Alright, here's a little background for you. ^^;
At the end of Halloween: Resurrection, Michael opens his eyes. Oo; Well, this story picks up a few months after that, assuming that he rose again, tried to kill a few people, and was imprisoned. Yes, lazy job on my part, but convenient, nonetheless. I don't own him. Duh.
Oh, and the Curse of Thorn (Thurisaz) gives him regenerative powers, which always restores him to his 21 year-old body. How handy.
Michael's clan is not the only one in existence. There's a whole race of Druids living in our world. Also, Michael isn't the only one with the curse – or blessing – of Thurisaz. One in every tribe is afflicted by it. And they all have different personalities. Now, there's a war breaking out between Michael's clan, the Jerai, and another, the Arkinaz, but without Thorn to protect them, the Jerai are sitting ducks, and no one wants another clan to fade into extinction. So the Druid Council has decided to take steps. They're sending someone in to make sure Michael gets his job done…
Two pairs of footsteps echoed over the linoleum tiles. The third pair led them in silence, shoeless for reasons we, the readers, can only assume to be either stealth or comfort. The guards that flanked her were obviously personal, as they wore casual black slacks and blazers. Both were wiry and lean. Both kept close to their charge.
The hallway was predictably cold and dark. The only thing unusual was the silence. One does not expect such death-like silence in an asylum, but this was no ordinary floor level. This was Purgatory, and most of its participants were already halfway to Hell. If any patients above them were screaming or raving, the sound didn't penetrate this particular dungeon. A camera, strategically placed in an adjacent hallway, bleeped at them idly as they passed.
"They have him on medication now," the leader announced in an amused voice, as the small group turned a corner and proceeded down a particularly foreboding stretch of hall. She was scanning the contents of the manila folder with a small flashlight. The guard on her left flank smirked.
"Triazolam?" He asked. She shook her head.
"Thorazin," she replied.
"That's a little old-school of them, don't you think? It hasn't been used since the early eighties," said the second guard. The woman shrugged.
"Loomis put him on Thorazin. It was the last noted medication on file. I doubt any of them were willing to get close enough to find out whether or not he could take the newer medicines." The hallway dead-ended with a single, solid iron door. Beside it, mounted on the wall, was a small keypad.
The first guard stepped up. He pulled a small notepad from some unseen pocket, flipped it open, and punched in a ten-digit pin number. The keypad beeped softly.
The iron door heaved open to reveal a small entry chamber, supplied with a metal detector, several rows of ready-to-use syringes, and a handgun. Clearly, Michael Myers was not a charge to be taken lightly.
The woman removed her white overcoat and tossed it to the ground. All that remained on her was a simple black outfit. In the gentle light of the tiny halogen bulb suspended above their heads, one could make out another door, this one with a small screen-like window placed in it, and a slightly smaller keypad. The screen was blank.
"TSD," she murmured darkly. "He's not going to be happy."*
"What were you expecting?" Joked one of the bodyguards. She chose not to answer. Instead, she reached out to the second keypad and punched in a seven-digit pin. The flat-screen on the door came to life. It shone deep blue for a brief moment, and then faded into pitch black once more. The halogen light snapped off. Several seconds passed as the three shared a brief moment of pitch darkness, and then a new set of lights rose into existence, creating a gentle glow within both the entrance room, and the inner chamber. Words flickered to life on the door's screen: ANTI SENSE DEPRIVATION INITIATED. PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION.
"Thanks for the warning," without hesitation, the woman reached for the door handle and pulled it open.
It seemed to go unquestioned that she should enter alone. Her bodyguards stayed within the comforting safety of the entrance chamber as she entered Michael's prison.
He was in a full-body straight jacket, sitting in a reclined position on what looked like some sort of dentist's chair, only this one came with restraints. Her eyes had already grown accustomed to the light, but his had not, and he had them squeezed shut. The room couldn't have been more than twelve feet in length and width. He was stationed in the exact center, facing the doorway.
"So it has changed you," she murmured, taking several steps closer as the door shut with a soft 'thump' behind her. The lines around Michael's eyes relaxed slightly as this new sense caught his attention: either her voice or her heartbeat captivated him quite suddenly, and he grew stone-still.
"No, I'm not going to tell you who I am. Not yet. I want you to know why I'm here, and I have a great deal of talking to do, so prepare yourself. I'm sure it hurts. You haven't heard a human voice in years." She circled around him once, and though his eyes were closed, his head followed her movements precisely. "I'm here because a war is about to start between two very old Druid tribes…and one of them doesn't have their Thurisaz for protection." At this, Michael's eyes shot open. They were dark, fathomless, and any measure of other sinister words you might choose to describe what the abyss of Hell must look like. Those large eyes trained upon her intensely as she completed her second round. She stopped at his side and looked down at him with an eerie smile.
"You have not completed the task assigned to you, Michael. If your people are attacked, they stand no chance. They will perish, and with them, so shall you." She leaned closer to look into his eyes, his unmarred young face. "My name is Akavi Perthro." She stood back up. "Not that this should ring any particular bells for you, of course. I don't expect it to. You and I are very much alike. We share the same common goal." Michael's eyes narrowed at her, expressing, in that one gesture, a world of opinions. Akavi Perthro laughed sharply.
"Yes, we do, actually." Her eyes, cold as steel, flashed in the light as she leaned forward again and pulled up her right sleeve. There, on her inner wrist, Thorn, the rune Thurisaz, was branded. Michael's eyes fell on her wrist and stopped blinking. "However, we are very different people. As you can see, I'm still free. You are not. That is because, while your methods of 'getting the job done' are more quick and effective, my method of completing Thorn's work is more subtle and indirect — and, I might add, quite a bit more satisfying." She gave him a dark smile. "I cannot describe to you how rewarding it is to watch someone tear their own face off. With a fork."
Michael blinked at her. He tilted his head curiously.
"Thorn has given you regenerative powers, hasn't it?" She mused. "Of course it has. You've been killed numerous times. You've been completely motionless for three solid years, and yet your muscles have not liquefied themselves. You're probably twice as strong now as you were when they brought you here."
"I've only been killed once. It was a very enlightening experience." She touched the thin white scar on her neck, which, at close inspection, stretched from beneath one ear, across her jugular, and past the opposing ear. Michael could hear her sharp intake of breath as she winced. "Hurt like hell, of course." This time, when she reached the end of her circle, she leaned over him and looked directly into his eyes.
"Tell me what—"
"Akavi!" The guards appeared at the door suddenly. "An attendant is on her way down here." Akavi raised an eyebrow.
"Kill her, then," she replied nonchalantly. She started to turn back to Michael.
"She's got Silvyn with her," at this, Akavi froze. Her wide eyes panned back to Myers, who watched her with his characteristic intense blankness.
"Are you sure?" She demanded sharply. There was a tone of stress in her voice now that hadn't been there before the mention of this mysterious "Silvyn".
"Positive."
"How long do we have?"
"Five minutes, tops." Akavi whirled around and put her face very close to Michael's, and when she spoke, it was in a low, hurried tone.
"I have been charged with the responsibility of making sure that you get your job done." Michael tensed visibly. He didn't appreciate that comment. His eyes narrowed at Akavi, who tilted her head at him with obvious exasperation.
"I was told to do so by the Council, of course. Who else has the power to order the Children of Thurisaz around? They really don't like it when the clans start destroying each other." Again, Michael tensed. And again, Akavi tilted her head. This time, she also laughed. "Your war is being fought against the Arkinaz –Silvyn's tribe – not the Perthroi. I have no part in it; I will not betray you." She pulled back a bit. A switchblade flashed in her hand. In moments, the thick leather straps which held him down were halfway severed, and the belts which held his straight jacket were severed completely. She hovered close to him. Moments passed in motionless silence. Michael looked directly into her eyes. Akavi grinned. "I'll leave the rest up to you, then. Give that old bastard a run for his money." She laid the switchblade behind his left shoulder, close to where his right arm was crossed over his chest. He gave one small nod.
Akavi stepped back and turned, making for the exit in silent footsteps. When she reached the door, her companions hauled it open for her. She gave one last glance back to Myers. "I'll be checking up on you," she teased darkly, and then she was gone.
*TSD: Total Sense Deprivation. Oo; Well, you wouldn't be happy either if you were stuck in a small room for three solid years without sense of smell, hearing, taste, sight, and touch, would you?