment" with The Agency. It's run by this fat guy named Charles Bordin. He's not too big on telling me the truth.
My "keeper" is just like him. She's supposed to look after my health. I used to think I could trust her, but that all changed last week.
Last week, Monday evening to be exact, I was in for my shot when she tells me she ran out.
"It went bad," she says.
I had about 35 minutes left of sanity.
She told me it was my fault for cutting it so close. She said it was my fault for not coming in that morning when the Counteragent would have still been viable. She told me she was in the process of making more, but it would take awhile.
I had to wait two and a half hours.
She put me in the straight jacket and that damned padded room. I'm not really sure what all happened, but I think she stopped and came over to watch me, her experiment, to see what the prolonged madness would do. I think she planned it that way.
But one thing I know I remember is my partner, Bobby Hobbes. He was there the whole time. She wouldn't let him come in. I'm glad she wouldn't, but I remember his voice.
He said, "Be strong Fawkes. I know you can do this, man. I'm here with you."
He's the only one who ever cared about me, not the gland, me. He's the only one who ever really looked at me like a person instead of some kind of lab rat.
I hope he knows that none of what I am going to do is his fault.
What I am going to do.
That brings us back to where we started.
Like I said before, I used to care. I used to want the Counteragent. That's all in the past.
It's Saturday evening. As I glance at my tattoo, I see that I don't have too much time. My head is already beginning to throb.
When I find the Keeper, I'm going to tell her that it's her fault. It's her fault that I'm going to wrap my fingers around her pretty little throat and strangle her.
I haven't decided on what to do about good ol' Charlie. Should I kill him, or should I put this gun to my head and destroy his precious little gland? I'll definitely have to think about that one on the way over there.
I hope Bobby won't hate me for this.
I hope he'll understand.
"I tried hard to mend my wicked ways
The damage done and nothing left to save
And I tried... and I tried..."
-"Wicked Ways" by: Garbage-
End