Chapter Text
Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be dead?
Edward Whelan, Doctor Whelan to his coworkers and patients, Ed to friends, Eddie to his mother, could tell you a thing or two about it. After all, he’d done it four times now.
The first had been a long, long time ago. His father… well. He didn’t like to think about it. Most nights he retreated into himself, the only safe space away from Hell.
The second time had been at the hands of Helmut Zemo. He had taken him. He had taken the others. Broken him. Broken them . The Nazi $&@?! had twisted them into their innermost nightmares. Monsters, behemoths, cannibals, victims… Vermin. When Zemo had changed them, he’d buried Edward so deep that no one could have mistaken him for anything but the Rat he had become.
He didn’t remember much, during his time in the sewers, but there were a few things he couldn’t forget. When Kraven had invaded his space. The sheer fear and rage elicited by the colors blue and red. Life or death struggles among detritus and horrific smelling flotsam, teeth flashing and claws tearing.
But he remembered Doctor Ashley Kafka first and foremost. She had been there when he'd been nothing but a monster. She'd helped him cram that side down. She'd helped him when he'd relapsed. She had been there when It had died. She was the reason It had died. Faded into oblivion as its purpose was fulfilled. She’d coaxed him, and the others, free from the fresh hell of their existence, spent years on their treatment, and then stayed on at Ravenloft where she could help even more. The woman was a saint.
Now, in the depths of his office's comfiest chair he'd so rightfully claimed for his own in one of the most bloodthirsty, unsanctioned bidding wars to ever grace the state of New York, his eyes lidded and sleep wormed its way through him. In his hands lay the family portrait of the day the final Un-Man had clawed his way back into society and the group had gathered from all over to celebrate. He wished they'd made more time to talk. Wished he'd paid a bit more attention. He wished he'd been there for the funeral. Wished someone had told him. Wish, wish, wish, and then, eyes closed, he wished no more.
He saw it. And it saw him. With a thousand, thousand, thousand eyes.
Friendly eyes.
Hate filled eyes.
Reverent eyes.
Frightened eyes.
Their eyes.
Her eyes.
Her… eye.
Hear me.
The World turned red, and Dr. Edward Whelan slept no more.
It happened all over the world. Television networks lit up with burning effigies, horror stories of self-mutilation, families abandoned seemingly on mass as men and women did their level best to flash signs filled with words of warning, shadowy eyes, blood splatters, anywhere they could, from live sports to newscasts to billboards or commercial advertisements, all begging for help from some random doctor in the middle of upstate New York.
“Spectacular,” thwip, “spectacular,” thwip, “hmm hmhmhmm,” thwipthwipthwip. There was nothing like a good swing in the morning, thought Peter Parker, Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man and Swingmaster General.
The sky was blue, the birds were singing, the feral scream of a near naked rat woman was getting louder and louder as her clawed hands blurred toward his face.