He'd start with a punch to the center of the spine. Perhaps a blow to the solar plexus. Wind the shadow. Crush the bones in her hands. It would feel nice to listen to them snap. Break her legs – first the fibula, then the tibia, then finally her femurs. Then break her ribs. Start from the bottom or work his way up? He'd have to be careful not to puncture her lungs. Then he'd slowly crush her skull until the light drained from her eyes, and. . .
No.
That wasn't right – Walker would never let him close enough.
Rewind. Rework.
Wards could be tricky. Wardens could be trickier.
He'd start with a plasma blast. Instinct said aim for the head, but the scientist the fighter the bloodthirsty beast in his brain states that center-mass shots were more effective. So a blow to the solar plexus, then. Plasma may not work for all ghosts, but Penelope Spectra was special, and he knew for a fact that she would blister under the force.
Good.
He wanted her to burn. To blister. To feel her skin bubble and welt and char until it felt like she'd been dipped in hellfire, cleansed with white-hot fury for a crime that she didn't even know existed and then he'd watch her flesh boil like an over-basted turkey, laughing from the corner just like all those years ago, watch her cry as she did him, and then she would understand what exactly. . .
No. Calm.
Rash minds did not formulate sound plans. A tactician worth his salt knew his limitations. Emotions could not play a role in the process. You could hate. You could fester. You could despise. But that interfered with the execution of a plan. He didn't have the patience for such things. If one was to do something worthwhile, it was more than prudent to do that thing correctly on the first try.
Rewind. Rework.
Play it until it's perfect.
He'd start with a plasma blast to the –
"Uncle Vlad?"
Jasmine's little voice, high and tentative and just this side of frightened, broke him from his musings. The imagined ringing of the shadow's cries for mercy Spectra Spectra Spectra rip burn tear kill faded into a low echo. Omnipresent but not quite there, forever bouncing off the inside of his skull. Vlad Masters was a patient man. He had waited this long for his revenge, allowed his fury to sit on a low heat for nearly a decade now. Revenge could wait a tad bit longer.
Vlad stretched, placing his fountain pen back on its holder as he looked towards the source of the little voice. Jasmine was peeking around the door frame, violet eyes wide and almost frightened in the low light of his study. Today had been her final day of school. She'd been quiet all afternoon, flighty as a little rabbit. It made the anger in his chest fester, a new wound that scraped at nerves already raw until he was ready to find the culprit. But Jasmine was such a sensitive little thing. Far too clever for her own good sometimes. He didn't need her to see such nastiness.
Not yet – not when there were still monsters lurking under the bed and the threat of her mother's shadow looming in the distance.
"What's the matter, kiska?" he crooned. "You should be in bed."
It was late, nearing eleven o'clock. Jasmine still had nightmares, but she was typically an early-to-bed child. This was abnormal for her.
Jasmine shuffled into his study, arms wrapped tight about the threadbare teddy she'd named Bearbert, and Vlad felt the burn in his chest fade. She looked so tiny, not-quite dwarfed by her baby blue nightgown, and those big eyes never failed to make him melt. He was hard-pressed to deny her anything. Ever. And, somewhere deep in the recesses of his heart, Vlad dreaded the day that Jasmine figured out what to do with that knowledge.
For now, she was content with just wheedling extra bedtime stories out of him.
Vlad pushed away from his mahogany desk and stood with a groan. His spine cracked with a series of wet pops, eyes burning, but he smiled nonetheless at his goddaughter. She barreled into his chest as he knelt. The warm, fuzzy bubbles that dwelled in his heart specifically for her popped and brightened in rapid succession. He swept her up into his arms without much effort.
"I had a bad dream," she whimpered in Russian; her grasp on the language had grown quite good. "Can I sleep in your bed tonight?"
Dr. Spelka had advised against using co-sleeping as a method of coping with Jasmine. He feared they were becoming co-dependent. He feared it would impact her ability to process fear in a healthy manner as she grew. He feared many things Vlad suspected one of them was he himself.
Vladimir Masters did not like psychologists. Vladimir Masters did not trust psychologists. Vladimir Masters did whatever he damn well pleased.
"Alright, lastochka. Would you like another story as well? We can read another chapter of Harry Potter, or I can grab your storybook. The decision is yours."
The manor was quiet save for the crack of thunder outside, the lashing of rain against the windows. Jasmine snuggled in against him, little legs wrapped tight about his waist. Vlad hummed an old lullaby under his breath as he made his way towards the master suite. The lack of light did not hinder him. And it did not upset Jasmine so long as he was with her. So he didn't bother with lights, just stroked a hand along her tiny back as he walked.
"I wanna read about the Dragon Prince," Jasmine murmured against his ear. "Is that okay?"
Vlad hummed, pressing a kiss to her temple as he settled the tiny girl amongst an ocean of blankets atop his bed. "That's more than okay, precious. You wait here while I change in the bathroom, and we'll read when I return, alright?"
Though his goddaughter was an eloquent, well-spoken child for the most part, there were moments where it seemed words failed her. This seemed to be one of those moments. She just nodded, staring up at him with those big, violet eyes, and the heat in his chest returned. Burning, aching, ripping through his ribcage like a bullet. It felt almost like he had a dragon in his chest. Scales and heat and dripping fangs that chipped away at his ribcage until it nestled between the ribs.
His hands started shaking, fingers wrapped in the flannel of his pajama bottoms, but he remained calm. Emotions were fuel. But they had no place here, not when Jasmine could still see him. Calmly, calmly, Vlad removed his pajama set from the drawer and moved towards the master bathroom. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
His hands were shaking.
Why were his hands still shaking?
Daniel was so tiny, so frail, and there weren't any eyes in his little head, just big green caverns filled with ectoplasm, and he could see the trackmarks along the ditches of his elbows, incision scars peeking from beneath the collar of his tee, and his mind is brilliant. He studied diseases and drugs and everything he could possibly get his hands on during that awful time in the hospital, and he knew the signs of severe malnutrition, had noted the brittle quality to Daniel's snow-white hair, and the absolute terror that had written itself all over his over-thin face when he saw Plasmius and how dare they make that tiny, broken impressionable little child think that Spectra was anything but a mOnStEr. . .
Vlad growled in the silence, heard it echo off the marbled bathroom tile. He took a deep breath, pulled it tight into his lungs, and held it there until it burned. Then he released it. He focused on his bedtime routine rather than the dragon tearing its way through his ribs. There were no claws digging away chunks of bone; fingers were pulling on his pajama bottoms. There were no teeth gnawing on the nubs of his spine; he pulled on a white undershirt. Nothing whispered oil-slick words against the confines of his skull; he brushed his teeth, combed his hair.
He did not stare at the bruises beneath his eyes.
He did not take note of the way his nails had been gnawed to bleeding.
There was nothing wrong. Absolutely nothing. Jasmine needed her story.
There was. no. dragon.
Vlad took another deep breath. Let it out. Glared at the monster in the mirror and tried to ignore the sound of her laughter echoing in his ears. He strode out of the bathroom with loose hair and a soft smile, pajamas making him less imposing.
Jasmine was curled atop the duvet, arms wrapped about the embossed cover of her favorite storybook. The tome dwarfed her, wider than the child's thin torso, and it seemed to exaggerate her petite frame. She was so tiny, so fragile.
Jasmine and Daniel looked so much alike, really, down to the shape of their eyes and the curve of their lips. Daniel did not have eyes anymore but the way his head tilted when interested, the way he structured questions, the shape of his fingernails against Spectra's shirt, the curve of his tiny lips and his high cheekbones and that jawline which would have undoubtedly become razor-sharp had he grown were unmistakable. He was Madeleine's child. He was traumatized. He was broken. He was. . . with a mOnStEr.
Vlad swallowed and turned down the covers, allowing Jasmine to snuggle down before slipping in himself. She pressed in against his side, fingers white-knuckled on the cotton of his shirt. Her whole body trembled. Vlad pretended that he didn't notice. Instead, he turned to the story she had requested, waiting for the quiet whispers and growls that floated from the ancient pages to fade before beginning to read. Red and green and violet light suffused the air. Bathed the room in shadows.
For a moment, Jasmine appeared as though she had no eyes, gaunt and frail and brittle enough to snap.
"Once upon a time, before the world became old and the Zone of my people was old, there rose a kingdom of beasts. . ."
~*O*~
Vlad finished the story and listened to the sound of Jasmine's breathing. He could feel her heartbeat fluttering steadily beneath her ribcage, a trapped bird. The last storm of May thundered outside the windows.
His skin itched. His fingers twitched. The lights from the magic storybook mocked him, playing shadows across the room and twisting familiar images into something grotesque, and the only thing he could see were the shriveled, broken, emaciated corpses of children. Little bodies he could have protected, should have protected. There was a little boy with no eyes in the corner. There was a little girl with a broken heart tucked into his side.
His hands were shaking.
Vlad closed the book and adjusted to the darkness once more. Gently, very gently, he tucked Jasmine in, separating a clone of himself to keep her warm. To keep her safe.
"Do not let her wake," he warned, eyes hard. "She has had a rough night already. No need to make it worse, yes?"
The clone nodded and took up position. Vlad didn't spare another moment. He transformed and felt the flashfire of agony sink into his bones, let it thrum with radiation through his tissue and soul. It hurt. It would never not hurt. But the hurt was a center, a stone to keep clenched in his fists and focus his energies around.
Plasmius stood in the center of a storm, watched Jasmine sleep with something deeper than hatred festering in his chest.
"I'll return when I have answers," he growled, soft as a scalpel.
And with that, he shot into the night sky.
The thrum of electricity in the sky, of electrons colliding with enough force to rip the sky and strike the earth beneath, was exhilarating. Rain pelted him in angry, icy sheets. It evaporated where it touched his skin. Wind ripped at his face, tore at his clothes and his hair, and it pushed against him in a warning that screamed, "you don't want to know!"
Except he was Vlad Plasmius.
Knowledge was a weapon, a tool, and he had to know.
Thunder roared overhead. Lightning reached for him with a ferocity that made the fine hairs on his nape stand on-end. It was the storm that signaled the beginning of summer. The storm that refused to be defied. The darkness was deep, and loud, and it demanded to be acknowledged. To be obeyed.
Vlad did none of those things.
Instead, he flew harder, farther, faster, until the dim lights of Amity Park twinkled below him. He fought the lightning, battled the wind, and turned a deaf ear to the thunder that rattled in his ears like demolished glass bones and broken little boys with no eyes and terrified little girls with no trust. He was an unstoppable force. Powerful, angry, implacable. No storm would deter him.
you don't want to see, little half-mutt, you don't understand stop stop stop
A familiar garish shape emerged from the darkness. Vlad stopped dead, hovering above the glaring neon sign that traced "Fenton" into the ion-charged air like a curse, a bane. His jaw tightened in response. The bright green letters were mocking, taunting. A challenge that he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to take on.
Vladimir Ivanov was a little boy who loved a girl with violet eyes, who changed his name and lost his home but adored a tiny chestnut-haired Madeleine with a mind that outstripped everything in its path. Vladimir Masters was a teenager who loved Maddie, who smiled just for him, who was pants at chess but brilliant at science. Vlad Masters was a young man who was overlooked by a girl he loved more than anything, who stood in the shadow of an idiot, full of sound and fury yet ultimately inferior.
Vlad Plasmius was an abomination who loved a little girl with violet eyes, who obsessed over a woman that abandoned him, who lied and manipulated and clawed his way to the top of a mountain with ravening wolves at its base. Vlad Plasmius was a mistake who read stories to a dead-eyed little girl in the dead of night, who ate French Toast with milk mustaches, who ran barefoot in the backyard with his daughter who said her mother was a monster and, still, his heart would not let her go.
There was a door shaped like Fenton Works. It blocked truth, blocked answers, kept him happy and safe and blissfully not so ignorant. But knowledge was power. Power was everything. Vlad wanted it. Needed it. His skin was crawling with the itch of not-knowing.
But in the back of his mind, he could see Daniel's scarred, malnutrition-ravaged body and his eyeless stare and the way he clung to Her. And he could hear Jasmine pleading with her mother to just stop, please, Mommy I'll be better! in the depths of a nightmare, the desperation gnawing chunks off his heart, and he could see that little girl he'd met in her hospital bed all those months ago, frail and broken and so untrusting, and it had been like looking at another abandoned, frail child trapped in a bed and wondering why no one loved him.
The door was closed, illuminated garish emerald neon about its edges, and it mocked him.
There were answers; could he pay the price? Could he bear the weight?
A flash of lightning, rippling along his skin. An immediate roar of thunder. Sheets of icy rain. Nature shrieking its warning claxons. Except Vlad Masters bowed to no one never again and it went unheeded.
Vlad chose.
The door was to be opened.
He phased through the thick brick of the old townhouse walls. The anti-ecto shielding of the building had obviously been long-deactivated. There was no pain, no resistance. He invaded easy as breathing.
It was. . . disgusting. Empty beer bottles littered the family-room floor. Ancient, molding plates of half-consumed food littered every table, monuments of filth against the dust-riddled surfaces. There were unnamed stains on the area rug. Holes in the drywall. Shattered glass surrounding a family picture, lying where it had fallen. Daniel's little face was covered by the fractures, and Jasmine looked even smaller, surrounded by Jack's bulk and the weight of Madeleine's presence.
Vlad curled his lip in disdain.
There was muttering coming from behind a door to what he assumed lead to the basement. The sound of a shower running from upstairs. So they weren't in the same room. Invisibility was a friend, an asset. But the decision still had to be made. Upstairs or downstairs?
Shoulders tight, knuckles cracking, he sank through the floor once more. There was a bit more friction this time, anti-ecto walls a bit thicker, a bit stronger. But not enough to deter him. Not enough to hide what lay beneath the innocuous floor of what was once a family home.
His stomach revolted. His body physically recoiled. His eyes watered.
That smell. . .
Vlad kept an iron grip on his invisibility. But only just. And he was not a good man. Violence was a tool just like any other. Ectoplasm and blood alike had been spread across his knuckles. But this. . . this was different.
The hulking frame of Jack Fenton stood hunched over a nearby workbench, swaying drunkenly as he muttered to himself. Ectoplasm smeared him up to his elbows. Some cracked, some dried. Some wet and fresh and gleaming. Strapped to the table, emaciated and weakened, was the once-massive form of a canid-type ghost. Tubes emerged haphazardly from large bald patches in its fur. Its fingers dripped ectoplasm, long claws having obviously been torn from their solid bases. There was ectoplasm dripping over its muzzled jaw. Teeth, both long canines and grinding molars, floated in specimen jars near where Jack worked.
The ghost whimpered as a machine beeped. Jack whirled and snarled, "Shaddup! Schtupid ghost. . . couldn' even help us find Danny. . . fuckin' useless."
This wasn't right.
This wasn't right.
Jack Fenton was an idiot. Jack Fenton was callous and careless and a drunken fool that failed to grasp that his actions had consequences. But the man had never been cruel. Never been vulgar. Not even the worst of his blackout drinking phase.
But this Jack Fenton was up to his elbows in ectoplasm from a creature that had obviously been tortured. Near-vivisected if the stitched wounds along its – his now that Vlad got a closer look – torso. The ghost snuffled, ears flicking. It muttered deliriously in Esperanto. Broken phrases that made Vlad's stomach drop in horror.
Home. Go home. Please, no more. Just want to go home. Will be good. Do not know cub – go home, please?
The stench of fetid meat and blood was nearly overwhelming. Vlad's fingers trembled. His gag reflex was this close to triggering, to giving away his position. Fight or flight was threatening to kick in, instinct screaming get out get out get away with skin crawling, nerves alight. But he couldn't leave. Not now. Not yet.
There was much to be learned.
Vlad moved in silence, always in shadow. The laboratory was a mess. Half-finished notes spread haphazardly across the tables, stained with ectoplasm and various other unmentionables. Specimen jars filled with ghostly organs; a small, desiccated eyeball, a pancreas, what looked to be a partial core. There were tapes, files, and tools littering every available surface. There were pictures tacked to a corkboard on the wall. Notes. Files and captions in neat type-print below each one.
His eyes scanned them.
His muscles locked, seized, and terror jolted down his spine. Horror. Revulsion. Rage. The primal, gut instinct of no no no no no no no mOnStErS kIlL tHeM aLL that made his vision wash red and his fingers twitch and, oh, GOD NO.
Hot. Burning. Pain. Agony. Rage. Festered and boiled and blistered until his fingers were irons and his blood was magma and his soul was the core of the Sun and kill kill kill kill. . .
It happened in a flash.
He was invisible. He was in control. And then he saw the picture. Looked at the image of a child with no eyes. An open chest cavity. An emaciated frame. Tiny hands. Collapsed veins and stark ribcages. Counted the vertebrae beneath over-stretched skin.
No control. No control. Only emotion.
Only rage.
A monster, a beast with fangs and razor-claws, and it tore into Jack Fenton like a bloated, fermented carcass. Blood rushed in his ears. There was something, someone, roaring. Screaming. Far away and too close. Something hot brushed his face, liquid. The air tasted like copper pennies and Death.
Why?
His fists ached. His jaw was sore. Jack was staring at him but his eyes had been bruised. Fat piece of shit. Absolute bastard. Someone slammed their fist into the bulbous protrusion of Jack-mother-fucking-Fenton's nose. Dear God but his fists hurt. Red slicked skin. What happened? Who else was here?
Why?!
Punch. Punch. Crunch. Punch. Crunch. Punch-crunch-punch-crunch-punch-crunch skreeeeeeeeee
Nails on a chalkboard. Glass in a blender. Screaming and crunching and red-slicked knuckles. Something shifted and pain shot up his forearm from one knuckle. Blood whooshed in his ears. Howling. No more screaming. Wait, not right. Only one screaming.
Why?!
Blood blood blood slicked his knuckles and spattered his face and the air tasted like dirty coins and Vladimir Masters was a boy who loved a girl but Vlad Plasmius was a monster who punched and punched and crunched and there was no face, nothing but swollen flesh and blood and bits of bone and, oh God, what the fuck had he done?!
"Epinephrine, also known as adrenaline, is an excitatory neurotransmitter in the brain responsible for regulating visceral function."
Burning. Heat. Pain. Thump thump thump and
bOoM
went the dynamite, screech went the Plasmius-monster, and he couldn't breathe.
The canid-ghost whimpered. Muttered something broken in Esperanto. Vlad's fingers trembled terribly. It was a horrid habit; one he should have broken many years ago. Mama was going to be so disappointed in him. Take a cane to his fingers again.
Vlad breathed. In and out and in again. Wheezed. Why was he wheezing? Something dropped to the concrete floor, spattered wetly. He didn't care to look. There were more important things to be done.
"When faced with a horrific trauma, or something that the psyche cannot process, the brain uses a self-defense mechanism which, in essence, blocks the aforementioned trauma from being processed. This may be common in PTSD patients and causes a form of trauma-induced amnesia. Some patients never fully recover their memories."
The straps were ghost-proof, coated in an anti-ecto residue that made them impossible to phase through, incredibly durable material, oddly enough. Vlad did not fumble with the buckles. His hands were slicked and red red red why was there so much blood what was gurgling? difficult to manipulate but Vlad Plasmius did not fumble. The buckles gave after a moment or two.
The ghost did not move. It couldn't – too weakened from starvation, from drug use, from terror. Half-delirious and muttering incoherently.
No, please, didn't take cub. Want to go home. Please? Home?
he was burning and he was in pain and where was Maddie? was Maddie alright? did she get out safe? what was happening and there were lights, so many lights, agony in his brain and along his skin and he was boiling burning charring choking smoke in his lungs alone alone alone where was Maddie? why was he alone? scared scared scared help me
Vlad Plasmius reached out and clenched his fist in the beast's torn prison-shirt. His muscles burned. His jaw ached. His knuckles throbbed. Agony. There was something wrong in this lab; something kept gurgling. A broken tap perhaps? He didn't know. Didn't care.
Something was wrong.
His muscles burned. He ignored them. He stepped over - and hauled the canid to its feet. Dragged it to the portal. Squelching, wet, like stepping in a puddle. Why? How? Didn't matter – it needed ectoplasm, needed to leave this place. This place was horrible needles injections curious eyes laughter from the corner shadows screaming pain why why why? and Vlad didn't want to stay here a moment longer.
"-? - are you down here? I heard something."
A familiar voice. Beautiful. Vlad Masters had chased that voice for over half his life, craved it, heard it echo off the cracks in his skull in the dead of night. Curious, cautious, unaware. Sickening.
His stomach revolted. This place was disgusting. How could she stand the smell?
hOw CoUlD sHe?!
Someone was breathing too quickly. Hyperventilating. That was dangerous. It could cause respiratory acidosis, a chain reaction that could put the body into a self-induced shut-down.
The canid disappeared into swirling green, the door of a portal that was open. Vlad hadn't noticed it before. Or perhaps he did? The world spun. Heart thumping, knees weak, chest heaving.
Oh – he was hyperventilating.
Black crept over the edges of his vision. Encroached upon him with gnashing teeth and whispering shadows. But he was Vlad Plasmius, and Plasmius was a monster, and he fought back with venom and fury, flesh boiling against the over-radiated heat of his bones. Thump-thump-thump went the muscle beneath his sternum.
Crunch-crunch-crunch had gone the bones beneath his fists.
Everything hurt. His heart, his eyes, his mind, his knuckles. Vlad clenched his jaw and his fingers. Something shifted in his knuckles. Not normal. Not right. He didn't particularly care.
He trembled. He shook. He breathed.
"-?! Oh my God!"
And it was a shriek. Shock and horror, revulsion coloring each syllable. It sounded almost human. Unlike an automaton. Vlad had never heard her voice do that before. Not even in the moments after his accident, when he'd rolled on the floor in agony and clutching a body that had been irreversibly damaged. Broken. Morphed.
A monster. . .
Vlad turned. Watched.
Madeleine clutched - to her chest, eyes wide. Blood spattered her cheeks. Stained her bathrobe. Tears streaked from her eyes. Shock. Shock, shock, and more shock but no sadness, no fear. Nothing but the surprise one might see in any person who'd just received unpleasant news or witnessed a particularly brutal argument.
Violet eyes lifted to him. They were so like Jasmine's. But not. Vlad could see it now. The resemblance and the not-resemblance which melded together to form a ball of love and grief and utter, uncomprehending anger in his chest.
Because Jasmine was soft and sweet and intelligent and utterly, unfailingly kind at her core. She was frightened and precocious. She loved him dearly even when he didn't deserve it. And he knew that. Knew that even when she begged him for bedtime stories and asked him amazing questions and demanded that he eat before business meetings because he would otherwise forget. Even when he soothed her nightmares and suffered through therapy sessions with a man whose eyes made his skin crawl.
Jasmine was kind, and sweet, and good, and he adored her.
And Madeleine was everything he had ever wanted, everything he had ever dreamed of. She was brilliant, and beautiful, and vivacious. She was bold when he was not, and she was daring when he was apprehensive, and she had gotten him through the worst years of childhood a boy could know with that razor-sharp mind of hers. But she was cold, and exacting, and she had hurt his Jasmine, and she abandoned him, and. . . .
Madeleine's eyes were violet, beautiful, and dead.
And wasn't that ironic?
Vlad Masters died on a cold October day at Wisconsin University, and he stared into a pair of eyes that were emptier than the afterlife ever had been.
"What did you do to my husband?" Madeleine growled.
Her eyes were empty. No sadness. No remorse. Just surprise and a deep, burning need to know.
His fingers twitched. His chest burned. Rage. Confusion. Sadness. Heartbreak.
why why why is Maddie okay? what happened where why why why whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy?!
"Post-Traumatic Stress disorder (PTSD) is a mental-health condition that is triggered by a terrifying event, either via witnessing it or experiencing the circumstances personally."
"I defended you," Vlad wheezed, growled. "I defended you, even when I came to the realization that you hurt Jasmine. Even when Jasmine said you killed Daniel. I didn't believe it. Because I love you."
Madeleine's eyebrows draw together. Wary confusion. Curiosity. It burned in her eyes. There was blood smeared over her chin. - was beginning to cool.
There was red cracking over the skin of his knuckles. It itched.
"What are you talking about, ghost?" Her voice was moderated, cold; her gaze flitted to the empty examination table. "I don't understand. What did you do to my specimen? It should still be there."
Specimen. It. Table. Don't understand.
Vlad's fingers twitched. His jaw clenched.
Rage. Burning. Pain. break bones crunch punch crunch punch kill kill kill kill
"Look at me, Maddie. Look at my face. Who do you see?"
Ice. Amethyst-colored ice. Clinical observation, scientific curiosity. There was no recognition. No warmth. There was blood coagulating on the tile at her feet. There were body parts floating in specimen jars behind her.
They stood in a pit of death.
"I see the monster who killed my husband." Her voice took on a sharp edge. "Did you take my son? Did you take my Danny?"
Danny. Danny. Daniel.
No eyes. An open chest cavity. Collapsed veins. Malnutrition. He could trace the space between radius and ulna. Ribs beneath bleached skin. Bruises. Lacerations. A label, a title: Ghost Boy.
Burning. Agony. Pain. Heartbreak.
Vlad started to laugh. Low and choked. Then higher, higher, until he was nearly doubled in hysterics, fangs over-sharp in his jaw and fingers shaking so hard he could barely clench them into a fist. Tears leaked from his eyes. They were too red. Everything hurt. But still he laughed. Long and loud. It echoed in the torture-chamber.
It shattered the glass.
Recognition. Realization. Horror. Disbelief.
"I have custody of your daughter, Maddie!" Vlad cackled, wheezing. "You took Daniel away by yourself!"
Madeleine started shaking her head. Slowly, then more rapidly. Stubbornness etched itself across her face, a hard certainty that he adored once admired. The rage burned hotter. He was lightning in a skinsuit. He was magma trapped in flesh. He was wrath.
"No – that isn't possible. You aren't Vlad," she asserted, and there was only the faintest tremble to her voice. "Vlad isn't a ghost. He survived the accident. You're just wearing his face like that other ghost did to my Danny."
He moved. Fast. Lightning in a bottle.
Madeleine yelped as he pinned her to the wall. The air smelled of death, of copper, of formaldehyde and solvent and machining oil. Madeleine smelled of fresh shampoo – the ends of her hair still dripped water.
"You murdered your son," he hissed. "You abandoned me."
Madeleine shook her head. He trembled, clenched his hands harder. She gasped. There were bruises forming over her wrists. The flaked red on his hands cracked further. His knuckles were screaming. His heart hurt.
He wanted to go home now.
"Let go of me! You're a monster!" Maddie snarled.
Vlad stilled.
A dangerous stillness. The moment of quiet before the explosion.
The world sharpened. Rage scintillated into a singular point in Time. Somewhere, a dream made reality hummed, and its sleepwalkers murmured without voices. At some point, a concept made form clenched bony fists about a weapon and waited.
Time watched, and It smiled. For this always was meant to be.
Vlad leaned forward. Pressed his forehead to hers. She thrashed. She kicked. She whimpered. Tears of pain leaked from empty violet eyes. But he didn't relent. He stared for a long, hard moment. Saliva and venom dripped over his lips, down his chin.
"Of course I'm a monster, milyy," he crooned, hissed, sibilant and terrible. "You made me."
He squeezed until the bones beneath his fingers cracked, splintered, and Madeleine Fenton shrieked in agony before dropping to the stained floors of her torture chamber.
Vlad Plasmius looked without seeing at four walls and a floor and a ceiling and the endless tales of horror written across them. He shot to the cork board. He gathered files. He tore away pictures. He smashed specimen jars. He gathered everything into his arms and shot through the portal. Into the void of the Zone.
His skin was too small.
Rage. Pain. Heartbreak. Confusion.
why why why why why why whywhywhywhywhywhy?!
He was lightning in a skinsuit. Fire rippling through flesh. He was Rage. A terrible, incoherent thing. Too many thoughts. Too many feelings. They ripped and they tore and kill kill kill kill kill –
The files were left at the prison, thrust into the arms of some wide-eyed guard who could barely utter a sentence in his presence. And he was moving. Fast. Faster. Faster.
Time smiled.
A behemoth roared.
Vlad Plasmius roared in return, and in his fury the beast was silenced, and the Zone shuddered as a something shifted in the Ether.
A monster, it seemed, was born.
~*O*~
Once upon a time, before the world became old and the Zone of my people was old, there rose a kingdom of beasts.
No.
This isn't right.
It's more akin to –
a king who is not a king crowns himself in iron and thorns. he is not a man, not by the sense in which the civilized classify themselves. he walks upon two legs sometimes and he speaks the tongue of my people the syllables are strange and his clothing is made of the finest materials available they ripple oddly like scales. he arrives without warning, strikes without cause, and my people are crushed beneath the weight of his glory.
they call him aeron, and he is the dragon king.
he comes in a flurry of fire, flashing scales and gnashing teeth, and he razes everything in his path. the rivers of my home are awash with blood. my people cry in terror. some cry in awe.
all bow their heads and surrender.
aeron is a dragon king, and the weight of his scales is terrible, and he crushes us beneath his might. he has two wives. they are fragile, frightened things, these women, these brides cloaked in ivory scales and dripping in bloodstained jewels. they are beasts as aeron is, elegant in their horror, but they haven't the heat of is flame nor the venom of his fury. they are meek beneath their husband's claws.
they each bear one child.
the first is a girl, born to the elder wife, and her father names her dorathea. she is small and petite, sapphire scales and a wicked temper like her father. her heart is passive, however, and though her temper is quick and vicious, she is even quicker to quail in the face of consequence. the people do not fear dorathea.
years pass. the king does not waiver in his ferocity, in his casual cruelty. his wives do not move without leave to do so. dorathea grows, pretty and overlooked and passive. there is no change. the people regard their conqueror and his two wives and his small daughter and they think that there is an end. aeron is a dragon, and he is a beast, and his weight is a terrible thing. but he is fallible. he will fall. all they need is Time.
my people have hope.
and then my people watch their hope die.
there is a second wife, a younger wife, and she is aeron's favored treasure. she is vicious and cruel, kept pacified and terrified, and her beauty is the stuff of legend. she bears one child and leaves to the Beyond on the darkest day of the year.
she bears a son.
the king names his child aragon, names his son as successor to the throne, and my people despair. for the boy is strong as his father, wickedly tempered as his sister, and possesses all the sick cruelty of his mother. he is vicious and stupid and needless violence is his calling card. the princess trembles to look upon him. the king laughs and it sounds like a battle-cry to the heavens. they are strong. they are unbreakable.
dragons with hearts of fire and spines made of steel, and their teeth are swords that flash before the end.
the elders hear their cries and it takes so very long, many years, but the call is answered.
the first is old and wise, but he fades in his sleep. the second does not make it a year before he is felled by prince aragon, roaring challenge to the void. the third is cruel, and stupid, and the people will not trade one vicious idiot for another. the council listens. the elders watch. my people cry.
the zone is young and my people are battered and finally there is another.
a challenger, who was a warrior in his life and a king in his death, with a voice like thunder and fists like granite. he is cruel but not stupid, and he is strong but his weight may be tolerated, and my people finally witness the fall of a dragon. king aeron falls in a blast of plasma, a hail of sword blows, suffocated by shadows that wrap around him in serpent coils.
it is such a quiet thing. to watch a fire die. to watch a star fall.
there is a king in the zone, and my people call him pariah, and we do not see the weight of our actions until it is too late. for prince aragon is young, and he is a vicious idiot, but he refuses to bow before the tyrant that has murdered his beloved father. and princess dorathea is a meek, timid thing, but she is quietly intelligent, and she waits inside the castle for opportunity to come.
they are dragons.
dragons are more than difficult to kill.
there is a king, who holds thunderstorms in his heart and granite in his fists. they call him pariah, for what was once an outcast now rules them. they look upon his glory, upon his strength, and they tremble to behold the fruits of their mistakes. my people are fools, for how can a king be anything but a tyrant in a place such as this?
there is a warrior, who is a serpent, who can change his scales. he moves in coils and shadows, the taste of frozen sea foam clinging to his frame. he fights and claws and defends his king to the final bloody end, a loyal watchdog. he watches their queen with thirsty eyes. they call him calder, for he has emerged from rough waters. a noble fighter, but he is falling into madness. for how can one retain sanity when they cannot remember their own face?
there is a queen, who is beautiful and not, who watches with too-dark eyes and bloodstained lips. they call her anathema, perfect and cold and deadly as hemlock. she does not fall into madness, for how can one fall into fever when they are so terribly, horribly cold? her smile shatters bones. her fingers hold the heart of a king and a serpent.
but this is a story you know, yes?
the usurper kills the tyrant. another tyrant rises anew. and the cycle continues as the children of the before-tyrant are knelt in defeat.
except. . .
aragon does not kneel. rather, he holds his chin high and roars a challenge to the void. brash and loud and fearless in his fury.
dorathea waits in studied patience, in silent venom. quiet and pretty and deadly.
there is fire in their hearts, teeth like swords in their heads, and their scales weather blows that break my people down. it is a fall that happens over millennia. years spent watching their king bark and roar and bash blows down upon their heads.
but the dragon-prince and his dragon-princess do not cower. they do not yield. they bring a king to madness. they bring a queen to faded death. they do not bother with the serpent warrior, but what is a serpent to a dragon? what is the sea to the sky?
aragon roars and blasts flame, and he creates a behemoth to protect the key to his kingdom's destruction. it is a terrible beast, great and ugly and ever-changing, and it guards its treasure jealously. like a dragon.
dorathea is quiet and demur, a study in meekness, and she faces the newest ancients with eyes that glitter like wicked secrets. she keeps the queen's ring, covets it like a sacred thing, until forced to relinquish her trophy.
oh – did you not know dragons could have venom too?
once upon a time, the zone was new, and my people were young, and there were dragons.
once upon a time, the zone was not new, and my people were tired of despair, and there were dragons.
once upon a time, there will be an old zone, and my people will be crueler and more contemptuous and jaded, and we will be fools that cannot spot a lie.
and there will still be dragons.
will you be there to bear witness?
~*O*~