For the Phic Phight!
Prompt: What's Amorpho's story? He has a preoccupation with his actions being noticed but staying out of sight, and I just think he needs more attention. How'd he come to be? (PR102) by Habato
The man with a thousand faces
There was once a man. They called him the man with a thousand faces.
This man was an expert in his field, you see. This man was known by all, and yet unknown, because this man wasn't famous because of his looks or his money or his name. And he loved it like that.
Because this man was known for his work. The best in the field, they said. He came out of nowhere and stood on top of his peers, everyone wanted a piece of him, everyone wanted to be his friend. Soon, he became the most popular man alive.
The man was a god of special effects.
It was the era of monster movies; of mummies and Frankenstein's monsters, of vampires, of swamp creatures. It was the time where the most prized crew member was someone with good hands and creative talent.
Ohhh, this man didn't just make creatures come to live - he also could transform your features into someone else's! He could do actual magic with silicone and paint. He could morph people into practically anyone else.
He wasn't vain, but he knew he was the best and he liked to be noticed. His work was a form of art and he liked to be named next to the actors, because good acting was just as important as costume design and characterization.
This was until the accident.
It had been just a normal Saturday night and he wanted to go home, change, and go to the party with the designated arm candy he would ditch halfway through the night. Dating wasn't his thing but that didn't mean that keeping appearances wasn't as important as his talents.
He was distracted. He didn't see where he put his hand. He didn't see where the very volatile and inflammable paints poured close to the lamp he needed to see the details better.
When he woke up in the hospital everything hurt. Smiling for the cameras hurt.
It hurt more when he saw what he looked like.
He wasn't vain, but he knew what Hollywood did to people that looked like he did. It didn't matter the talents, it didn't matter that his hand was still steady, it didn't matter how good he could transform anyone else's looks.
Nobody wanted to be touched by the amorphous freak.
Nobody wanted anything to do with him. Nobody thought he was a genius anymore, even if his mind was intact after the accident. He didn't care about the money, even if it was worrying how he was tapping more and more into his savings for the treatments of his burns.
He would show them what he could still do, he promised himself.
So he became someone else. He used masks. He used silicone prosthesis on his face. He used practiced accents and voices he did on the mirror.
When he was ready, he came back to show his talents. It was going to be great - charm everyone into his ability to transform people not only into monsters, but also into other people. He didn't want to be forgotten. He didn't want to be the star that burned into oblivion, quite literally.
He wanted to show them, but everyone knew what he looked like under the mask. Everyone looked at the border of his eyes where the burned skin was faintly visible under the silicone - he put on sunglasses to hide it. Everyone looked at the hairline of his wig or how fake they looked - he wore a hat. He hated feeling sweaty but wore a four piece suit with a cravat to hide the burns of his neck and chest.
He tried to explain that his hands were fine, that his nerves were barely damaged in the fire. He tried to explain that he didn't want to stop working as a special effects artist. But nobody listened. Everything the people wanted to know, wanted to see, was the man under the disguise and how horribly he was disfigured, as if he were some kind of circus freak.
They didn't let him show them what he could still do. But the man devised a plan, a last stand, a desperate move that could prove he was still in the game.
He suited up, despite his aversion to sweat, on a rather warm April day. A heatwave, they said, so the man wasn't looking forward to taking off the suit and the prosthetics he wore - but it was a needed evil. He needed a big hit, he needed to get back to his life, he needed to be the recognized genius he once was.
His knees wobbled a few times as he walked up the Studio's main office. His friend would be there. He was very influential, and he was sure that if he knocked his door his friend would help him, give him the chance that nobody else wanted to give him.
The sun hit him harder the closer he got to the building. He ignored the looks, of course. He was dressed as a gentleman, he wore the face of a gentleman, he had to behave like one and keep his head high.
His wide black hat did nothing to shield him from the heat, but he was close enough to the shade of the entrance of the building to not cave in and remove it to fan himself a little bit. Because then people could see how his wig was hastily glued to his forehead.
He took another step, and the world was tilted.
He tried to take another, but the ground was closer than he expected.
The man found himself on the floor, and found that he couldn't breathe. His mouth was dry and his head hurt. When was the last time he ate? His mother always told him to drink water and eat or else his migraines would get worse.
He was too hot, he wanted to take off everything. He was so close to the door of his opportunity. He was so close to getting everything back…
His lungs refused to function.
He was so hot. He hated sweating.
He hated wearing his own work.
He hated that everyone on the street was crowding him, talking to him. He couldn't hear the words, but there was so much noise.
He hated that he knew he was dying. Not taking care of his own body had finally taken its toll.
And worst of all, he hated dying with another man's face.
He may have been the man with a thousand faces, but he didn't like any of those. He liked his own, but he had been robbed of that.
He tried to take another breath, finding out that it was futile. Ambulance sirens roared in the distance, but he knew this was it for him.
He closed his eyes, feeling the silicone peeling around the edges.
He thought, This is pathetic for a last performance. Another take, please.
And then, everything became black.