Prologue
For some time passes slowly, turning every minute in an hour, an hour in a day, a day in a week… For others it's never enough. For Wade Winston Wilson, the Weapon Eleven, it just did not exist at all.
It has been eight months since the turning point that took place on the Three Mile Island. Eight months, a week and two days. He kept count. Although it wasn't exactly a piece of cake to calculate for how much time you've been a monster.
The mirrors were shattered or removed, the gloves and the mask became a part of what he was now, his sarcasm (not that there were living souls to use it on) was still there, even more violent and demanding, cruel and bitter.
His healing rate was astonishing. Wade checked it first-hand when he had to scrape his own mouth open. He bet the Sideburn-bud would be jealous. In the back of his head where the chip used to be, the one with which the Colonel controlled his perfect soldier, the thoughts of revenge for the brothers Grimm began to form. Logan and Victor. Logan&Victor. He mused, it sounded like Haggis or Johnson&Johnson. But as the time passed he thought about the situation, then thought again, and again, and a couple thousand times after that. The conclusion: they all were simple chess figures beneath the hands of a madman, and he wanted that madman dead.
How was it that everything the sick colonel touched became twisted, ruined, tormented. He, Fred, Wreith, Bradley…Logan…Kayla…Emma…
Emma…
Emma…
There wasn't a day that his mind didn't drift to the cell. Stone, adamantium and cold…the bars…and her face behind them. Her flawless pale-white skin, her big blue orbs , her perfect lips… They say that after some time you start to forget the features of the face, then you forget the exact color of the eyes, and one day you wake up and you're not able to recall any special traits – all that's left are abstracts – feelings, emotions…
That was so not his case. He laughed and laughed hysterically after that for he, with all the damaged brain and crashed head, could remember every little tiny thing about her.
She was his silent black-and-white movie. Awake, asleep he saw the clips of her, pictures in his mind. That was comforting. He laughed again, the sound mixing with the one of the samurai blades slicing through the skin of his arm, creeping out to the full extend. He liked to just watch it.
The memories of her and the blades…definitely pathetic.
It took him eight months to conclude the following: he was disfigured, his only pleasant memories of life as conflicted as it sounded were of his time in the cell, and he was officially completely medically crazy.
Congratulations, handsome, you've got wonderful prospects of a future life.
Another laugh sliced through the silence of an abandoned house. A shrill, omniac sound. But it was never even intended to sound as a laugh in a first place.