Chapter Text
The light buzzed gently overhead. Mortimer sighed.
He had had all sorts of plans for his life. None of them involved this. He had just wanted to be an artist with a nice little house in North Hill and a garden full of flowers. Not much to ask for, just a cozy place to live and a good job.
You don’t always get what you want.
Recently, he had spent every day slouched over a desk in a cramped, poorly lit room. That constant buzzing of the light paired with the dripping sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere was giving him one hell of a headache. He took a deep breath. Just keep animating…
Mortimer gritted his teeth. Animating. Animating propaganda for the Lankmann Foundation all day, every day because some thing had gone and ruined everything for everyone in this stupid tiny town.
Ugh, he knocked the ink over again. He quickly wiped it up-
Hang on.
Hands aren’t supposed to look like that.
Maybe the sleep deprivation was finally getting to him. After all, he couldn’t remember the last time he had any real sleep. He blinked slowly and rubbed his eyes.
Nothing changed. He turned his hand over. It was almost as pale as paper, with barely visible greyish stripes and veins that were almost black.
“Wha…?” He mumbled.
Probably just ink. Surely he was just being silly. Surely his mind was just addled. There’s no other way to explain it. He got up to wash his hands.
It wasn’t working. No matter how much he scrubbed, his hands looked exactly the same. They must just be stained or something, right? He glanced at his reflection in the mirror. He didn’t recognise it.
Everything was just wrong. His eyes were too dark, his skin too pale, his smile too wide. Even the dark circles under his eyes seemed off somehow.
He cautiously brought a striped hand up to it. Even the texture was wrong. Rubbery and too smooth.
A wave of nausea struck him. He sank to the floor to avoid seeing that anymore.
After a few deep breaths, the nausea subsided. It was replaced by hunger. Which made sense. He didn’t know when he last ate. It felt a bit unusual, though. He couldn’t feel that he was hungry, he just knew. What the hell was happening?
He pulled himself back up to take another look in the mirror. Maybe it was just some bizarre disease or hallucinations or something. Maybe when he looked again he would be normal.
Fuck.
His eyes were glowing a pale yellow color. It was subtle, but definitely there.
Glowing eyes… stripes… blackened veins… that hunger…
No.
No. No no no no no.
What would Alex think? Lankmann? Could he even keep this job if someone found out?
A lone violin played in the distance.
Mortimer sobbed.