Upper East Side

Cerebrum

11:36 pm

Daemon couldn't believe he let his guard down so easily. Only four months in the new host and he had been doing good up until he met with the Nephrons. A stupid name for a gang… not very intimidating at all. The sharp pain stretching down his left side was beginning to get to him. He cursed the newest ammunition that was stupidly handed out to the public by Cerebellum Hall. One would think the government's finest would have been smart enough to keep such a volatile substance locked up. Now every gang and amateur moron who liked to have a firearm were most likely in possession of the shit. Cytosine. He stumbled, landing on the stoop of a porch. I should get moving… before Immunity sees me. But he couldn't move, his side was burning sharply now. He pulled his coat away, hoping the wounds weren't as bad as they felt. He was left with disappointment at the sight of the black plasma-like liquid oozing out of the holes put into him by three of the Nephron members. One is dead, the other one likely not to make it-serves him right… the last one is the messenger. On second thought, maybe he should have made sure all three were dead. Doesn't matter now. He could feel the poison slithering through him, creeping up over his left shoulder. If he didn't get medical attention soon he wasn't going to survive the injuries, that much he knew.

"Are you okay?"

He froze and then slowly looked up. A female cell was standing in front of him, her large eyes concerned. Then there was the flash of surprise and apprehension. She didn't realize what I am. Idiot. "Yeah." He muttered, and tried to stand, losing his strength and landing back on the stair.

"You're hurt. You need help."

Daemon bore a hole in the ground, wishing the woman would go away. Then he had a thought. All I need is one minute tops. She's skinny but there should still be enough to her to give me strength again. It wasn't often he used that hidden ability of the Red Death. But if the opportunity rose he could drain a cell to harvest their energy which in turn gave him his strength back. Maybe enough to close these god damn holes in me. "I suppose I do."

She glanced around. He could see she was clearly wrestling with whether to aid him. She'll do it, these cells are pathetic. Can never not help someone. "I live on the third floor… do you think you can make it?"

Sure can. He grasped the porch railing and pulled himself up again, this time succeeding in standing. She climbed the stairs, passing him and opened the front door. Ignoring the pain, he followed.

….

He watched her fight with the door for a few minutes comically, until it thrust open half way. After that she had to shoulder it open. She lived simply, in fact from the sparse furniture she was most likely poor.

"I'll get my med kit." She disappeared, leaving him alone.

Stupid. Idiot. She's either dense or too trusting. Pictures caught his eye to the left of him. A couple of painful steps and he could see them better. They were family pictures by the looks of it. A few of them had her, shyly looking away from the camera.

"I'm back." Her voice was soft.

He took a breath. I'll kill her after she cleans me up… it'll help me heal faster. He turned and stood awkwardly by the couch, wondering why she was laying two big large towels on it. She turned.

"You can sit."

For a split second he had trepidation about sitting on the couch. He was ridiculously bloody from the cytosine bullet wounds. He had expected to sit on the floor or toilet or something. Jerkily he came forward and sank down. She didn't look at him as she carefully reached out and pulled on his coat sleeve to pull his arm out. Gritting his teeth at the agony, he shouldered his way out of the rest of the coat. She stared at his side and left arm, silent. And then she picked up some scissors.

"I have cut… your-shirt off." She whispered, clearly embarrassed.

He resisted rolling his eyes and simply said, "do what you have to."

…..

If he thought he was in pain before, he realized he was horribly mistaken. Whatever antiseptic the she-cell was using, it felt like he wasn't going to have a left side of his body left. He felt his right hand grow warmer. Disjointed, he looked down at his hand gripping the couch armrest, the finger that made him everything he was beginning to glow like fire. Shit. He forced the pain thoughts out of his head and focused on his hand to stop it from igniting. He didn't need to unintentionally start a fire. After a moment, he was satisfied as it cooled.

"What happened?"

Her quiet question cut through his concentration. He glanced at her as she wrung the rag in a bucket. "Made a mistake."

"What kind of mistake?"

He glowered at the far wall. "Trusted someone I shouldn't have."

"Someone who aided you in a criminal activity?"

He had to admit she was smart, smarter than he had given her credit for. "Yes." He flinched as she pressed some lacrimal ice against his skin.

"When I'm done what do you plan to do?"

He narrowed his eyes. "What?"

She finally met his gaze. "What is your next plan? Stay here? Kill me and stay here until you fully heal… or leave?"

He stayed silent, unsure of how to answer. She brought him into her apartment, fully suspecting he was going to kill her? What moron did that? A compassionate moron.

"I don't know yet."

Surprising to him, she accepted that answer with a nod before continuing her work.

….

Weeks

He didn't kill her that day or the day after that. Despite her best efforts he remained weak from the cytosine; so, he stayed and waited for the corrosive shit to leave his system. The first week even he had to admit was awkward. He couldn't leave the apartment most times as he couldn't risk being seen by others. And she- trustingly left him to go to her two jobs, returning late most days. Trusting isn't the right word, more like she doesn't have a friggin choice. By the second week he was feeling a crushing sense of obligation to keep the apartment looking like only she lived there, no trace of him. He slept most times, never turning the TV on as that would surely run up her bill. Why do I even give a shit? He didn't understand any of it. The day she took him in he had been planning her murder to sustain himself and now he was lying on her couch. Almost dozing. Scraping in the key lock woke him completely. Slowly he sat up, resisting a groan as the fibers in his back hadn't loosened since he was shot. Stiff.

"Hi." She set a grocery bag on her kitchen counter.

He didn't turn to face her. "Hey." His eyes strayed to the clock. She should be leaving soon… be gone half the night like she usually is. Behind him he could hear the cabinets and fridge opening and closing. Preferring the silence, he sat back on the couch. At some point her soft footsteps left the kitchen and paused next to him. Then she sat on the far end of the couch.

"I have off tonight." A red sheen came over her face. "I'm being dragged out tonight. A couple of friends from work-" She gave an embarrassed laugh. Then her large eyes focused on him. "Are you feeling- better?"

He shrugged, the motion still stiff. "I suppose." He cracked his neck, feeling some of the stiffness fade after. "I figured I'd leave either tomorrow or the day after."

She studied him. "So no murder?"

"What?"

"You've chosen not to kill me?" There was no emotion in her tone of voice, only acceptance.

He stared hard at her. "Do you want me to?"

She didn't answer, instead she changed the subject. "What are you?" Her eyes roamed over him, taking in his lean but sturdy appearance. His eyes, the purple dreads. "I've seen a lot of viruses and yet, I've never seen someone like you."

"We don't have a name. There aren't enough of us to warrant being identified as something. Someone somewhere dubbed us El Muerte Rojo. But sounds a little stupid to me."

"And you kill?"

"Spike the host's temperature to 108 or higher… cooks the body from the inside out."

"Host?" He glanced at her. She stared back calmly. "Is that like a defense mechanism for you? So, you stay removed from what you do? Unfeeling?"

He knew he should feel anger at her questions; they were becoming a little too close to psychoanalysis. But he didn't. His kind didn't stick around each other so friendly conversation was sparse. Too much competition. And compared to other lowlifes, the El Muerte Rojo were a different breed, a breed that was feared and ultimately avoided. He wondered once or twice why…. Just why? He was built to entice. No virus like him was ugly to look at. His exotic looks drew in fascinated cells. Cells who let their guards down too easily. Most of the Red Death were narcissists and if they weren't narcissists then they were bonafide psychopaths. Or they are both. He was different. Always had been. He heard from someone that his type had something called a kill gland. He didn't know how true it was. Mine must be broken. Sure, he plotted to kill others but most times he only did it when he was in situations like he was with the Nephrons. Forced. He didn't have an overt urge to kill. He glanced down at the long infinity bracelet looped around his wrist. Two beads pulsed gently. One came from a team-up with another virus. He hadn't killed the host, they did. The other was his first and only kill. An elderly man with no family, dying of cancer. He liked to think of it as a mercy killing. He realized he never answered her question.

"Makes it easier, yeah." He glanced at her. "What kind of picture does that give you of me?"

She chewed her bottom lip. "I don't know." She opened her mouth to saying something but the conversation was cut short by knocking on her door.

"Lara!"

It was in that moment he realized he never asked her name in the almost three weeks of him squatting in her apartment. And she never asked his.

"Oh god…." She turned to frantically find the time. "I'm late… like really late." He studied her, his gaze tracing the sides of her face and her delicate body. For a cell she was pretty, in a girl-next-door sort of way. She stood like she didn't know what to do first. She bit her lip again. A nervous habit. "I feel… bad leaving you here, especially since I'm off work."

She wants to stay here with me, willingly? The idea was strange to him. Why would she want to do that? "Don't."

She didn't move. "You'll still be here, right?" She asked haltingly. "When I come back?"

He jerked his head. "Yeah."

She gave a hesitant smile. "Okay."

….

3 Months later

It took him a moment to realize where he was but then he dropped backwards, hitting the pillow. Next to him Lara stirred.

"You okay?" She asked sleepily.

"Yeah…"

More awake she moved so that she was resting against him. "Your hand is hot again." She had long ago learned of the dangerous nature of his right hand. In response, he flexed it.

He tried to remember what led to him lying next to her in bed for the past month and a half. Was it the fact that he couldn't get warm? He didn't know… Maybe it was the close quarters. He kidded himself into believing there were iron clad excuses on why he hadn't left her apartment and moved on with his life. But in the end, they were excuses. Lame ass excuses. Lara grew on him. He went from skulking around her apartment to leaving the apartment via her window and climbing up to the roof to hop across the buildings, following her as she went to her jobs. He learned through observation she was a waitress in a diner and a book store clerk. She loved books and yet was shy, so he was surprised she held a job as a waitress. It was her who initiated the first touch between them. A movie was on and it was late, she began nodding off. Eventually like it was natural to her. She rested her head against his shoulder, shifting to get more comfortable. They woke up the next day with her laying half on him. A few days passed with them only sitting on the couch and most times falling asleep together. Then one night she took his hand and stood, pulling him to her bedroom. He wanted to object, feeling dirty compared to her. He was a virus and a dangerous one. She was a cell, delicate and innocent. He didn't want her being tainted by his world. By me. Only two days' prior he lost control… the two of them did. He sincerely hoped nothing would come of it. He hoped.

….

It was the wretched coughing he heard first upon returning to the apartment with some glucocorticoid tablets. He wasn't even sure they'd work but Lara insisted. Every morning and half the days she spent in a vicious cycle of nausea. He felt responsible, her vomiting like she was could only mean one thing.

She trudged out of the bathroom, looking miserable. With no words, he steered her around back to bed. Usually she complained but this time she didn't. Before getting into bed she pulled on a hoodie, the action moving her shirt around to show her stomach. Then he saw it. What he had hoped would not be. Feeling like he was on autopilot, he stopped her, gently holding her arm out.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

He closed his eyes and then opened them to look at her. "Lara, you're pregnant."

….

Present time

Esoph-Landing Apartments

2:23 am

Thrax woke to a dark room, occasional city lights lighting up the blinds. His head in a fog he remembered the concoction he downed before bed that Grace would have killed him over if she knew. He knew his limits to a point. While it was frowned upon by the humans to take medications and alcohol at the same time; the same went for the citizens of Frank. Yet Thrax had done it so many times over his life he was beginning to wonder if the warning was a myth. He turned over and saw the bed was empty save for him. Had Grace gone into work? He didn't remember a pager going off. He rose on his elbows and then noticed a dark shape sitting next to his bedside.

"You know, I try not to be demanding and nagging and a control freak but-" Grace reached over and turned the lamp on suddenly. With his sensitive sight, it blinded him; he was sure that was her intention. "-are you trying to friggin kill yourself?"

Finally, he could see and saw an empty armpit bottle and the bottle of pills given to him by a doctor she forced him to see two weeks' prior; the two items in each hand.

The office visit was winding down and he thought he was in the clear until Grace blew his cover and told the doctor about him and his bad dreams. He wanted to be mad at her but it was next to impossible for him to ever feel anger towards her or Lindi. He wished he could but the only thing he did know about his species of virus was that they had a very strong bonding ability. Most just didn't tap into it. And that bonding technique is what kept him from ever feeling anger towards the she-cell. Grace knew it by now, after combing the Cerebellum Hospital library, looking for any information on the El Muerte Rojo; and the woman used that ability or curse, in his opinion, against him. Yet he couldn't even be angry with her over that. It was very irritating.

"One or the other doesn't work Grace." He muttered, sitting up straighter. "It does togeth-"

"I don't give a rat's ass what works and doesn't work. This is how people die Thrax. They are so relaxed after mixing meds and alcohol they stop breathing. I was hoping it was a one-time deal but you've been doing this every night for the past week." She stood. "And I've barely slept because I'm too afraid you'll stop breathing and if I'm asleep I won't know it." She stood up abruptly and disappeared into the bathroom

He wanted to say she'd be better off if he did keel over and die but he knew a comment like that would set her over the edge. Better to nod his head and apologize for making her worry. But he couldn't do it.

"I'm a lot-" He winced at the sound of the bottle hitting the trash can.. He hoped it didn't wake Lindi since the girl had impressive hearing like him and could probably hear a fart over on the lower side of the parathyroid glands.

"Don't worry." Grace reappeared, having guessed his thoughts. "She's still asleep. Calmer she continued, "And don't tell me you are stronger than the rest of us because there have been two instances where you were seriously incapacitated."

He glowered at his hands, knowing fully well what two instances she was referring to. He tried hard to ignore the deep, thin scars on his left hand. He never did find out what was used to crush his hand. The surgeon who fixed it surmised it had to be a kind of plaque block due to the severity of the trauma and how his stratified fibers broke so easily.

"This is going to sound incredibly selfish, but I'm tired of not being able to sleep. Every night something happens. I'm as tired of it as you are." He looked to where he had left the bottle and the pills. "So if I have a chance to fall asleep and not disturb you, I'll take it."

She studied him quietly, then she came back over and sat next to him, her purple irises holding against his golden ones.

"I'm sorry… it's just-"

"Don't apologize." He murmured.

She watched him for a few minutes, quietly. "It's just, I love you Thrax and I don't want something bad to happen."

He inhaled. "I love you too." He said softly.

She inched closer until he could feel her body radiating off him and then she rested her head against his forehead.

….

Past

9:15 am

"Mi hijo. Mi hijo."

Thrax ignored the sister as she called out to him in Spanish. He was still reeling from the turbulent emotions of fighting with a moronic four-armed asshole who thought he was better than everyone else. Being five years old didn't stop Thrax from feeling intense anger at hearing his mother be insulted. He didn't remember her, only that she was not with him. The assumption made was that she was dead but he couldn't be sure. He had grown up in the convent, a small compound that sprawled over the left hip bone. It was where other children like him grew up. Orphans. He didn't know where his father was either or if he even had one. He knew he should care about him being alone in the world but after growing up with no one to call family he found it didn't bother him… until it was blatantly and callously pointed out to him. That was why he had no regrets knocking Dozer Ischium to the ground, the index finger on his left hand coming alive against his bully's neck. It took two young orderlies to yank him off.

Now he sat on the far end of the compound, a large spacious cavern in front of him, preferring to be alone. But Sister Angela had found him. He liked her more than the others. "No puedes pasar por la vída luchando contra otros mi hijo."

"Yo se." He muttered. He heard the gravel crunch as she closed the distance between them.

"Qué podría haber hecho el joven Dozer para enojarte tanto?"

The anger returned in full force. It made him want to go find Dozer again. I can kill him. I have the power to do it. "Se lo merecía!" He snapped. He hadn't meant to sound so angry, especially to Sister Angela but he was beginning to hate that insolent shit-bag. Defeated, he admitted what led to the fight. "Insultó a mi mama. La llamó una puta."

The sister gave him a sympathetic smile. "O mi hijo. A veces la gente necesita poner abajo otros para hacerse sentir mejor." She came and sat next to him. "Pero mi hijo, no está bien colocar palabras malas con acciones malas."

Thrax looked out over the vast landscape, glowering. Then he felt himself reach his boiling point. "No es justo! Trato de mantenerme alejado de ellos como dice el Padre Micca y se meten en su camino para encontrarme e insultarme. Estoy cansado de eso!" He threw a small plaque pebble he had been rolling around in his fingers, stewing. Sister Angela listened intently to him like she always did. It made him wish she was his mother but the opaque bluish-white membrane contrasted too absurdly against his hard-red membrane.

"Sometimes life throws us curveballs. We have to learn to dodge them."

"I don't want to learn to dodge them." He grumbled.

The Sister smiled gently. "Come. Dinner is being served soon and if I remember right, you are scheduled with the cleanup crew this time."

His anger slowly fading he let her pull him up. Then she pulled him into a hug as they walked back to the convent. "Conoce este mi hijo, estás destinado a grandes cosas. Puedo sentirlo."

...

No puedes pasar por la vída luchando contra otros mi hijo: You cannot go through life fighting against others my son

Yo se: I know

Qué podría haber hecho el joven Dozer para enojarte tanto?: What could young Dozer have done to make you so angry?

Se lo merecía!: He deserved it!

Insultó a mi mama. La llamó una puta: He insulted my mother. He called her a whore.

O mi hijo. A veces la gente necesita poner abajo otros para hacerse sentir mejor: Oh my son. Sometimes people need to put down others to make themselves feel better.

Pero mi hijo, no está bien colocar palabras malas con acciones malas: But my son, it is not okay to place bad words in with bad actions.

No es justo! Trato de mantenerme alejado de ellos como dice el Padre Micca y se meten en su camino para encontrarme e insultarme. Estoy cansado de eso: It's not fair! I try to stay away from them as Father Micca says and they go out of their way to find me and insult me. I'm tired of it

Conoce este mi hijo, estás destinado a grandes cosas. Puedo sentirlo: Know this my son. You are destined for great things. I can feel it.