Kit Walker's eyes didn't leave the syringe in Dr. Arden's hand as the plunger was drawn back and liquid flooded in.
"That pink stuff," he started, his eyes wide. "That's gonna kill me?"
"Potassium chloride," Arden clarified, obviously finding the term 'pink stuff' unscientific. "I'll inject this directly into your heart muscle, which will cause the heart to stop beating. From my experience, it will take approximately two to five minutes for the oxygen in your brain to be depleted." Arden paused, studying Kit over his glasses. "And then you'll die."
Kit winced inwardly at Arden's reference to his experience with this type of situation, wondering what he was getting himself into. "But you can reverse it," he interjected quickly, "you can bring me back to life?"
Picking up another syringe, this one full of clear liquid, off the stainless steel counter, Arden continued his explanation. "This syringe contains atropine, extracted from deadly nightshade. When I need to revive you, I'll inject this," he pointed the needle in his hand at yet another syringe, "along with adrenaline into your system." Arden placed the syringe back on the counter before walking towards Kit. "These two drugs, administered within two minutes after your death, along with a sharp blow to your chest with my fist," Kit felt a soft thump against his ribcage as Arden demonstrated, "will restart the heart."
Leaning forward, Kit let out a deep breath. "I don't mind telling you, I'm scared," he admitted.
A short chuckle issued from Arden. "I'll admit, I'm feeling slightly apprehensive myself."
Kit shook his head at Arden's attempt to sound superior despite repeating his own sentiments before Arden motioned for him to lie down. Turning to his left, Kit complied, the cold of the steel beneath him seeping into his back.
"Our father, who art in heaven," he whispered rapidly as Arden drew a thick, black X over his heart, "hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on Earth as it is…"
"What are you mumbling about?" Arden interrupted as he picked up the syringe that would kill Kit.
"That's the only prayer I can remember," Kit said, smiling weakly. "Just in case."
Arden fixed Kit with a stern gaze, and Kit nodded, urging him along. Bringing his arm, bearing the syringe, up above Kit's chest, and poising the long needle threateningly, Arden smiled briefly. "This is going to hurt."
The needle came down, plunging into the middle of the X, penetrating deep into Kit's heart. His blood pounded in his ears as he spasmed, pain spreading out from the seizing organ. The agony wound its way along his arteries, snaking through Kit's entire body. His back arched away from the table and he tried to let out a scream, but his breath was stopped as his throat, along with the rest of his body, felt like it was being ripped apart.
Kit writhed, the pain consuming him, clawing his way into his mind so that it was his entire existence. As the world around him dimmed, overtaken by anguish, Kit felt like a water boiler about to blow, pressure pushing against the inside of his skin.
Then, all of a sudden, it was over. Kit sat up with a start, and Arden stood back as his lungs heaved, trying to recover. Still panting for air, Kit looked around the lab. The formerly neatly placed scalpels, forceps, and various tools were on the floor, scattered. Broken glassware littered the room.
"Did it work? Did they come?" Kit gasped before his eyes fell on the two syringed of clear liquid on the floor, still unused.
Arden glared at him coldly. "We're done here."
As Sister Mary Eunice left the room, Monsignor Howard strode after her, refusing to end the discussion with his defeat. "I'm not yours. I never will be," he called after her. "I'd rather die than allow you to defile the church."
"Are you talking?" Mary Eunice asked over her shoulder. "You've suddenly grown quite tiresome."
"You'll not win," Monsignor Howard told the demon hidden inside the nun. "You couldn't even defeat Sister Mary Eunice." He raised a shaking, accusing finger. "Her purity remains alive inside, I know it."
The nun turned slowly, advancing on the Monsignor. "Don't make me reconsider my largess, Timothy."
"I will cast you out and return Mary Eunice to her state of grace."
Mary Eunice's head tilted pityingly before she grabbed the front of the Monsignor's robe. With inhuman strength, she shoved him into the tall, oaken banister behind him. Monsignor Howard groaned in pain as the intricate carving was forced into his back.
"I gave you a chance Timothy. But you've just pissed it away," Mary Eunice spat. "I'm done with you. And with your sweet nun; I'm about to devour the last morsel of her soul," she screamed into the Monsignor's face before her fury melted into anguish.
"I'm sorry Monsignor," Mary Eunice – the real Mary Eunice – sobbed, her eyes glistening with tears. "I'm tired of fighting." She gazed into the Monsignor's eyes hopefully. "I want to let go."
"Then let go of me, sister."
For a moment, confusion crossed Mary Eunice's face. Then she relaxed as she understood. Monsignor Howard nodded, confirming his intentions, and she let go of his clothes, backing up a step.
With effort, the Monsignor picked her up, flinging Mary Eunice over the railing. She plummeted the five stories, her features serene, and time seemed to slow, and finally stop, as she neared the bottom. The Monsignor peered down at the ground, bracing himself for the impact.
It was only when he became aware of his pulse racing in his ears that he realized time was still moving normally.
And yet, Mary Eunice had yet to hit the ground. Instead, she smirked. She abruptly righted herself, her feet gliding to the floor, before she fluidly walked away.
Monsignor Howard collapsed to the floor, letting out a sob like the one Mary Eunice had loosed moments ago. The demon wouldn't let Mary Eunice, or at least her body, be killed so easily, and the Monsignor wasn't strong enough to cast it out. Not on his own.
The sound of sirens in the distance grew, fading from nothing to a barely distinguishable whine, but promising to become a shrill, deafening wail. As his ears detected the first hint of the sound, Oliver Thredson's head shot up.
"Time for a refill," he said, standing and moving to the small bar across from the crackling fire.
Lana Winters kept her distance, but followed him with the small revolver. "They're here," she said, trying and failing to keep her voice from shaking, as ice cubes displaced by gin clinked against the side of the glass. "Drink up. This is your last taste of alcohol."
"Now that you're out of Briarcliff," Thredson started, turning back towards Lana, "you'll never keep that baby, will you?"
"Not a chance in hell."
"So I shouldn't expect a little Oliver to come visit every few months?"
"Oh, even if I had this thing, you'd never see him," Lana snarled, appalled at yet another attempted mind-fuck from the serial killer standing across from her. "You're gonna fry in that chair," she told Thredson, letting a little pleasure at having stopped him seep into her voice.
The sirens were getting loud now. Soon Lana and Thredson would have to raise their voices to be heard over the sound. The lights were obvious now too, bathing the room in alternating reds and blues.
"I hardly think so, Lana," Thredson murmured, still infuriatingly calm. He took a long swig of his drink and flashed a grin. "I'm clearly insane. No, I'll be institutionalized. At the very worst I'll live a long life in prison. Maybe I'll even start some therapy groups. God knows there are some disturbed individuals behind bars." He paused to finish his drink and nodded. "As for you," he focused on Lana, snapping out of his twisted planning for the future, "I have no use for you anymore. Best you should just be known as my last victim."
Thredson reached down for the open drawer and Lana pulled the trigger. A solid chunk of metal, the gun Thredson had begun to pick up, clattered to the floor as his hand automatically opened in pain. His other hand clutched at his upper arm, where crimson had begun to spread through the fabric of his suit.
"Bitch," he hissed through clenched teeth.
"Prison's too good for you," Lana breathed. "Too bad that's not where you're going."
Thredson cocked his head. "I thought you were planning on exposing Briarcliff."
"Oh I am," Lana agreed. "But that'll take time. And I know exactly what they'll do with you in the meantime." Outside, loud footsteps ran up to the door and orders were barked to open up. "They're gonna hook you up to their machines and try to burn Bloody Face out of you." Lana's voice dropped to a dangerous growl as the door began to pound inwards, splintering off the hinges. "Too bad we both know that's all you are."
Before anyone nails me to the wall for this, I love American Horror Story. I really do. So please don't take this fic as disrespect. There's no way I could have come up with this much insanity and then kept topping it, over and over. That said, I found the ending of Asylum anti-climactic. And judging by the opinions of the people I know who also watch the show, that wasn't an uncommon opinion. This story is just going to be the way I personally might have preferred to see it play out. Please review if you love it or hate it. Especially if you hate it. I want to know what I'm doing right, and what I'm doing wrong.