NOTE: Sorry about this chapter being so short, but I wanted to get going with the NEXT chapter, which will be about our favorite Umbrella agent's first rookie mission, and will explain in detail how his cold persona and famous "Mr. Death" nickname came to be.
My eyes crack open, seeing the uniform and the mask on the wall regarding me blankly, the cold, sober reality quickly replacing the heaven of the warzone. I choke back a hopeless cry. My complete identity, so close after countless years of being without it… and I can't even get out of this fucking bed to go to it. The mask continues to watch my fruitless struggle, the two red lenses staring holes into my empty soul, willing me the strength to get up, to take hold of it once again.
I answer the call, the old steel-blue strength flowing into me once more, setting my crackling elbows on the bed, shakily lifting myself up to a sitting position. My stomach feels sunken in and my back wrenches in response, but at least I'm not uselessly lying down anymore. At least my sight is level enough to lock gazes with the mask's crimson stare. Wheezing, I slowly rotate myself so my legs flop over the edge of the bed, my withered feet landing on the floor with brutal slaps. I can't be sure, but I don't think I've left this bed for years. So I do just that, my skinny, frail legs shuddering under my weight, but holding me up nonetheless, a mystery in itself.
I look at the uniform on the wall and I realize that it's no mystery, my frail human vessel containing what's left of me can feel the real body nearby, the uniform, waiting patiently for me, and it's clear the vessel too is tired of rotting, the vessel wants back into the warzone. The vessel wants to feel alive again, and my true body, the uniform, is key.
The mission objective is to get to the uniform. To become whole again. And the mission objective has top priority over everything else.
One shaky step. Two. Three, then four, and then a stumbling five, and I'm this close to reaching it. My hand gropes out, the fingers tingling as they near the suit.
The door opens, and though I ignore it, from the corner of my eye, I still see a young nurse holding a tray of processed baby food waltz in with a slight smile, humming to herself. As soon as she walks in and sees me, her eyes widen, she drops the tray, the food splattering on the floor.
I grit my teeth at her interruption, startled once again at the jagged softness pressing against each other in my mouth… I forget I have only a few front teeth left. Just enough to be able to talk in a harsh whisper. But I still feel the old iron clench of my jaw when I look up at the suit, my true body, and then I hear the nurse call me by that wretched, weakling, human name again and again.
"Mr. Cooper!" she cries out, covering her mouth in shock. "Mr. Cooper, what… how are you… how did… oh my! Please, you mustn't move, Mr. Cooper!"
Shut up, you bitch, I want to tell her. Don't call me that. Don't fucking call me that. That's not my name. It's the name of a pathetic man, a dying man, a man the world has no use for. And I'm not that man. I'm not dying. I cannot die, because I am Death.
I want to tell her all this, but I can't waste my breath. I can't lose my focus, not now. So when she grasps my arm, pulling me away from the uniform, pulling me away from my salvation, I summon all the strength left in my vessel to shove her aside, not noticing her cry out in surprise as she trips over the spilled food and lands on her rear, not noticing the astonished, hurt, frightened expression on her face. With the uniform in front of me now, I reach out with my old shooting hand to touch it. My shoulder flares out in agonizing pain, my arm creaks like a rusty hinge, my hand cracks open, my fingers grasping out wildly for the uniform, and I shut my eyes...
NOTE: Look! It's a magic box! It says 'go', right next to 'submit review.' Legend has it that if you click it, and comment on this story, you'll meet your soul mate!
...Hey, if it works for chain letters...
