Project Rebirth #CreatureFeature

Part One

THE MORGUE SMELT of death.

Not the kind that hinted of sterile equipment, chilled flesh and decaying blood. But the kind that lingered on Dr. Pyne's skin, the kind that clung to him like the guilt on his chest, the undeniable leaching black of a fading Pariah's consciousness. Their 'soul' as they called it. He scolded himself at the thought. Souls and petty God bothering things did nothing to free him from this situation. He was a man of science, and a dead body was a problem proposed by the laws of nature. What he needed was a solution, a breakthrough, and she was his enigma wrapped up in a white sheet.

Subject Twelve was the only resident in the morgue at the basement of London's science blacksite. Far stashed away from any prying eyes and heavily guarded so to avoid the terror attacks of two years ago. She was freshly dead as of twelve noon today. An autopsy had been conducted, X-Rays slapped up on the wall, and countless post-mortem experts had flooded through the door to leave their opinions.

But he didn't need one to know what killed her, he was there after all. He reached out and stroked a thick clump of her hair, matted with dry blood, and shivered in the cold. There was something else here, something super-human. Subpar to anything else. All he could account the thrum in the air to was the fading aura that Pariahs could sense between one another.

It was her aura.

Subject Twelve's.

His sweet sweet Alice.

He was no Pariah, no superpowered man, nor a half powered one. A Void as they called it. All he had was science and three degrees from Oxford on his side. No amount of his love could bring her back. A shattered skull, severe brain damage, pierced lungs, broken heart -- all but one consequences of that twenty-storey fall from the roof of this building.

She shouldn't have tempted fate.

Love was hollow, useless in small amounts, and it hadn't saved her. Their bond, if he could call it that, had been what landed them in the morgue. He straightened the white sheet on her body as he did everything he could to avoid looking at the observation cameras positioned in each corner of the room.

"Doctor Pyne?" a voice said from the doorway.

"Five more minutes," he said, barely looking up, his hand entwining with hers. Her skin a deathly shade of white. She always had had soft hands.

"They're waiting for you in the cremation chamber."

Oh no, no they're not.

Something awoke in his chest. Some ugly rearing beast waking from a slumber, primal, and thriving with the anger that burst through his bones. He clenched his fist and slipped his hand into his pocket to grip onto the ice cold grip of his gun. Metal against flesh. No. They weren't going to burn her. He could fix this, fix her. Science had got him into this mess, now science would get him out of it.

"Please," he murmured, lowering his lips to her forehead, "five more minutes alone." He closed his eyes and exhaled, flashes of that moment bursting through his mind the second he kissed her. Apologies screaming through his head.

He sat there on the concrete inner-courtyard outside his lab, hands slick with her blood, and cradled what was left of her. Broken bones, absent heartbeat, shattered skull, and all. Her skin was growing cold now, and as he pulled her limp body onto his lap he could hear the on-base military sirens growing nearer. His shaky hand stroked her hair, savouring the feel of each strand damp with blood and rain, and tucked a strand behind her ear. Why didn't he say it sooner? He was a fool, a desperate, irritable fool.

"You shouldn't have played God," she had said on the roof, her surgical gown flapping in the breeze. "No one should have that power."

"It's hardly playing God," he had scoffed. "You're saving lives, the research from your genes, your body could--"

"You made me a lab rat! I shouldn't even exist, you said that yourself!" She had jumped the roof's railings and stood with her arms spread either side of her, her wild mane of black hair billowing in the wind around her. "You lie, Matthias, you lie and lie. That's all you're good for!"

His hand had slipped for his gun, he was alone. He hadn't even called for backup. "I never lied to you."

She took two steps back and yanked the silver locket from her throat, tossing it over the rooftop. A bitter smile appeared on her face.

"You lied the moment you said you loved me."

"Alice . . ." he had warned as her bare feet tipped over the edge. "I can save you."

"I don't want you to."

Tears ran thick and heavy down his face, curling off the crook of his nose and splashing onto her cheeks. This was a mistake. The roof. The fight. That argument. The cage. This project, the whole thing was a fucking mistake. A scream worked its way up his throat but he clenched his teeth together. She deserved peace. She deserved him.

Something black grew inside of him, eating up his soul. Dark enticing misery crawled across his skin, creeping across his chest like her cold hands used to, grasping hold of what heart he had left. He choked out, a raw sob constricting his throat, and thumped his fist on the ground.

She was his.

Her sweet gentle words, her smile, the way she covered her mouth when she laughed.

He should've jumped too.

"I love you," he whispered against her forehead, "and I'm bringing you back."

The morgue doors clicked shut behind him, and shakily he opened his eyes, breathing in the sweet realisation of what he had to do. His hand curled around the gun in his pocket, he needed more time, but he had none to waste and nothing to barter with. One of them had left already, but the other one remained. Probably to look after the government's prize winning dead mess.

He slid his finger across the safety catch, undoing it, as he calculated his chances of getting a perfect shot of the Reaper grunt leaning against the morgue fridges. The gun was heavy, he'd already seen enough death, but a part of him craved more. It craved retaliation, something to replace the void she'd made.

I'm bringing you back.

He pulled out his gun and aimed it level with the Reaper's head, squeezing the trigger firm enough to send a bullet cracking through the man's skull and splattering blood, cogs, and brain matter on the metallic fridges behind him. The less witnesses to interrupt him the better. The Reaper crumpled to the floor with a dull thud as he lowered his revolver, the smoking barrel burning against his trouser leg.

His eyes flickered to Alice as she lay beneath the sheet.

There was work to do.