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Chapter Text

Steven Boxleitner died the moment he tried on his invention.

As the electric current coursed through his head, causing his hair to stick up and pupils to dilate, the last remaining bits of the aloft scientist’s life drifted into obscurity and faded into darkness.

There was no eulogy.

There was no funeral.

As Steven’s dead body lay upon the cold laboratory floor, small sparks still flew from the metallic doohickey, which the man had named his own special “mind-reader,” of the now dark, empty room. The machine, using up as much electricity as it did, caused a wide power surge throughout the four-floor building. It was late, 11:04 pm to be exact, and with the exception of the one already-asleep night janitor, the building was empty, its patrons leaving to spend the night with their families, and awake the next day to continue their mundane yet happy lives.

Did they know his body was up there? Did they know he was dead?

The world must have stopped briefly. 

Steven’s family must have felt it, despite being an entire city over, either through a brief skip of the heart or sudden wetness in the eye. His mother, a frail woman, would break out in tears once she read his name in the newspaper, and cling unto his speechless father for comfort. His father, a bulky man who had always looked down upon Steven for his interests, had always wished his nerdy only son pursued sports due to his innate talent for soccer. News of his death would only exacerbate that wish. And what of Steven’s sister? Despite the two-year age difference, the Boxleitner siblings were like twins, and did everything together. Had it not been for Steven’s job, the two would have ended up living together in Waxwell city, a place not too far away from their childhood home. The news of Steven’s death would crush his family.

“Fair City Scientist (28) dies of a heart attack while working in the 42nd Street Laboratory late last night. Police are still trying to investigate what triggered such a fatal tragedy for one of Fair City’s most influential scientists. He will be greatly missed.”  

Is what the news would read. What it should have read.

And yet the world continued to turn.

As the briefest rays of sun rose warily from the horizon, the pitch-black night sky transformed into an ever-lightening blue. Children reluctantly awoke for school, adults started their vehicles for work. The city lights began to fade as the streets became alive with people. They laughed and smiled as they prepared to embrace another day in their peaceful lives.

The people did not mourn.

Through the cracks of the dusty blindfolds, sunbeams cautiously lit up the dark laboratory room, curious as to what secrets the dead carcass within held. Through the dim light, it was plain to see that the laboratory was a mess. Numerous typed and handwritten files and documents covered the phenolic resin tables. A small empty cage could be seen in the corner, most likely belonging to a rodent. There was blood upon the dirtied monolithic floors, alongside the remains of a burnt fallen pastrami sandwich and broken ceramic plate. There, in the middle of the laboratory, was the lifeless body of what was once an eccentric and vivacious man.

Did the corpse know it was dead?

The last feeling Steven Boxleitner would ever process was fear. His olfactory senses would alert his brain to the scent of burnt cheese and bread followed by the scent of his lab's natural hydrochloric acid aroma. The optic nerves in his ever-so widening eyes would seal the deal upon the man’s fate. Steven’s gloved hands would finally give way as his muscles spasmed from the electricity painfully coursing from his sweaty forehead down to his clenched toes. The dying body would collapse, the fall mercifully knocking the remnants of thought unconscious.

Steven Boxleitner was dead.

A faint groan filled the room. The once motionless room was now spinning. The groan echoed throughout the silent room once more, this time louder. The corpse of what was supposed to be dead suddenly opened its crustied, darkened, dry lips, releasing its first breath of life. Resurrected from decades of sleep, the corpse squinted open its pink eyes, its reddened pupils adjusting to the sight of first light.

What had happened?

The corpse tried to turn its neck, which in turn caused a coughing fit of chunky yellow-ish red blood and mucus to erupt from its dry mouth. A gurgle came from the back of its throat as the reanimated being spat out its first raspy pitiful words. 

“W-where am I?”

Like a newborn fawn, the corpse attempted to stand. Its legs felt like wet cement, and the room was still awfully dizzy. The creature groaned in pain as it finally gained control of the long pencil-like lower limbs, which felt as though they would buckle at any moment. The creature let out a hiss of pain as its pupils constricted and eyelids crustily squinted at the light entering the blinds, now fully showcasing the unfamiliar messy laboratory room. Despite the wondrous sights before it, the creature’s attention was immediately directed to the window. Placing a hand over its eyes, the being folded back the blinds and peaked its feeble eyes out the faded glass, allowing the warm spring sunlight to heat its dry face. People walked the streets below him, scurrying like tiny ants. 

People…

Humans…

Suddenly, a strange zap coursed through the being’s body, a realization so profound it caused its head to throb and body to arch over as if he needed to purge the air out of its lungs and puke the intestines from its own abdomen. The being eyed the room quickly, and immediately ran when a nearby sink was spotted in the far corner. The being felt its hand grip the sides of the sink in agony as a foul blackened-brown spew hurled from its burning throat.

What is this?

It was only when the creature brought up a hand to wipe the dripping slop off his chin did he notice it; he was wearing bright yellow gloves and a white lab coat. Curiously, the creature analyzed its other features. Looking down, it noticed that he was dressed rather nicely-blue button-up shirt, a purple bow tie, and brown pants. It’s a shame his bodily concoction of vomit and blood had ruined it. 

Once it felt like its stomach had been fully emptied, the being lifted its heavy head, only to come face to face with a decrepit and repugnant face; the entirety of the face was a ghoulish-pale, the lips were cracked and vomit covered the entirety of the lower chin and neck. Bushy thin white hair stuck up like a paint brush, as if shocked by electricity. Crooked long gray whiskers distended from the swollen inflamed cheeks. Then there were the eyes.

Oh god the eyes.

Dark black bags stooped down and were sucken deep into the face. The eyes were deeply bloodshot, as if they had an eternal case of pink-eye. His irises and pupils looked indistinguishable, like little red dots amongst a sea of tiny veins and crimson pink.

The being froze, the hair on its body sticking up from fear. The thing in front of it looked to be a man. A frightened man, almost traumatized. The being stepped back. The man in front of him stepped back as well.

It was a mirror.

Instinctually, the living carcass should have let out a sigh of relief, a calming feeling that he was alone, that no predator was coming for him. Yet, a side of its brain couldn’t shake his tense muscles. Tears welled up amongst it- or rather- his eyes. Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, the man in the mirror bent over in pain once more. A throbbing pain erupted from atop his head and echoed throughout his entire being. Ear-piercing ringing filled his eardrums as he felt his eyesight begin to blur. He felt like he was going to blackout or that his head was going to explode. Rushing back to the sink and gripping onto its edge for dear-life, the man’s eye finally caught the culprit of his pain. Attached to the side of his open bleeding scalp was a pulsating pinkish-green brain. 

Was that his?

Gathering his courage, the man lifted a shaky finger and lightly poked the inflamed mass.

“ARGH!” He grunted as the small poke caused a ripple effect of more agony to course through his body. Letting himself fall onto the cold floor, the man curled up and held himself tightly, waiting for the pain to recede. 

“What’s happening to me?” The man rasped in terror to himself. “What is this?”

Warm salty liquid began to run down the man’s eyes and nose. A sniffle echoed through the empty room. He was in pain. So much pain. 

Make it stop.

The room went black.

…

The man woke up, gasping for breath. The pounding in his head had stopped, yet his eyes were still soaked and fear still coursed through his veins. Slowly attempting to stand once more, this time with more ease, the man quickly realized he had to pee. Groaning, the man eyed the room again. It was dark. The sun must have set while he was passed out. A soft hum resounded the room. Outside, he could hear someone whistling faintly as they passed by the laboratory door, broom swifting the hard floor. It must have been the evening janitor.

How long had he been asleep?

The man pressed his fleshy ear against the cool wooden door. Once he was certain the hallway was empty, he turned the metallic knob and peered outside. There were two other doors, he assumed must have been to other labs, adjacent to him. There were names written upon their windows.

Prof. Robert Tubing

Prof. James Doohickey

“Eh?” The man raised an eyebrow. He looked at the door he had just walked out of.

Prof. Steven Boxleitner 

Why did that name seem so familiar? Whoever Steven Boxleitner was, he wasn’t going to be happy about the blood and vomit soaked floors. Unless…

The man shook his suddenly aching head and quickly let go of the thought, remembering he had to pee. Down the hall, there was an open handicapped restroom. Ensuring once more that the hallway was empty, the man scurried into the small large bathroom, slammed the door, and emptied his burning bladder. He felt sick.

After flushing, he sat upon the toilet seat for a couple minutes in an attempt to piece together what was happening. He looked at his yellow gloves. They were filthy, covered in vomit, blood, and other various muck. Slowly, the man peeled them off. The sweaty insides of the rubber gloves stuck to his greasy skin like glue. Once they were off, the man took a long look at his hands and arms; both his arms and hands were covered in thin, white, fur-like hair. To his surprise, he could still see his pale white skin, only barely distinguishable from the hair. His fingernails were long and uncut.

Perhaps it would be best to leave the gloves on from now on.

He stinked too. Avoiding eye contact with the mirror, the man began to wash his hands. Then arms. Then face. A putrid mix of red, brown, and green crust spiraled down the sink drain. Gathering his courage, the man glanced at the mirror. His eyes were still a concerning pink, but aside from his white uncombed hair and piece of braining from his head, he looked somewhat normal. Human almost.

The man in the mirror smiled menacingly. Then snickered. Then finally let out a long high pitched laugh, finding comedy in his strange situation. 

“Jesus Stevie, you look terrible!” The man abruptly blurted.

Stevie? Steven?

No matter how hard the man tried to stop laughing, he couldn’t. Everything in this enigma of a place suddenly was comical, sensical. There was comfort in the insanity.

What’s happening to me?

Feeling his head begin to hurt again, the man ran out the bathroom and back into the laboratory, not noticing the confused face of another lab-coated man passing by. Once the door was closed, the man hastily hit a nearby light switch, illuminating the room fully.

Why didn’t I do that earlier?

Still smiling, the man felt his body waltz to a tall safety shower in the corner, almost drunkenly. Stripping off his ruined garments, the man turned on the cold water and let the liquid course down his oily long hair and back. Once he felt somewhat clean, the man frantically dried himself and looked through a nearby closet for another pair of clothing. Luckily, there was not one, but three sets of clothing identical to the one he soiled. He smirked.

“ I look terrible.”

His headache was only getting worse. 

He laughed as he slipped on his fresh attire and slipped out the lab door.

Steven Boxleitner was dead.

Chapter Text

Professor Robert Tubing was a man of bio-molecular science. Not only had he achieved the highest degrees in his scientific field, but he had also become critically acclaimed for his groundbreaking research studies. By his 34th birthday, the small man had already won the ASHG Scientific Achievement Award for theorizing the possibility of a new type of nucleotide base. He had also discovered which RNA combinations were responsible for abnormal bionic Herculean abilities in some humans-or as his peers liked to simplify it-superpowers. 

Tubing yawned as he made his way up the elevator, hand in pocket, already fiddling with the keys to his laboratory. Once the doors opened, the professor tiredly traversed his way down the bright hallway. The polyurethane of his solar-powered wheelchair tires hummed against the hard vinyl floor. Finally, the professor made it to his laboratory and unlocked the door, the familiar scent of phenol and agarose hitting his face. The lights to his workspace flickered briefly, before illuminating the numerous machines, workbenches, and centrifuges that filled his facility.

Another day doing his life’s work.

The attention and grants given to him allowed him to fund his wonderful lab and its (rather expensive) technologies. Even the government was supporting his work, donating various equipment and supplies in exchange for data. For instance, his wonderful gene editing software, the CRISPR-Cas9 System, allowed him to break down strands of DNA, and study the complex genetic material donated to him. The technology even used Optogenetic Polymerase Chain Reactions for neuromodulation and let him experiment with simple light to regulate gene transcription. The small Keurig coffee maker was also an added plus. 

The weary scientist let out a long sigh as he eyed his numerous achievements hanging from the back wall. It seemed like only yesterday he was a stout biologist working a mere internship position at Fair City’s largest molecular research lab all those years ago. But his exceptional genetic findings quickly landed him an extremely well-paying job, and as the years passed, Tubing had already discovered how to transform unique isolated genetic material into a more transmittable form. 

Tubing continued his way across the laboratory to his machinery. Imagine the potential his discoveries could give! All the heroes he could create, the diseases he could cure-who knows, perhaps it could even help ailments such as his own-

A true life well lived.

Once he made it over, Tubing tried to activate his computer only to be greeted by a bright blue screen. On his way up, he had heard a few other scientists discussing a power outage, but Tubing had just assumed it had occurred on the outskirts of downtown. 

How mistaken he had been. 

After a minute, the computer’s default welcome screen popped up, followed by a reboot notice. The large-scale power outage had been a mere annoyance in comparison to the struggle he was now facing.

He lost his computer data. 

His newest experiment investigated the effects a particular fungal bacteria could have on the molecular structure of genetics. If his theory was correct, exposure to this bacteria during the fetal stages could trigger a mutational (if not activation) of a dormant RNA strand. He had left his computer running Friday morning so it could record the continuous lab data his molecules went through that weekend. 

An entire three days worth of data, gone! 

Yet, he couldn’t beat himself up too much. After all, his dearest simian assistant did unexpectedly require an emergency visit to the only out-of-town vet that could treat monkeys. Unexpectedly, that now set him back in his work.

Now he would have to redo everything.

How foolish of him to not leave the application on a backup power system! If he could move his legs, he would have kicked himself for that foolish blunder . Even a man of his scientific expertise should have known better.

Tubing cut his mental ramblings short as he decided to make a cup of coffee. He placed a hazelnut K-cup inside the unit and closed the lid of the Keurig. To the professor’s annoyance, the light rumble of the coffee suddenly stopped as the machine started to briefly smoke.

Great. Just great. Yet another inconvenience the doctor would need to fix.

What a great way to start his Monday.

His rabbit hole of self-loathing was interrupted by a harsh knock at the door.

“Fair City police, can you open the door please,” A deep voice asked.

Police? At his laboratory? At this hour?

“We’re here to investigate a case and would like to ask you a couple of questions.”

Wheeling himself over to the door, the confused professor slightly opened the door, prepared to slam it shut in case of another villainous hold-up by a group of scoundrels trying to steal his research for their nefarious purposes.

After the publication of his work, it seemed every villain with an ounce of interest in genetic modification was trying to break into his lab. Yet, every wannabe supervillain lacked the basic intellectual understanding of how to successfully pull off a heist. These attempts (to put it kindly) would end with these croaks self-sabotaging their own break-ins, entering the wrong laboratory (poor Dr. Crowbourn’s flesh-eating fly-traps weren’t supposed to be fed twice that day), or as of more recent, being caught red-handed by Fair City’s superheroine in the making. 

Barely peeking his head out, the anxious scientist eyed the officers. The first officer, an older man, stood with a tall frame, exasperation painted on his face. The other officer, who looked to be around 20, was much smaller, and had a frizzy bed of red curls covering his forehead. Tubing stuttered, “May I see your credentials?” 

No way in hell was Tubing falling for another fake police trick (not as though he fell for it the first time of course!). Sure enough, the boys in blue produced their shiny badges; Tubing squinted at the real sterling silver, brass, and Rho-Glo the light reflected. To his surprise, the smaller officer also produced a piece of paper.

A search warrant.

“A search warrant? Of my laboratory?” 

“We would like to have a word with you, Dr. Tubing,” The tall officer spoke gruffly. 

“May I ask why you have a search warrant? I have done nothing wrong.”

The older officer closed his eyes briefly in annoyance as his younger, more perky assistant, tried to form a shrill explanation.

“It, um, is in regards to one of your clients-er- uh… colleagues,”

Must be a recruit.

Tubing interrupted, “Well, if this is in regards to someone else, then…. Then search their lab! This is a proprietary lab, the work inside is… Is classified !” Tubing knew he was starting to irk the older officer, who leaned against the door frame.

“While this laboratory does technically belong to you ,” The large man began to explain. “It is still a part of the Fair City multi-purpose laboratorium building. The owner, Dr. Kvick, has already consented to allow a search of the labs, yours included.”

“But-” Tubing was about to protest. He might not have been a lawyer, but he knew his legal rights!

“And,” the officer wasn’t having any of Tubing’s protests. “Given the situation of both the case and your work,” He cleared his throat. “Alongside your reputed… secretive nature towards law enforcement…The judge has approved of the warrant.”

Tubing blinked in shock. While it was true, Tubing was rather… cautious…. And at times arguably callous towards officers, he had a perfectly reasonable distrust. This city seemed to cut corners in its training, leaving cops, uneducated, untrained, and even inadvertently corrupt at times. Police were rarely the ones to catch thieves breaking into the laboratorium, and at one point they even blamed him and his work for the building's need for an increase in security. 

The fact that a literal child could better stop crime than them in itself was a testament to his beliefs.

“It’s not really a warrant to search your lab per se,” The redhead shyly muttered. “More so an… Absolve to get you to cooperate with our questions given your background.”

The taller officer was already peeking his head inside.

“...and if you refuse, we’ll have to bring you in for questioning.”

Tubing knew his rights. He knew they were lying. He didn’t have to say a single word, he had the right to remain silent! But then again, a lack of cooperation would only draw unnecessary suspicion towards him. He really didn’t have time to deal with that. 

Tubing let out a sigh before welcoming them in. Immediately, the younger officer began questioning as the older one began walking around his lab, snoopingly.

“Are you aware of the events that occurred yesterday between 11 am to 7 pm? Involving that of a..” The redhead looked down at his notepad, squinting at the paper before looking towards the latter for validation. “Doctor… Rat Brains ?”

What?

“Steven Boxleitner.” The older officer clarified from the other side of the room. The man was eyeing Tubing’s chaotic workbench, even going as far as to pry through one of his notebooks.

Tubing was starting to grow irritated.

Doctor Rat Brains, what kind of ridiculous name was that? What do they think this is, a children’s tale?

“No, I was out of town all weekend.” 

The smaller officer pulled out a small pencil and began to jot Tubing’s responses. “Do you ha-”

“An alibi? Why yes, you can ask my assistant, Bosco. The entire reason I was out of town was to take her to the vet.”

The cop raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Bosco?”

The professor rolled his eyes. “Yes, Bosco.”

Tubing couldn’t help but feel a bit of superiority over these simpletons. Or perhaps that was just a projection of his annoyance over his ruined Monday and invasion of space peaking it.

“She’s a breed of monkey-excuse me! Please do not touch that!” Tubing shouted at the other officer who was about to pick up (and possibly drop) one of his vialed DNA samples.

The officers briefly exchanged a surprised glance. After a brief pause, that nosey officer kept scouring his work area, eyeing his work suspiciously.

“Uh.. Anyways, on the morning of Friday the 19th, did uh, Dr. Steven Boxleitner enter your laboratory?” Tubing raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, around 7:45 am. He had come to return some supplies he had borrowed from me last week. Nothing much, just an oscilloscope and a couple of my old stereotaxic instruments. We talked for about half an hour before he left.”

The officer looked up from his notepad. “Can you describe his state during that time? Any erratic or unusual behavior?”

Tubing felt his curiosity transform into a deep concern. For the first time, Tubing felt at a loss for words.

What had happened while he was gone?

“Um… Normal? Of professional decorum?” Tubing watched as the two officers exchanged yet another glance, this time laced with skepticism. Tubing felt his eyebrows crease in unease.

“I can rest assure you gentlemen that whatever the case may be, Dr. Boxleitner is a very well-minded and compassionate man of science!” Tubing turned his wheelchair to face the older officer. “Now, will you please tell me what this is all about?”

The officer’s response made Tubing’s stomach drop.

“Yesterday evening, Steven Boxleiter was arrested and placed in the county jail. He is currently liable to face charges of robbery, criminal terrorism, and disturbance of the peace.”

Robert Tubing felt his jaw drop. He couldn’t believe his ears. If this truly was all an elaborate ruse to get into his lab, it was working.

“Robbery? Terrorism ?!” Tubing exclaimed in horror.

“ And disturbance of the peace.” The red-head repeated. His partner stepped forward. 

“At the time of the crimes, Boxleitner, while exhibiting clear signs of psychosis, also seemed to have…Well…” He handed Tubing a small photo. “Undergone some kind of… alterment.”

Tubing nearly gagged.

He immediately recognized the face of his coworker, yet, it couldn’t have been him. The man, if that’s what you could call it, was pale to an ungodly degree, and it was clear patches of his skin had lost nearly all melanin cells. His hair was spiked and disheveled, which actually wouldn’t have been strange for Boxleitner, had it not also been heavily lengthened and pitch white. The man’s eyes were a horrifying red, and his face lacked that warmth it used to possess. Tubing couldn’t decipher the emotions in what was supposedly his acquaintance’s face. His sharp, irregular teeth scowled in anger, yet his eyes reflected that of fear and confusion.

If they had told him this was a crude Halloween costume he would have believed it. But this-

This wasn’t his colleague. 

This was the shell of a broken man. 

The deep voice of the gruff officer snapped Tubing out of his daze. “Understanding that Boxleitner was one of your coworkers alongside your line of work in genetic engineering and mutational fields, we are kindly asking if you…”

“...had anything to do with this.” Tubing finished softly, still in deep shock. 

“N-not necessarily,” The more bashful officer quickly tried to defend. “More, uh, was knowledgeable on his plans of alterment.”

Tubing dropped the photo. “You think he did this on purpose ?”

“Well, uh, we don’t know for sure if it was on purpose but-”

Yet another reason why he hated the Fair City police.

Always obsessed with the who, what, and where, but never the why!

Tubing tried to regain his composure. “ That’s your hypothesis, officers? That a clean man of scientific standing suddenly just snapped? Somehow single-handedly mutated his own body to become a… Rat-hybrid ?” Tubing tsked. Snooping around his lab was one thing, but this had been his breaking point. 

Why were the people of this city so stupid?

“Sir, the investigation has just started-”

“And you’ve already reached your denouement? You’ve jumped from observation to conclusion without theorizing other ideas, researching, or gathering any evidence. You’re only increasing your margin of error for this investigation.” 

Perhaps Tubing was projecting, but someone had to be the voice of reason to these dolts . Tubing fiddled with the controls of his wheelchair. As much as he wanted them to leave, his interest in the situation had peaked. A light bulb went off in Tubing’s head.

Perhaps…

“Now, gentlemen, perhaps you need more assistance than you originally expected,”

“Mind yourself, Dr. Tubing, we’re conducting the case.” The curt officer’s ego must have been hurt. “We’re currently searching Boxleitner’s laboratory as well as apartment. The Fair City police force is working as hard as we can in uncovering what happened last Friday.”

“What did you find?” Tubing asked.

“That’s classified.”

Nothing, huh?

Despite already humbling the officers, Tubing made sure to watch his tongue. “Dr. Boxleitner is a close associate of mine. I know for a fact he wouldn’t do this of his own accord. And I most certainly haven’t aided him.”

At least he hoped he didn’t.

“But, if you are still suspicious of me, just know, I’ll gladly join you at the police station,”

“That would be appreciated, sir-”

“...To help you in your investigation. My knowledge of genetic bioengineering could be useful, after all.” 

A heavy silence filled the room. It was finally broken when the red-head addressed his superior. “Sergeant, I… I think he has a point. He could be helpful to us.”

The short-tempered sergeant ran a hand through his thick, coiled, hair before emitting a defeated sigh. “Screw it, sure, let’s bring him in.”

Tubing let out a breath of relief he didn’t know he was holding.

“Thank you, gentlemen, truly, thank you,” Tubing led the officers out of the lab, not before he noticed them knock over a small pile of papers eased on a table. Tubing massaged his temples as he watched the ginger fumble as he gathered the fallen papers, clumsily trying to sort them back together while the latter accidentally elbowed the nearby already broken Keurig. The spent professor turned his wheelchair around.

“There’s only one thing I ask for in return,” Tubing asserted as he watched the two try to cover-up their mistake.

His Monday was only getting better.

“Stay out of my lab.”

Chapter Text

It felt like all he ever did was run. 

It was storming hard. Large drops of harsh hail coursed down his body, scaring the exposed skin on his face and leaving behind bloody trails. Large clumps of burning sharp ice attacked his fragile skin as the heavy fog clouded his eyesight.

The rain drenched his hair and flooded his muddy Converse shoes. He didn’t know why his legs propelled him forward nor why his heart wouldn’t stop pounding, threatening to burst from its skeletal cage. Why, despite the flooded streets, the cascade aided him in his flight, gliding him onwards rather than letting him slip onto the unforgiving asphalt. Each streetlight he passed slowly began to crack, breaking into shards as he ran from the approaching darkness that threatened to consume his very vitality.

All he could grasp was that he needed to get home. Fast.

Through the bleak haze, he could see the moonlit silhouette of his apartment slowly coming into view. The flickering streetlight above him burst, briefly veiling him in darkness. A cold sweat deluged down his back as a Faustian hunger graced his racing heels. 

No!

Using the last surge of adrenaline, the tenacious recreant finally made it to the lofty building and yanked open the heavy entrance door, sprinting through the dark lobby and up the fusty stairway to the third floor. He dared not look behind him.

Keys, keys!

Before further panic could set in, he instinctively tried the knob. The door to his sanctuary was unlocked. He must have forgotten to lock it again, a frequent shortcoming of his that ended up being his lifesaver. He quickly shut the door behind him and twisted in the deadlock, pushing in the nickel door guard before collapsing onto the floor. Ignoring his soaked garments, he leaned against the doorframe. He couldn’t breathe. 

Slowly, he forced air into his stomach and painfully choked it out, trying to still his heart.

He made it. He was safe!

Suddenly, his eyes widened in horror as a loud thud hit the outside of the door, the impact of which shook his entire body. The ambiance around him grew dusk as a chill ran up his spine. He placed his sullied hands over his mouth as his body froze.

It was at the door.

Part of him wanted to scream; he wanted to run down the hallway and hide in the wooden framed closet as if he were a small child again. But, the more rational side of his mind knew to stay perfectly still. Absolutely. Quiet.

Lightning stuck in the background followed by the destructive clap of thunder, a loud sound that made the complex tremble at its very foundation. 

The doorknob started violently rattling.

It was trying to get in!

Another thud shook the door, followed by a full-on slam. Cortisol-filled tears began to gush from the fearful man’s bulging unblinking eyes as fought the urge to shriek. A metallic taste filled his mouth as he reflexively bit down hard on his bottom lip. His left eye was twitching. Another strike of lightning flashed from outside, briefly engulfing the dingy room in light.

The pounding suddenly stopped.

As the rumble of thunder hit once more, the cold, heavy air around him suddenly grew crisp. A vestige of faint whispers shrilled beyond the oak before leaving the fear-ridden man alone in stormy silence. 

He let out a hesitant sigh.

Rainwater and sweat continued to drip from his tangled hair down his face. Taking the palm of his hand, he quickly wiped his tear-covered face. He shifted awkwardly as his face flushed in embarrassment. He hadn’t cried in years, he had no reason to. Even when under the intense stress of his work, he always found a way to swallow his fears like an adult.

So why was he whimpering? Or more importantly-

What was he running from?

He was still shaking as he stood up and collapsed onto the nearby brown leather sofa in the living room. He must have sat on the remote, for a moment later, the small CRT television came alive. 

Of course it had to be the Food Channel.

Curling his still trembling body up into a ball, he felt the irksome warm tears continue to flow down his face. They were starting to burn. Not only were his eyes on fire, but each salty trail set his face ablaze. His eyes were probably a burning red by now. He had been so busy working that he hadn’t seen his own reflection in days. He bet he looked awful. Then again, the man who looked back always looked awful.

His mind still felt shattered from confusion. He needed to collect himself. 

The storm outside was starting to pick up again. His eyebrows wrinkled. 

Where was everyone?

The apartment complex was always busy, even at this time of night, usually from people coming home from late work shifts and drunken parties. He cracked his tight knuckles, each pop an attempt to ease the oncoming mental cephalalgia.

He couldn’t even recall seeing a single moving car on the streets from when he was running.

For the first time, he felt… Alone.

Just then, a familiar loud alarm sounded from the TV in front of him, distracting him from his morbid thoughts. A bright blue screen flashed along the television; a severe weather alert. 

The strident EAS sound startled him, its high-pitched beep echoing throughout the room. Taken aback, he tried to search for the remote, but quickly found himself clumsily overturning couch cushions and searching under his crumb filled side tables only to no avail. It was missing.

Now that he thought about it, a lot of things from his living room were missing.

Suddenly noticing the irregularities, he sat up and squinted his still burning eyes. The room felt so familiar yet… It felt so empty. The walls were bare.

Weren’t there portraits up there once?

He began to scan the empty room. His bookshelves were empty. What happened to his books? Where was his DVD player and rack of movies? The empty rodent cages and plastic enclosures that he once kept in the corner were absent as well. Even the small makeshift TIE Fighter model he made that used to lie peacefully on the side table was gone. The only thing that wasn’t missing was the bleeding Aloe Vera plant by the window. 

Everything that defined him as a person was missing. 

Someone must have broken in.

If there was a break in, that would explain why the front door was unlocked. What else had been taken? Reminding himself that the worst was over, he decided to cautiously feed into his curiosity.

 First, the kitchen.

The blue light from the still blaring TV served as his only source of light as he tip-toed into the kitchen. He had tried to hit the light switch, but was only met with plaster. He clumsily felt the entirety of the wall, but it was almost as if the switch had disappeared, adding to the list of missing items.

He gulped. His hands were still quivering.

The kitchen looked untouched. It still reeked of blue cheese and burnt shrimp pasta from his previous cooking attempt. The dirty dishes were still piled up in the sink, and the half eaten lasagna dinner from a few days ago was still sitting on the kitchen table. 

He really needed to make time for cleaning.

Nauseated, he briefly tried to pick up the dish, only to pull his hand back in searing pain. 

It was still hot. 

How could that be? It had been sitting out for days, it should have been cold, if not moldy by now.

Next, he tried to open the fridge, but no matter how hard he tried, the door wouldn’t open. He tried opening the cabinets only to be met with the same result. Another explosive clasp of thunder hit outside. With each strike, the television’s volume increased, its warning only reverberating his eardrums louder.

Ignoring the noise, he moved across the kitchen. The pantry door was cracked open, just as how he had left it before leaving for work. He slowly opened the door. It was filled with crackers. 

He didn’t remember buying all those crackers.

They weren’t even boxed. Just, piles, upon piles of crackers, some of which were half eaten. That’s when he noticed the propped open trash can. He placed his foot over the pedal, its intermingled stench flouting his nose. Everything that had once been in his pantry- cereal boxes, grains, cans… They had been thrown away. Not only had someone broken into his home and stole his stuff, but had also tossed out all his food and replaced everything- 

With crackers.

A shiver ran up his spine. Could whomever had broken in still be inside his apartment? 

He grabbed a small bread knife from the kitchen sink and crept his way into the most reserved part of his home- the bedroom. 

Unlike the kitchen, his bedroom was the one area he liked to keep tidy at all times. It served as an emotional oasis, the one place where he could freely talk to himself and manically move around while brainstorming his latest inventions and ideas. It was a safe haven for his neuroticisms and jovialities. A knot formed in his stomach at the sight of what his bedroom had turned into. 

The curtains and bedsheets were ripped, as if clawed at by an animal. He used to have a large plush purple chair in the corner, but that too had disappeared. Years of discarded blueprints and potential invention designs littered the ground. Several dark, dried red droplets trailed across the wooden floor towards his work area. His usually clean desk was a wreck.

Numerous tools and notes were scattered across the surface alongside random miscellaneous items. He picked up one of the gridded papers from the stack; it was for some type of large destructive ray. 

Had he made that? 

He must have, his handwriting was all over it. The more he thought about it, the blueprint resembled something from a long forgotten dream, or rather, nightmare. The left side of his head was starting to throb.

Someone had been through his work.

That same burning filled his eyes again, this time not from fear, but fury. He gripped the small knife harder.

Someone had trashed his room. 

Someone had violated his sanctuary, his allegorical mindscape.

There was still one room in his small apartment he hadn’t checked-the closet. Aside from a few old shirts, his spacious closet was used more as storage for his more nerdy obsessions and failed engineering experiments, stowed away from sight so he could ignore his failure. He hadn’t opened that closet in months. He held the knife in a defensive position as he trudged towards the closet. 

The floorboards beneath him were shaking, every footstep echoed like a heartbeat. The door knob felt corroded and dusty, a layer of gray dust gracing his fingertips. 

That damn television alert was blasting now, competing in sound frequencies against the ruckus outside. The room suddenly grew cold.

Taking a deep breath, he slowly opened the door.

Darkness engulfed him.

Instantly, his soul was ripped from his very chest leaving a gaping violent hole where his heart once was. Blood rushed down his shirt as his eyes widened in shock and horror. In front of him was an empty void, a hellish purgatory of his own making. His new penitentiary.

They were going to kill him!

NO, wait! This isn’t what he wanted!

The walls were closing in on him!

He painfully fell to his knees just as the floorboard swallowed him whole, the wood splintering his legs and desperate hands.

He got sucked in! 

The walls began to crumble, the ceiling collapsed above him. He tried to scream, but could only manage a raspy plea from his tearing throat. He tried to grab onto something, anything , but was met only with bloody sludge.

He was drowning! He couldn’t breathe! 

The storm mocked his screams as water and mud filled his lungs, leaving an astringent iron  taste in his ripping vocal cords.

He was dying! 

He was dying! 

…

They killed him!

He woke up gasping.

To his surprise, he opened his eyes to find himself tightly wrapped in a thin, rough, blanket, holding on to his own moist thorax for dear life.

He ripped off the cold sweat-logged blanket. His chest felt constricted as he tried to breathe. Quickly, he placed his index and middle fingers in the fleshy area next to his trachea and below the jaw. His pulse was brisk and rhythmic; he wasn’t dead.

He clenched and unclenched his fists, but the adrenaline wouldn’t go away. He felt like screaming, like punching… Like running. 

There was a high pitched cry coming from somewhere. It was loud and painful, a soliloquy of anger induced sobs and grief-filled screams. He held his hands up to his ears in a pathetic attempt to block out the hellish wailing. 

It took him a minute to realize the horrid noise was coming from his own gullet.

He placed his hands over his mouth in an attempt to stifle the uncontrollable scream. It was only when his voice grew coarse and he couldn’t draw a breath did his vocal folds stop contracting. Warily, he lowered his uneasy hands.

Where was he?

Instinctually, he felt his head tilt back and arms retreat towards his chest as he began to sniff the air. The air was damp and rancid, stinging his sensitive nose. Despite the darkness, he was able to sense everything. He swung his body across the concrete slab he had been sleeping on and placed his bare feet on the ground. Slowly, he began to make his way around the room.

Well, that is until only three steps in, he bumped head-first into a wall. 

He let out a curse and rubbed his now-sore nose. Holding on to the wall, he continued to make his way around. Six steps in, he hit another wall. 

He was in a very small rectangular room. He looked up. 

Above his head, there was a small window, barely reachable. The window was covered in brownish-black steel bars and reflected the pitch black sky outside. 

Only when his fingers stroked the rusty metal did he realize that he was missing his yellow gloves. 

Aggh!

He retracted his bleeding index finger, sliced from the rusty surface. 

His eyes were starting to adjust to the darkness. There was a sink to his left. Turning the knob, he let the tap-water run over his open wound. The greenish-gray water was cold and murky. He hoped it wouldn’t cause an infection later.

Air-drying his wet hand, he raised his arm to his face, studying the pallid appendage. Subtle pink scratch marks ran down his arm. The nook behind his elbow felt swollen and itchy; there lay an old dirtied band-aid above the vein. Bits of his forearm hair looked to have been gnawed off. He must have also been chewing at his fingernails; the once-long nails were now chewed down to ragged nubs. 

The back of his left eye was starting to twinge.

Then, a drop of water hit his forehead. He looked up. There was a long slim corroded pipe above him. Another drop hit him, this time in the corner of his eye. He blinked, forcing the drop run down the bridge of his nose and down his chin. His pupils constricted.

Why did that feel so familiar?

He froze. 

Like a deer in the headlights, his body refused to move. He felt another drop of water crash onto his forehead. He stood in consternation as each drop struck his forehead, each liquid shard progressing getting sharper and sharper.

Keys, keys!

He suddenly felt woozy. The room around him began to spin as he regained control of his body, only to wrap his hands around his throat.

That dream.

His hands tightened as he groaned in agony. His brain felt like it was too big for his own skull, threatening to burst at any moment. His head was spinning, he couldn’t breath. The darkness of the room was clouding his mind, blockading the memory of his night terror. The mere thought of his own metacognition made his head swell more.

He felt himself twitch and contort, as if controlled by an invisible puppeteer. He released his throat just as his entire body began to violently spasm, uncontrollably toppling onto the dusty concrete floor.

He was blinking rapidly. He couldn’t control his own body’s erratic jerks and twinges. A strange acidic-burnt taste filled his mouth as brief flashes of light began to flood his vision. 

Oh no… No!

No!

This wasn’t what he wanted. That’s what he had told himself. But he learned quickly to tune out that voice and swallow the burning sensation back into the pit of his stomach. His plan was only getting started after all.

It surprised him how easy it was to hijack the local news station. All he needed was a coat hanger, duct tape, and the old Frequency Modulation Transmitter he built all those years ago.

He felt his long fingers grip the old phillips-head screwdriver as he tightened the bolts on his latest contraption.

Any moment now, the girl’s hearing would pick up on them. He had already made the mistake of choosing such an easily detectable hideout. Not only was the old abandoned factory in the middle of the city, but its worn graffitied exterior stuck out like a blister on the hands of the city. If this was to be his new lair, he would have to sterilize the facility, clear away the glass, and inspect it for asbestos. Later of course.

He needed to be hasty.

He knew how good the girl was at detecting sound waves, and his revised cadence mixed with his own personal bickering probably exacerbated that. 

No!

He blinked, and suddenly, he was across the room, underneath the hanging light.

Right behind his eye and above the bridge of his nose, a skull breaking pressure tugged at his mind. His throat was hoarse and his teeth were ground. His body was bent in a defensive position, arm raised to block an hidden assailant. Who had he been fighting? 

Then, she burst in.

He turned his head in annoyance. That cursed girl again, with her high-pitched voice and snooty tone. Why couldn’t she just leave him alone? 

Little did the flying pest know that she wasn’t the only one with a heightened sense of hearing. He could hear her sidekick’s light footsteps running across the shingled roof, his nimble body sneaking in and climbing down the piping, probably to pounce on him as trained.

Nothing he wasn’t prepared for.

That guilt was still bawling at him, crawling at his skin and turning his stomach. 

It was burning his chest!

He bent over in pain. All he could hear was static as the whispers of the memory continued to taunt him. The light above him flickered. The walls… They were closing in on him! They were charging towards him! They-

…Shouldn’t be doing this!

He spat before placing his hands over his mouth. He hadn’t said that.

The girl briefly reached out in concern before her expression hardened.

“Talking to yourself again, doc?”

…

When he came to, he was in a new room. The room was large, and all white. He hissed; the glaring light was blinding him, scorching his eyes. He tried to raise his arm to shield his face from the light, but found that his wrists were handcuffed. He was seated at a wide, gray, metal table.

In front of him was a large woman.

Not again.  

He must have blacked out again.

The lady was scribbling. She was writing notes, the black pen already filling half the page. His blurry vision still adjusting to the bright light couldn’t read the littered handwriting.

How long had he been there?

He tried to form a sentence but couldn’t find the words. The lady pushed up her glasses as she flipped to another page. “How about any hallucinations or delusions?”

“What?” He winced at the sound of his own voice. It was brutally strained, like nails on a chalkboard. 

The lady refused to meet his eye as she monotonously repeated herself. “Have you ever experienced any hallucinations or delusions?”

He ran his handcuffed hands through his greasy hair. “Why am I here?”

He was growing lightheaded again. Shaking his head, he bit down on his scarred finger to stay lucid. The woman raised a keen eye at him. “For your pre-trial mental health screening.”

“I don’t understand.”

The woman let out a sigh before pulling out a manilla folder, briefing its contents aloud. “You were arrested by police Sunday evening for stealing two-thousand dollars worth of cheese and threatening to… Coagulate the entire city. Sound familiar?”

No…

He shut his eyes tightly. “A minute ago I was in a room-”

“Do you mean solitary?” She turned another page. “According to my notes, you wouldn’t stop screaming in the middle of the night after your arrest. For the safety of other inmates, you were promptly moved to solitary confinement. That was four days ago.” 

Four days ago?

After a moment, the woman returned to her notepad and changed the subject, going on about something regarding his legal name. But he ignored her. 

He placed his hands flat on the table, feeling the cool material. “Aren’t you going to question what I did that day?”

“This is your mental health evaluation, sir, a psychological evaluation to see if you’re fit to stand trial. You already waived your rights to an attorney and underwent police questioning prior to this.”

“No I didn’t.”

The lady began to tap her pen against the table impatiently. “Sir, according to my records, on the evening of last Sunday, you were taken into police custody, given your phone call, fingerprinted, questioned, and detained, in that order.”

“I-I don’t remember,” It was all a time-lapsing blur, the last he could remember was-

Wait… He made a phone call?

An electronic, buzzing alarm was coming from somewhere. It sounded so familiar, yet only grew louder as realization struck him.

Who did he call?  

His thoughts were distracted by the tedious tone of the woman in front of him as she continued on with her questions.

“Do you experience lapses in memory frequently?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can you tell me about your family history?” 

“ I don’t know. ”

That damn alarm was blaring now. So damn loud…

“Have you ever consumed any illicit-”

“Enough!” He slammed his fists on the table. The buzzing stopped. “I’ve had enough.”

He must have startled the poor woman. At the sound of his handcuffed fists making contact with the metal, her posture stiffened, and for the first time, she made eye contact with him. His heart sank. 

She looked terrified of him.

There was that feeling again, that burning feeling that clawed at his chest and choked his breathing. That feeling that haunted his dreams and inflicted such heart-stopping pain. He felt…

Ashamed.

“Very well then.” The woman murmured as she pressed a button hidden underneath the table and quickly gathered her files. A bulky officer walked into the room to escort her out, soon leaving him once again alone with himself. 

"I’m sorry-"

He felt awful. Who did he think he was? He cupped his face and let the blood rush to his ears. He ran his fingers down his face and bit down on his tongue. His front teeth were sharp and long. 

What even was he?

He sat in silence with himself, half expecting his mouth to pry open again in an involuntary scream. No… No matter. It didn’t matter. He needed to find answers. He needed to leave. He licked his sharp incisors.

Maybe…

Before he could think twice, he was gnawing at the handcuff chain. He needed to get free. Sure enough, his teeth were strong enough to break through the metal.

It worked!

And if he could chew through metal… 

He jumped out of his chair and scurried over to the wall. He needed to be fast.

Awkwardly positioning his face, he tried to chew at the wall. He couldn’t get into a good enough position to make any bitemarks, his large nose cartoonishly blocking the way. Then, he noticed his fingernails. They had grown again. The chewed down nubs had turned into unkempt claws. Testing his intuition, he clawed at the wall, and began to dig. It easily came apart like drywood. 

Once he was able to make a small fist-sized hole, he repositioned his mouth in the gap and began to chew.

Dig and chew.

Outside the room, he could hear footsteps approaching the door. He only had seconds now. Sticking his head out into the cold, stormy, night air, he squeezed his way out the makeshift hole towards his freedom.

He was out!

Instantly, he ran down the flooded streets and made a dash for the gathering fog. 

He knew exactly where he needed to go.

It was storming hard. Large clumps of burning sharp ice attacked his fragile skin as his lanky legs carried him onwards. 

Run! Run!

Then again, it felt like all he ever did was run.