Strange Magicks & Stories That Frightened Me

Once upon a time (stay with me here, because it was A Dark And Stormy Night, as well, let me tell you)...

I sat down and wrote the beginnings to half a dozen stories, all set in the same world. A few of them had a single recurring character. One of them was set over two thousand years into the future from the others.

'Then' Me became concerned by the horror aspect of this latter story. I distinctly recall writing the scene where one of the characters calmly turns to the MC and says, "Run."

And the MC doesn't immediately register what's going on. And then they look up and freak out and have an understandably visceral prey response to what they see, reek of fear from every pore, and bolt.

Apparently between that scene and the schizophrenic high-functioning sociopathic serial killer human spliced with unknown alien genetics who's another of the POV characters, this story was just too much for the feeble psyche of 'Then' Me to tackle finishing.

'Then' Me was a bit of a wuss and wondered where the hell in my head this character strolled out of because that's some scary shit, and what the fuck, maybe I needed help?

So this story ended up in the "Idle Projects" folder on my computer for the past...

Eight years, give or take?

Ehh. Judge thee not, gentle reader. As the writer, I experience a great deal more with my muses than I actually end up documenting on the page in the finished work. 

And since I haven't shared a single piece of anything for a while (yes I'm horribly negligent and evil yada yada yada), here's an interview with my troublesome sociopath, Gregor. ...Brace yourself, Betty. ;)

Gregor walks into the room, his large build crowding me even from a distance. The crown of his head is scant inches from the ceiling that suddenly feels dangerously low as he makes his way over and props his hips against the edge of the antique stereo system in my living room. 

I try to glance up at him furtively, but it reminds me of trying to catch sight of the Eiffel Tower out the corner of my eye. It just doesn’t work. He’s wearing a sleeveless tee that began garment life as something rather different, evidenced by the frayed quality of every edge. The thin, comfortable fabric hangs loose on his body though, which is probably the point. A form-fitting exosuit hugs his lower body, slinging precariously low around his hip bones and tapering to an end just above his prominent ankles. Between the two, a generous few inches of abdomen and oblique muscles lie exposed, resembling a blazing glimpse of sunset on an overcast evening. His hands brace on the top of the stereo, thick fingers curling over the edge with such force, his mountainous knuckles begin fading to white. It’s sufficient incentive for me to work up the nerve to meet his gaze.

His eyes look brown from this distance, but I know the hue is a combination of every feasible color flecking through his irises. They’re only such a mundane shade when he’s calm—which is a good sign. I definitely want him to remain calm.

I relax a bit and try to smile.

“Hello there.” His voice makes me blink in surprise. That his mere presence in a room feels intimidating and hostile doesn’t sit well with me. I nod slightly, lowering my gaze until I’m able to look at him over the rim of my glasses. Being short-sighted, it reduces the aggressive sensation of his attention. 

I have to clear my throat before I manage the moisture to form words. “Hi.”

Not much of an introduction. He doesn’t appear inclined towards interaction, though, just watches me hunched over my laptop. Eyes flickering from the movements of my fingers, to the involuntary expressions ranging across my face. 

“You really want to hear my story,” he says finally, the blatant tone of disbelief strangling me. I glance up and nod. “That’s a first.” He shifts slightly, hands flexing on the thin wood. The restrained power in the movement makes me cringe. “Nobody gave two shits, back when they first discovered what I’d done. They just wanted me put away. Way out of the way. I knew too much, and they didn’t have the authority to put me out of my misery.”

“Misery?” I look up and take a moment to really see him, without daring to cow to the intimidation factor radiating from every inch. He shrugs his shoulders, the muscles in his neck undulating. Culturally, one would think the “ultimate warrior” type to resemble some hyper-evolved version of a Cro-Magnon or Neanderthal. Conan, perhaps?

Conversely, his aristocratic brow, wide-set eyes, broad nose and flaring nostrils remind me of some eerie amalgam of predatory mammalian features. Terran genetics strongly outweigh the alien genomes in his makeup; I know that much from the provided research. What it creates is a slightly unearthly taint to his features. Nostrils a little too animated, with just a hint of unusual shape. His face is long and oval, his jaw an eerie, thick line bringing to mind large cats and grizzly bears. Prominent cheekbones balance his features with an effeminate cast. Definitely far from purely human.

“Yes, misery, Rhi. It was like going through adolescence all over again, only the growing pains were more like invasive surgery without anesthesia.”

I wince at the description, and he offers me what probably passes for a smile in his opinion. It’s a twisting of his lips which resembles more of a smirk, and it’s innocent enough when he’s in this guise—save for the excessive number of large teeth in his mouth. He has fangs. Not hyper-extended canines or incisors, but ... fangs. I catch sight of them tucked up along his gum line in their retracted position despite his efforts to grin without exposing them. They’re mounted in the gums like an elephant’s tusks. Hence the reason for the strange facial structure, I decide.

“Like what they did to Wolverine, surgically enhancing his skeletal structure with that metal alloy, whatever it was. Because they knew he could heal himself.”

“Adamantium.” He grimaces at my comparison, but nods. “Yeah, like that I guess. Only... worse.” No doubt because no matter how he bargained, begged, and pleaded, there was no one who could make it stop. And it wasn’t like they’d given him a choice.

I can tell he doesn’t want to discuss this. From the records I’ve scanned, they just sat back and watched him writhe in agony, waiting to see what weird semi-sentient shape he would mutate into next. Knowing them, they probably took bets on it. The past didn’t matter at the moment, though. Not that part of it, at least.

Some would argue he doesn’t have much else in his life but the past at this point, seeing as how he’s been incarcerated in Everkept for two centuries.

But he doesn’t look like a caged man. There is a quality of satiation in his stance, the relaxed manner in which he rolls his head to stretch the kinks from his neck. He exudes the demeanor of a wild animal set loose from captivity. As though these moments of astral projection which free his psyche somehow enable him to forget where his corporeal form remains—and even what he is.

“How did you meet Michel?” This is what really fascinates me. What are the chances two prisoners, both bred and trained on Earth for two horrendously different reasons, would manage to find each other in a place like Everkept? It’s not like they get yard privileges on a space station drifting through space five lightyears past The Ass End of Nowhere. And astral projection wasn’t really something the Society would actively breed or genetically enhance in its product. Too unpredictable, uncontrollable.

“He found me, actually.” His words are soft, spoken absently. The query has triggered fond memories. For a man of his formidable bulk, his voice is eerily gentle. Not the deep, gravelly baritone one would expect from a being with such tampered genetics. I wonder what sort of control he has over his vocal cords, if he’s able to manipulate them the same way he can the rest of his form. There’s a distinct burr to his speech patterns, though—one the scientist in me immediately attributes to the alien aspect. But it could very well be the feline capacity to purr, or the dolphin communication array influencing the notable difference.

“He walked into my dreams one evening after they sporked me with the incapacitation array. It’s an electromagnetic field generator that induces deep sleep patterns,” he explained, upon seeing my confused expression. When he sensed my urge to laugh at the choice of his verbs—sporked? I mean, come on—a faint smile pulls at the corner of his lips and his retracted fangs bulge behind the skin as if his control is relaxing. “I could tell he wasn’t a figment of my own mind, because I’ve never seen his like before in all my years of active service outside this asylum.”

A frown twists my lips. ‘Active service’ makes for an interesting choice of words. “Never come across a pleasure slave?”

His bark of laughter is harsh and resembles a predatory growl. “Oh, plenty of them. That’s not what I mean, though.”

Okay. I’m not sure what to make of that. He’s being rather cryptic, but it’s no less than I expected from him. As I study his face, the aggressive vibes bleed from his body, his features relaxing further. His pupils shift into horizontal slits, extending the width of his eye, the iris elongating and expanding until not a speck of white remains.

So not human. Even less so, I think, as the nictitating membrane slides out and blurs the variegated irises beyond recognition. He releases his grip on the stereo with effort, and I see score marks in the old wood from his claws as he reaches up to brush the hair behind one oddly shaped ear lobe. Is he transforming into something closer to his actual form? Is it because he’s relaxing in my presence? Or are my questions pushing his stress management to the brink? 

“Michel is so much more than what the Center bred and trained him to be.” He looks me directly in the eye, then. “Just like me, you could say.”

Surely one could argue that after two hundred long years, he has more than paid his due for the actions which resulted in his incarceration. I certainly would—especially since no effort was made to rehabilitate him. Well, not officially at least. Likely because there’s some underlying motivation for his continued presence here.

“How so?” 

“He’s taught me control. Acceptance. Helped me find some level of inner peace.”

Michel is his sensei? It’s almost laughable, a pleasure slave becoming mentor to a mercenary.

I feel like I’m missing something here. The confusion must show on my face, because the large man shifts uncomfortably and reaches up to tug nervously at his earlobe. I get the impression he isn’t even aware of what he’s doing.

A nervous tic? You’ve got to be kidding me. Next he’s going to have a tail or something he’s hiding expressly for my comfort. Or because he’s self conscious of it, which would be equally laughable, considering. Or... well, perhaps it’s not so far-fetched.

Wouldn’t be the first time being incarcerated in an asylum made a rational individual develop some strange idiosyncrasies.

“So ... the changes you’ve undergone. Are they complete, do you think?”

For the first time, I witness a scowl contort his features. It reminds me of the felines at the zoo. They look so harmless, bordering on cuddly, until the moment they stretch -- flexing their claws, elongating their bodies, and offering a demonstrative yawn exposing every sharp tooth in their jaw. He’s no exception. That is no smile, I decide, watching in morbid fascination as all four of his impressive fangs extend. His large, angular jaw has more than sufficient room for them—so long as he doesn’t need to close his mouth. Or talk. Why does the visage of a long-extinct saber-tooth tiger come to mind? Surely the scientists would not have dared tap into such unpredictable genetic material... The thinner flesh on his face ripples oddly, olive-toned skin giving way to an indeterminate hide a combination of reptilian scales and an amphibious mammal. The patchy transformed areas are an odd hue of purple. 

Just as quickly as his features contort, his calm demeanor returns and he is once again the outwardly genteel guest. “I don’t know. I doubt anyone does.”

What I do know is a good bit more than he does about the donor alien race supplying genetic material to the Society’s scientists for use at the Center.

In the alien’s society, he’s still a spring chicken. A young whippersnapper. Don’t know he’d take that realization too well, though.

And unfortunately for him, the information doesn’t bode well for his sanity or the length of his incarceration.

“I think you should tell me your story.”

“Do you.”

I nodded. “Starting from the very beginning.”

“The beginning. What’s the beginning, to you?”

I shrug, crack my knuckles, and poise my fingers over the keys. “Start with your first memory after leaving the Center.”

...Yeah, if you read this far, you deserve a virtual cookie. This particular story has three POV characters, in its current form. I'll let you meet all of them. Hopefully. I'm trying to ease back into the writing thing as inspiration and energies allow. I'm practicing flexing my plotting muscles in the process. This writer thing isn't easy. I stumbled upon this story half-finished at 47k words and got to the end of what I'd written and actually yelled, "Where the fuck's the rest of the damned story?!" So if nothing else, I'll be finishing this one so I can read the ending and know what happens.

At which point, of course I'll shove it out there for everyone else to read as well, because why not?