Frost In Fire | S.Rogers

𖠁 PROLOGUE 𖠁

"Maybe if I don't cry, I won't feel anymore"
༒༒༒༒༒༒༒༒༒༒༒༒༒༒༒༒༒༒༒༒༒༒

2006

The man was mad.

His constant mutterings to himself, his messy scribbles in his Observations notebook, his rushing around the dark and damp make-shift lab were the tip of the ice-berg.

The man had gone mad, his mind unable to comprehend the discoveries and current experiments he was working on.

He had been stricken with grief, the special day that was meant to be the happiest day of his life had quickly turned into the same day that would haunt him for the rest of his life, the very same thing that driven him to insanity.

He stared at the two small vials that he held in his hands, one of those of the war Hero that his Father and his Grandfather had told him countless stories of as a kid, and one of the scrawny child that was upstairs sleeping.

He continued to mutter to himself, looking around to find a sort of mixing bowl-a tub-anything-

Letting out a scream of fury, he ripped open the bag of the soldier's blood, dumping in straight into the bottle of the one of his daughter's blood.

He started laughing to himself as the blood mixed. He rushed things over to his microscope, nearly whooping with glee as he saw the soldier's mutated blood cells conjoin with the girl's, as the white blood cells attacked her own white blood cells, multiplying into oddly shaped ones, as the palates and plasma mixed.

It was perfect, his experiment was perfect, and it demanded a home, needed a home.

He couldn't use it on himself, no, he couldn't waste his most valuable creation on himself. It was not for him anyways, it was not his own blood.

Brooklyn.

Brooklyn!

BROOKLYN.

"I won't ask again, get down here!" He yelled up the stairs, no longer able to tell the difference between what was said in his head and what was said out loud.

A small pounding of feet could be heard, and soon a small head poked through the doors.

"Ah, yes, come over here Blondie, come on come on." The man urged, holding the vial in one hand, not tearing his eyes away from his masterpiece as he waved the toddler over. The little girl toddled over to him, smiling brightly up at her father. He didn't look at her for long, grabbing her quickly by the arm and pulling her to the machine-the same machine-

He was lucky to be able to get the same machine. To have built it. He had spent countless, hysterical months building it, everything the exact as the original, every bold screwed to the right hole, following everything he had stolen from the German scientist's records, from the inventor's memoirs.

The little girl's feet dragged across the floor, her significantly smaller legs unable to keep up with the man's larger strides. He sat her in the chair, legs dangling over the seat as she looked around. She had never been allowed in to her father's lab, and she wanted nothing more than to explore this new area, but she knew her Daddy's behaviour, knew how unpredictable he could be with his mood swings, so the four year old sat where she was, not moving from her space as she continued to smile up at him, not noticing the syringe he was filling with the blood mixture.

He turned around, and the smile was soon wiped from her face at the size of the syringe, 470ml of red liquid filling it. She whimpered slightly, not wanting the same experience to happen again, for last time her Dad had a big needle like that, he had to end up tying her down to the chair to stop her from thrashing and biting him.