- * "Electrifying" * -

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As the sky began fading into a deep lavender mixture with swirls of violet. The Australian accented man was watching longingly as the dusk began consuming the last of the dawn that was withering in its presence. Blissful blues faded faster than paper in the boiling heat, and soon the sound of crickets were the only thing to keep him company. A sigh escaped his grungy lips, wiping at his mouth in a frenzied series of swipes across the distasteful stubble that was strewn across his unshaven chin. Lord knows how much he needed to take a razor and slice it all off. The scientist sat upwards with a creak disagreement along the joint of his handmade prosthetic. Patting himself down and making sure he held no other aspects of his experiments, the lanky male made his way through the bathroom. Each step was enough to contest an ostrich, every movement jerking his torso around in the most unnerving of positions. The male fumbled around the sink, pumping water to the spout with the aid of a petite copper handle. With his other real hand, he gripped around the mahogany vanity like a madman, fingers grasping and clutching what they could, just barely missing an perturbed spider, who was less than thrilled to be distressed. Eventually, one of his fingertips landed on the spindly bristles upon his hog hair toothbrush, something in which he rarely used. He stared at it for a tad, pushing a soot encrusted thumb against its irritating head. It had the perfect consistency of whiskers, meaning that it would be perfect in hastening the progression of sterilizing his chemical instruments (If the toothbrush didn't corrode). Junkenstein, to put it shortly, did not brush his teeth that night. Instead, he stared pensively at himself in the petite oval mirror that held and awkward placement upon the peeling paint of the grotesque verdant walls. The man relieved himself soon after with the help of his clay chamber pot before shuffling back into his room. The softened soap he had used for tidying his hands still leaving its soothing scent hangin within the air. Bacteria from urine was not only unsafe to have on your limbs, but to Junkenstein, it was also the chance that an unwanted chemical reaction could take placement in his trials. Junkenstein stripped from his lab coat, crumpling it up upon the antique staining armchair that hung off to the side, clearly displaced among the ostensible mess. This left Junkenstein in only his ebony cotton boxers and the jagged hair across his shins and calves. The scientist then allowed his body to fall limply upon the filthy and foul sheets of his bed. Disconcertingly enough, the vibrations of something crawling under the cover of his pillowcase were displayed. With slumped shoulders Dr. Junkenstein's arm raised towards the oil lamp, its gentle glow inviting. He put it out, defeated from today's work. For a while, Jamison sat there, raising the covers up to his chin with the help of his masculine hands, lanky figure visible for anyone who were looking down at him. Junkenstein had pulled off his goggles long ago at this rate, red and sore lines appearing circular from where they rested upon his temples, engraving his shabbily fatigued eye region. Jamison's hand lifted from beneath the sheets, clutching at his achromatic locks, groaning a tad as he fumbled and contorted about his body. Every morning he woke up he felt a deterioration in his physical being, his bed was as firm as a brick, and in some lumpy sections it was outright painful to be around while laid back. Yet he still dealt with it. It was about time he were to repair this piece of furniture. It had been around when he first was assigned the manor by the Lord (though Junkenstein suspected he was tempted to assign him the feeding trough of the pigs). Which was around five or six years ago, but Jamison doubted the makeshift bundle of garbage was new when he obtained it. His furnishings all shared one correspondence as a whole ;

They were all used.

Used by the unavailing lines of researchers before him. This thought along sometimes made him shiver in fear or delight. Fear, because mainly Junkenstein knew he was only around due to the Lord's senile state of being, in which the others did not have the liberty of. Despite this, delight had a very presence still, for Junkenstein knew, that he held some sort of existence in the Lord's mind, a dreaded one at that. Every day he saw Lord Reinhardt he saw the transformation. Junkenstein's eyes took note of every shake his hands occasionally took while he spewed his plans mindlessly in his direction. The shaking became more apparent as time progressed, and that, to him, was delicious. Every time his meaty fists clenched together as he flinched made Jamison grow a sense of pleasure from his suffering. The Lord was letting him have power although the scientist hadn't used siege to take over. Jamison had to remember that a caged animal wasn't good to have around though. The King would viciously pounce upon every chance he could get to maintain his authority. He wouldn't pleased to see his own devastating decline.