Chapter Text
This was his fault. He was sure the weapon he'd used had somehow weakened the structure, which had apparently been hidden beneath his feet.
Bryan hadn't grown up in a wealthy family. He hadn't had the kind of childhood that involved family outings or even home-cooked meals. His mother had never wanted to be his mother, and for all he knew, his father could've been the homeless guy sleeping behind his hometown Walmart.
Which was to say, outside of movies, he'd never heard the sound of a ship in his entire life.
But that was the only way he could describe the noise that flooded the sewers. It sounded like metal groaning under immense pressure. Dread filled him. The ground beneath his feet began to shake as if an earthquake had struck. The corpse, or what remained of it, toppled sideways just as Bryan lunged toward the stairs along the wall, which would hopefully lead him out of the sewers.
For a moment, it was as though time had stopped. Just as he was two steps away from the stairs, the entire structure finally collapsed. It was as if hundreds of sounds had suddenly flooded his head. Among them, he could make out the frantic pounding of his own heart. This was it. Surely, this was how he was going to die. A small part of him, that little voice that kept telling him truths he desperately wanted to ignore, helpfully supplied a quick: At least you won't have to hear those words.
Bryan squeezed his eyes shut, terrified. He didn't want to see himself die. He was, in the end, a scaredy-cat. His body plunged into the darkness.
He had no idea how long he fell. It could've been minutes or seconds, not that it would've made much of a difference, considering he'd lost consciousness somewhere along the way. When he opened his eyes again, by some sort of miracle—or perhaps some cosmic joke at his expense—he was alive.
He was in so much pain that even sitting up felt like an impossible chore. Small whimpers escaped his lips as dark spots danced across his vision. "Fucking shit, fuck, fuck—Of course I shot the rats and this happens. Of fucking course," he grumbled bitterly, pressing a hand to his forehead. His head was killing him, and the warm, sticky liquid coating his fingers practically screamed blood. So, apparently, besides being stuck in some random fucking place, he could now add a head injury to his ever-growing list of injuries.
Bryan exhaled slowly. It was a fleeting attempt to find some semblance of inner peace before he gave in to the overwhelming urge to abandon everything and simply accept his death. He swallowed hard, trying to loosen the knot in his throat. He had to fight back the tears and find a way out. He had to find the hospital and deliver the package. Because otherwise, everything he'd done up until now would've been for nothing.
The voice of the little girl he'd shot would haunt him until the day he died. Of that much, he was certain. She couldn't have been older than eight. He'd killed her to survive. It had been one of those kill-or-be-killed situations, but even if it made sense, even if it was the logical thing to do, none of that could erase the disgust he felt toward himself. It was like a goddamn mosquito constantly buzzing in his ear. A relentless reminder that his soulmate had been right about him.
Despite his own rules, he rolled up the sleeves of his many layers of clothing, revealing his left wrist. The same arm that had been bitten. The irony wasn't lost on him. Something between a sob and a laugh escaped his lips. There they were, written in beautiful handwriting:
'Oh fuck, it's you.'
There was no way those words could possibly have a positive meaning. The person the universe had decided was perfect for him would take one look at Bryan in all his pathetic glory and think fate had given them the short end of the stick. A dud.
Fuck, Michelle—bless her heart—had looked at those words with sympathy and pressed a warm kiss against his wrist. Bryan genuinely thought fate could take all its soulmate bullshit and shove it up its metaphorical ass. Michelle was what he needed, not some other person. Just her. Bryan could feel it, and he knew it, too. She made him a better version of himself. Someone who could face another day with something almost resembling hope.
Of course, nothing good ever lasted in his life.
Just like that puppy he'd fed whenever he could when he was nine years old. Around the same age as the little girl he'd murdered. The puppy was some sort of Labrador mix, far too trusting for her own good. Bryan couldn't take her home. His mom would've reacted in that awful way that made Bryan pretend he didn't exist. So instead, he'd save a portion of his school-provided lunch and share it with her. She was so cute and full of innocence. A beautiful little puppy that lived near the trailer park. For a couple of months, he'd basked in her sunny presence. He called her Pancakes. He used to like pancakes, so the name had seemed perfect. Dumb, dumb Bryan.
He found her dead. Her body lay beside the spot where she usually waited for him. A couple of meters away was a discarded trash bag. Inside were some food scraps and something he recognized from the stuff his mom used to feed the rats to kill them.
He couldn't do anything. Nothing except bury her little body while tears streamed down his face, accompanied by the horrible certainty that it was his fault. If he hadn't fed her that first time, maybe she would've moved somewhere else. Maybe she would've learned to be wary of humans. Maybe she would've become smart enough to survive on her own.
That was the first time the words on his wrist had made sense.
It was also the exact moment he understood that good things never lasted. Just like Pancakes, Michelle had left him. But it was good, actually. Because she'd found her soulmate. And damn, she was so nice about it. She'd wiped away his tears, reassured him that he'd find happiness too, and kissed his forehead.
The memory was still painfully fresh in his mind because it had only happened three months ago.
He blinks and exhales once again, bringing himself back to the present. His right hand, trembling, moves to cover his wrist once more. At the same time, his eyes finally register his surroundings. It still looks like the sewers, only on a deeper level.
He's not sure how he survived the fall, but when he looks down, he finally gets his answer. "Shit!" he screams, scrambling to his feet so abruptly that a sudden wave of dizziness throws him off balance. His body tumbles down the mountain of what appears to be piled-up flesh. Bryan rolls for a few moments, cursing with every new impact until he finally lands in the filthy water.
He groans as he struggles to his feet again. The water isn't deep, but he could still drown if he stayed lying facedown in it. His body is completely covered in blood and filthy water that most definitely shouldn't have come into contact with his numerous wounds. At this point, it's anyone's guess what will kill him first: the bite or his infected wounds. Who knows, maybe even blood loss could get him.
He turns in a circle, taking a better look at his surroundings. He's absolutely certain he's still in the sewers, but there's something strange about the way this place is built. There's some sort of stone bridge in the distance, with lampposts standing on either side. There are also other doors and areas that seem to be made entirely of mud. The whole place is weird and suspicious. He feels a shiver run down his spine, one he attributes to a bad feeling. And it really must be a bad feeling because, small mercies, this place is much warmer than up above. The temperature is normal enough that being soaked like a sewer rat—ha—probably won't kill him. Probably.
A distant whimper reminds him that he's not safe and that he's still a ticking time bomb. "Focus, goddammit. Just find an exit. Yep, simple as that. You can totally do this. You got it." Even he can tell how insane he sounds, but that's the best he can do.
He limps around, trying to be as quiet as possible. Debris is scattered all around him, one pile after another. If even one of those chunks had landed on his head, that would've undoubtedly been the end of his night. He pats himself down, remembering his guns. It's right at that moment that he realizes two things. First, his guns are gone. They probably fell into the water, and with how dark it is, finding them is practically impossible. Normally, that would be his biggest concern, but it's the absence of his cooler that sends a cold sweat down his spine.
"No, no, no, no, no!" he screams in a whisper, looking frantically around him like a headless chicken. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he repeats like a mantra as he scrambles back up the mountain of flesh he'd landed on. He ignores the weird, squelching sounds the thing makes, too focused on finding the last ingredient needed to make the goddamn cure that would keep him from turning into a monster.
His breathing is shallow, and he can barely draw a breath without feeling like he's choking. Bryan is desperately trying not to cry in fear when he finally spots it. It's at the bottom of the mound of flesh, on the opposite side from where he'd fallen earlier. He finally breathes again and slowly makes his way down. Once he reaches the bottom, he picks up the cooler with trembling fingers, promising himself that no matter what happens, he's never letting it out of his sight again.
He shifts it slightly, and in the darkness of the sewers, the sound of broken glass rattling inside makes him freeze. It's like he's moving on autopilot. His hands unzip the cooler, and what should've been a vial filled with liquid is now hundreds of shattered pieces. Bryan can make out some of the liquid still mixed in with the broken glass. He blinks, then blinks again, but the image doesn't change. The result is the same.
He slowly sits down on the floor, surrounded by filthy water, and places the cooler beside him. He blinks again.
And cries.
Tears stream down his cheeks as his hands pull violently at his hair. Sobs that sound like someone is being murdered keep tearing their way out of his mouth. Maybe, in some way, that's exactly what's happening. That was his only hope, and just like always, he'd fucked it up. The little girl he'd killed had died for nothing. Bryan tugs at his hair harder in a pathetic attempt to ground himself. The pain gives him just enough clarity to recognize the sound of something moving through the water.
He doesn't care. Right now, he'd be grateful if some monster tore him to pieces and put an end to his pathetic existence. He's tired.
So fucking tired.
When the thing stops moving near him, Bryan raises his head. Not a monster, but definitely a hallucination, because the most gorgeous guy in a cop uniform he's ever seen is staring at him with an expression somewhere between confusion and concern, a gun held in his hand. Maybe his subconscious is trying to tell him something. That he needs to confess his crimes before he dies. It's the only logical explanation.
"I killed a little girl," Bryan starts explaining in a broken voice, still sobbing. "F-fuck, she was s-so tiny, and—and her foot was full of tentacles, and—" A particularly violent sob interrupts him, but he keeps going. "I wanted to help her so bad. Because I'm a failure, b-but I couldn't leave her there... alone." He's shaking, but his hallucination hasn't stopped him, so his rambling continues. "She bit me, and—and her face opened up, like something out of Lovecraft, and I shot her with a shotgun." Bryan closes his eyes, and it's like he's living through that hell all over again. "S-she was so scared. I’m sorry I wasn’t enough…." He presses the palms of his hands against his eyes, his sobs growing louder.
He's so lost in his own head that he doesn't even register the other guy saying, "Oh fuck, it's you," in a voice full of wonder. There's none of the disgust Bryan had imagined. Instead, it's relief that fills the man's expression. It's as though some invisible weight that's been pressing down on him has finally been lifted from his shoulders.
Bryan is still crying, completely unaware of the other guy processing what he's just said. His expression shifts from relief to extreme concern, then fear, before finally settling into something that makes him square his shoulders.
Resolution.