Underworld: Aftermath (Chapter 3 - Nothing Else Left)
The Hybrid sat at the foot of a well-worn, queen-size bed. He had all these memories...but not all of them were his. He was not naive enough to repress what was and had been going on, but he was not invested enough to know anything for certain, either. He had all this information: scientific and fantasy.
On the one hand, he could swear his name was Michael Corvin, and that he was a relentless intern who worked around the clock to do what he could to help people and to make sense of the world; while simultaneously he had been trying to escape it, to leave the past and its implications behind.
On the other hand, he could feel latent power just beneath the surface of his skin. His recent past, present, and future sang out at him with each pump of his heart. Flinching, images silently ripped through his mind. Flash, death. Flash, incomprehensible agony as his body refashioned itself--into something new. Flash, ferocity. Flash, bones crushing against cement and steel. Flash, rage. Flash, choking. Then, relief.
Flash.
***
Selene. Suddenly the man, the Thing, laying seige to his unfamiliar body rose up in what appeared to be greater anger. No, it hadn't been anger, it had been pure, unadulterated wrath. He focused on remembering. Selene had a blade as she turned on the far side of the bunker. She had gotten his attention. Her wrists flexed, and as they did so the blade shifted. Dark blood glazed down the broad side of the dangerous weapon. The two knife-relics in the monster's hands were all he could see. What advantage could he take? Just as he summoned up the energy to counter-attack, the monster faltered and something dropped into the pool.
Unsurprised, Michael watched through narrowed eyes as the figure before him slid down into the disturbed water. Rising silently he registered little pain as his form returned to its original state. He slowly sauntered to where Selene stood immobile. Her face was tragic in its fiendish beauty. Senselessly, she looked at him, almost as if to say, "What have I done." It hadn't been a question.
But suddenly they weren't alone. From the vacant doorways that led into the bunker, from every which way, and all around them, submissive and deep guttural sounds drew their attention. The Lycans were at bay. The sounds of gunfire had long since faded. Whatever had become of the Deathdealers, they were gone. Selene turned her attention to an indistuishable spot among the rubble and crushed steel girders. She bent, and when she rose she had Sonja's necklace in hand. Selene just looked at him, a beat later, she then slid her eyes away and began to saunter away. Michael followed, his movements in sync with her's as they exited the structure.
***
Flash, back.
He flinched. That was then. Life was now marked in three parts. Before, then, and after. Before he had been Michael...then he had been becoming something else...and after...he was sitting on a cheap queen-sized bed in a shabby motel room somewhere outside the city limits. Reminding himself that No One had ever felt what he was feeling did not make this unfathomable burden any the lighter.
The memories, at least were becoming his own. Lucian's had been horrific. His own were not much better, but then, his hadn't centered on a woman burning upon a stake in the sun, nor had they obsessed about that monster and his brutal regime of terror. Heavy stuff. "Hwah." That sounded more like himself. He was still a funny guy. Or a funny Something.
Thunder sounded. His reflexes tensed. That gunshot had come from the bathroom. With certainty, he chose to do nothing. He needed time to think. If Selene needed him, she would make it known. Selene. She still had her name. Michael...just was not who he was any longer. Corvin. His apparently ancient surname was appropriate, he decided.
"Cor-vin. Corvin," he tested it aloud. He felt more confident. At least one thing was now made right. Allowing himself a smile, he felt he had waited long enough. He stood up and took a survey of the room. A single bed, wallpaper with tacky blue and gold flowers that was peeling slowly from the ceiling, a television with one broken antenna. Someone had scratched their initials into the faux-wood finish of the television. The dresser was three rickety drawers of unfinished wood. The shade was drawn in front of a window whose sill was at the height of his upper-torso.
This nightly rental was something Michael the Intern would have stayed in when he had backpacked across Europe. He had been such a f**king cliche. Now he was something unidentifiable, nameless. F**k. They were waiting for something to happen. Until then, there was no moving forward--certainly no moving backward. Would pacing do him any good? It was nice, Normal, to be talking to himself. No, he determined, pacing would Not do him any good. He was ready to talk to himself, to begin the rationalization process.
Corvin could smell the dawn. The window must be opened a crack. Interesting how well he could identify his new faculties. Interesting how well he was assimilating. He could do nothing but accept his situation. He snorted derisively. As if this were just a situation. Something he could take to the board at the hospital where they could either absolve or reprimand him for his actions. Corvin shook his head sharply, no, that would have happened to Michael. But not to me.
Taking a last sweep of the room, he sat down again, this time at the side of the bed. He did not intend to lie down, but as he settled into it he could imagine nothing more grand than closing his eyes while he waited. Sleep could come if it dared. But damn it all there was literally nothing else left.
The Hybrid sat at the foot of a well-worn, queen-size bed. He had all these memories...but not all of them were his. He was not naive enough to repress what was and had been going on, but he was not invested enough to know anything for certain, either. He had all this information: scientific and fantasy.
On the one hand, he could swear his name was Michael Corvin, and that he was a relentless intern who worked around the clock to do what he could to help people and to make sense of the world; while simultaneously he had been trying to escape it, to leave the past and its implications behind.
On the other hand, he could feel latent power just beneath the surface of his skin. His recent past, present, and future sang out at him with each pump of his heart. Flinching, images silently ripped through his mind. Flash, death. Flash, incomprehensible agony as his body refashioned itself--into something new. Flash, ferocity. Flash, bones crushing against cement and steel. Flash, rage. Flash, choking. Then, relief.
Flash.
***
Selene. Suddenly the man, the Thing, laying seige to his unfamiliar body rose up in what appeared to be greater anger. No, it hadn't been anger, it had been pure, unadulterated wrath. He focused on remembering. Selene had a blade as she turned on the far side of the bunker. She had gotten his attention. Her wrists flexed, and as they did so the blade shifted. Dark blood glazed down the broad side of the dangerous weapon. The two knife-relics in the monster's hands were all he could see. What advantage could he take? Just as he summoned up the energy to counter-attack, the monster faltered and something dropped into the pool.
Unsurprised, Michael watched through narrowed eyes as the figure before him slid down into the disturbed water. Rising silently he registered little pain as his form returned to its original state. He slowly sauntered to where Selene stood immobile. Her face was tragic in its fiendish beauty. Senselessly, she looked at him, almost as if to say, "What have I done." It hadn't been a question.
But suddenly they weren't alone. From the vacant doorways that led into the bunker, from every which way, and all around them, submissive and deep guttural sounds drew their attention. The Lycans were at bay. The sounds of gunfire had long since faded. Whatever had become of the Deathdealers, they were gone. Selene turned her attention to an indistuishable spot among the rubble and crushed steel girders. She bent, and when she rose she had Sonja's necklace in hand. Selene just looked at him, a beat later, she then slid her eyes away and began to saunter away. Michael followed, his movements in sync with her's as they exited the structure.
***
Flash, back.
He flinched. That was then. Life was now marked in three parts. Before, then, and after. Before he had been Michael...then he had been becoming something else...and after...he was sitting on a cheap queen-sized bed in a shabby motel room somewhere outside the city limits. Reminding himself that No One had ever felt what he was feeling did not make this unfathomable burden any the lighter.
The memories, at least were becoming his own. Lucian's had been horrific. His own were not much better, but then, his hadn't centered on a woman burning upon a stake in the sun, nor had they obsessed about that monster and his brutal regime of terror. Heavy stuff. "Hwah." That sounded more like himself. He was still a funny guy. Or a funny Something.
Thunder sounded. His reflexes tensed. That gunshot had come from the bathroom. With certainty, he chose to do nothing. He needed time to think. If Selene needed him, she would make it known. Selene. She still had her name. Michael...just was not who he was any longer. Corvin. His apparently ancient surname was appropriate, he decided.
"Cor-vin. Corvin," he tested it aloud. He felt more confident. At least one thing was now made right. Allowing himself a smile, he felt he had waited long enough. He stood up and took a survey of the room. A single bed, wallpaper with tacky blue and gold flowers that was peeling slowly from the ceiling, a television with one broken antenna. Someone had scratched their initials into the faux-wood finish of the television. The dresser was three rickety drawers of unfinished wood. The shade was drawn in front of a window whose sill was at the height of his upper-torso.
This nightly rental was something Michael the Intern would have stayed in when he had backpacked across Europe. He had been such a f**king cliche. Now he was something unidentifiable, nameless. F**k. They were waiting for something to happen. Until then, there was no moving forward--certainly no moving backward. Would pacing do him any good? It was nice, Normal, to be talking to himself. No, he determined, pacing would Not do him any good. He was ready to talk to himself, to begin the rationalization process.
Corvin could smell the dawn. The window must be opened a crack. Interesting how well he could identify his new faculties. Interesting how well he was assimilating. He could do nothing but accept his situation. He snorted derisively. As if this were just a situation. Something he could take to the board at the hospital where they could either absolve or reprimand him for his actions. Corvin shook his head sharply, no, that would have happened to Michael. But not to me.
Taking a last sweep of the room, he sat down again, this time at the side of the bed. He did not intend to lie down, but as he settled into it he could imagine nothing more grand than closing his eyes while he waited. Sleep could come if it dared. But damn it all there was literally nothing else left.