There was only black.
The red crept in, flashing, morphing. Noise.
Countless horizontal lines ran across the black. Helicopter.
Islands of white symbols erupted, worms writhing at them, corroding until they bled back into the black. Gas mask.
Hatred.
Cells.
Beloved, though prodigal.
A single warm tone supported the mass.
The churning stopped for a moment, a single word cradled by brackets.
Below, another pulsating message.
Shortly, the first shapes came into being, centered around a whirling disk of red.
The monotone ended, splitting into slow waves and dying screams. Crystals rang out before the saw.
Hooded.
The waves crashed and swirled. From the corpse a storm began to brew.
Jacket.
The voices pleaded, begging for life. Here arrives the theme. Clean and distortion fought until dark won out.
Too many collars.
With every mask stitched on, the dead choir finished, and the world sprung into focus properly.
N.Y.C. Taxi 3T50 was not having a good day. Due to tax cuts and general disrepair of Manhattan's infrastructure it had become stuck in one heck of a pothole. Presently, a mass of red vines (or some say twizzlers) was aggressively growing over it, dragging it further into the earth for some nefarious purpose. It creaked in protest, hoping to gain the attention of a group of gun-toting fellows who happened to be bumbling down the same street. One Captain Johnson looked over at it as the overgrowth continued.
"All clear" came his voice, crackling through the radio.
The taxi could only groan as the corn syrup, wheat flour, sugar, cornstarch, and 2% or less of palm oil, salt, artificial flavor, glycerin, citric acid, potassium sorbate (preservative), artificial color (red 40), and soy lecithin continued its steady growth. Sad violin music played as the soldiers marched on and away down Canal Street, leaving the taxi to its fate. Little did they know what lurked on the rooftop above, hunched over and mumbling to himself.
"My name is Alex Mercer," said Alex Mercer, who happened to be on the rooftop above, hunched over and mumbling to himself. "I'm the reason for all of this."
Having learned who was responsible for the fine mess it had gotten itself into, N.Y.C Taxi 3T50 would have honked its horn had the twizzlers not craftily cut the wires moments ago.
Alex Mercer continued. "They call me a killer, a monster, a terrorist." He rose from his half-squat, posture as poor as ever. "I'm all of these things," he muttered, before taking a step off of the rooftop and plummeting to the street. Instead of going splat like most human-shaped entities, he made the street go splat, sending up a huge cloud of dust and hurling N.Y.C Taxi 3T50 (among other less important cars) flying about. Flipped-turned upside down and sitting right there with one door very nearly torn off, albeit miraculously cleansed of the red vine infestation, the poor cab was not at its best.
"You're pretty fat too. Jesus, what'd you eat for breakfast?" it said to Alex Mercer in the secret car language. Alex Mercer just gave it a dirty look for a moment, his hood flopping dramatically, before running like hell. The military squad likely noticed him and readied their battle cellos, the simple yet haunting song echoing throughout the city.
Somebody was busy being dead and also a zombie while his eye was plucked out by a crow as Alex Mercer ran past, sending newspapers flying. Alex Mercer's intended route of escape was intercepted by another taxi, a friend of N.Y.C 3T50.
"EY WHAT THE FUCK YOU SICK FILTHY ANIMAL CAN'T A TAXI BE PARKED AROUND HEAH WITHOUT SOME JACKOFF CHUCKIN' IT AROUND" it cried in righteous anger as Alex Mercer approached, vaulting over another unimportant non-taxi car. Unfortunately, Alex Mercer did not speak the secret car language and just fucking jumped on the taxi's roof like a trampoline as he flew upwards and onwards, crushing it into a shape of flatness and scattering glass all over the place for somebody else to pick up.
A moment of slow motion and fish-eye occurred as the battle cellos grew to a crescendo, the newspapers fluttering as though caught in a hurricane before Alex Mercer returned to the pavement, creating another pothole for another taxi to get stuck in and restart the cycle. He continued his monologue, this time with something of a non sequitur.
"Three weeks ago someone released a lethal virus in Penn Station." Yet another taxi looked on in horror at Alex Mercer's transporticidal rampage. He ignored it, opting to hop up on top of a truck, squashing it down too, before flinging himself at a light post to do a few sick loop-de-loops.
"I woke up in a morgue." The light was becoming rather bent out of shape, what with Alex Mercer leaving big ol' handprints all over it as he continued to orbit it. Finally he let himself go, the momentum launching him at a building with plenty of windows for him to stomp on as he ascended it.
"Now I hunt, I kill, I consume, I become." Alex Mercer's voice grew immeasurably more energetic as he leapt to another building, making a rooftop pothole and thwarting any flying taxis that the government might develop. "I'm gonna find out who did this to me... And I'm gonna make 'em pay." Perhaps Alex Mercer meant for them to pay the electric bill, for the entire world then went dark.