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electrumicity) wrote2009-09-16 11:27 pm
electrumicity) wrote2009-09-16 11:27 pm
(no subject)
Blah.
I need more self confidence.
Whatev. I might as well keep posting it for the lulz.
Here, the first non-00 drabble I've written in a very long time (to my late-night knowledge). It's still Purgverse, though. Unbeta'd, you know the rest of the drill.
Though he has spent the better part of the day cleaning, using what little he has at his disposal, there is still a fine layer of dust that sticks to his finger as he runs it along the lab table. It will take at least a few days more work before it even slightly reaches a workable condition, and the basement of this run down house is anything but a perfect laboratory. Still, he knows that he has no choice. What is available must be used, and wanting for more is nothing but a waste of valuable time when more is unattainable at the moment.
Much of the equipment is unfamiliar to him, though not entirely; some instrumentation are nearly alike to what he is used to using, some bear a strong enough resemblance such that he knows that he will be able to figure out how to use it. Still others, however, are completely alien to him, and he knows that he must learn what they are and how to use them. After all, there is a chance that new technology will give him new opportunities, new ideas.
Henry Jekyll sinks down onto the chair in front of the main table, the back of his head resting on its top as he gazes at the ceiling above. The wood is rotting in several places, eaten away in others, another display of the house's state of disrepair. Not to say that it is the only house in the city like this; in fact, this is one of the better houses. Far too big for one person, but all he cares about is this basement, this laboratory, this home.
There is work to be done. He reaches over and takes the small black journal that was laying on top of the table when he first found the place, flipping it open. He's finally identified its owner, a small scribble on the inside cover: "Damien Bennett". The name matters little, but somehow, even just knowing the name makes him feel better about—what? He does not even know.
And if Thylas was correct about the man who last owned that notebook, this lab, if there really was another soul mirroring his own somewhere, following—no, creating—a similar path, then...
He reads a few pages again (for what may be the twentieth time so far) before placing it down, taking out another journal, this one blank. It had been found in a bookshelf, and seemed well enough for him to keep his own records in.
The accompanying pen invokes a sense of curiosity, and a part of him nearly wants to take the item apart to see how it works (it looks different from what he is used to), but he puts pen to paper and begins to write.
September 13, 11:56pm. With the ingredients and instrumentation available in this laboratory, I mean to continue my work. New calculations must be made, new research done, new tests. I must study all new information that can be learned in this realm, as I am certain that something will inevitably give me an answer. An idea, at the least, but an answer I hope.
It is back to work. It very nearly makes me laugh to think of it—ah, Henry Jekyll, the mad scientist, the man enveloped in his work and nothing more—even in the afterlife, he continues! Even death cannot stop him. Even he himself cannot stop him.
Though I do not know for certain the nature of my condition, I seem to be in control, and the beast has yet to
His pen jumps on the page as he feels something within him, something that first seemed as if a sharp pain but was now just a chill. He laughs. He must be imagining it, his mind playing tricks on him, using his fear against him.
emerge or even hint at its presence. However, this Thylas, this so called god, knows of him. In hindsight, it is to be expected of someone who appears to have a vast deal of power and knowledge. Still, I cann
His hand jerks again, and this time, he swears he feels something. A pang of something, and then hot, then cold, then hot then cold and he feels as if he is breaking out into a cold sweat. No, he is, he realizes, and temperature is becoming a blur to him, because something is closing in, he cannot breathe, gasp and wheeze and something is closing in, something is coiling itself around him.
He needs to get up, needs to escape, but he only succeeds in knocking both the chair and himself to the ground. His hands are tearing at his collar, tearing buttons, because he cannot breathe. An all too familiar pain begins to build up inside of him, from the tips of his extremities to the core of his being, and his screams echo throughout the underground.
Trapped, free, trapped, constricted and trapped and again it's here, there is no freedom, he is trapped.
It's here, he's here, go away, why are you here—why have you followed me—how are you here why are you here--I am always here—always, just a matter of time—wrap around, constrict, embrace—shhh, don't worry, I always take good care of you, don't I—can't breathe—into me, breathe into me, life once more—
Stillness.
There is a faint sound, the sound of a bell far in the distance, signaling the time. Midnight. He stands up, shaky at first, but steadying himself as he gets to his feet.
Midnight. There is a small beaker laying on the table but a foot away, and he takes it, smashing it against the edge of the surface. With one of the broken pieces, he slices into his arm, just a little, watching curiously as the blood pools up, letting himself revel in the pain. With his left index finger, he swipes a little, bringing it to his lips.
Copper. Bitter.
Life.
Edward Hyde laughs low in his throat as he drags the glass just a little more across his skin, giving him what he needs to work with as he coats his fingertip once more with the crimson liquid. The wooden table before him has become his canvas, his parchment, and this is such a fitting way for him to leave his message. Why use paper and pen? No, he thinks as he smiles and paints, this suits him much more.
He stands back when he is done, regarding the three words, before turning and making his way out of the basement, skipping every other step as he bounds up the stairs.
Missed me, Henry?
I need more self confidence.
Whatev. I might as well keep posting it for the lulz.
Here, the first non-00 drabble I've written in a very long time (to my late-night knowledge). It's still Purgverse, though. Unbeta'd, you know the rest of the drill.
Though he has spent the better part of the day cleaning, using what little he has at his disposal, there is still a fine layer of dust that sticks to his finger as he runs it along the lab table. It will take at least a few days more work before it even slightly reaches a workable condition, and the basement of this run down house is anything but a perfect laboratory. Still, he knows that he has no choice. What is available must be used, and wanting for more is nothing but a waste of valuable time when more is unattainable at the moment.
Much of the equipment is unfamiliar to him, though not entirely; some instrumentation are nearly alike to what he is used to using, some bear a strong enough resemblance such that he knows that he will be able to figure out how to use it. Still others, however, are completely alien to him, and he knows that he must learn what they are and how to use them. After all, there is a chance that new technology will give him new opportunities, new ideas.
Henry Jekyll sinks down onto the chair in front of the main table, the back of his head resting on its top as he gazes at the ceiling above. The wood is rotting in several places, eaten away in others, another display of the house's state of disrepair. Not to say that it is the only house in the city like this; in fact, this is one of the better houses. Far too big for one person, but all he cares about is this basement, this laboratory, this home.
There is work to be done. He reaches over and takes the small black journal that was laying on top of the table when he first found the place, flipping it open. He's finally identified its owner, a small scribble on the inside cover: "Damien Bennett". The name matters little, but somehow, even just knowing the name makes him feel better about—what? He does not even know.
And if Thylas was correct about the man who last owned that notebook, this lab, if there really was another soul mirroring his own somewhere, following—no, creating—a similar path, then...
He reads a few pages again (for what may be the twentieth time so far) before placing it down, taking out another journal, this one blank. It had been found in a bookshelf, and seemed well enough for him to keep his own records in.
The accompanying pen invokes a sense of curiosity, and a part of him nearly wants to take the item apart to see how it works (it looks different from what he is used to), but he puts pen to paper and begins to write.
September 13, 11:56pm. With the ingredients and instrumentation available in this laboratory, I mean to continue my work. New calculations must be made, new research done, new tests. I must study all new information that can be learned in this realm, as I am certain that something will inevitably give me an answer. An idea, at the least, but an answer I hope.
It is back to work. It very nearly makes me laugh to think of it—ah, Henry Jekyll, the mad scientist, the man enveloped in his work and nothing more—even in the afterlife, he continues! Even death cannot stop him. Even he himself cannot stop him.
Though I do not know for certain the nature of my condition, I seem to be in control, and the beast has yet to
His pen jumps on the page as he feels something within him, something that first seemed as if a sharp pain but was now just a chill. He laughs. He must be imagining it, his mind playing tricks on him, using his fear against him.
emerge or even hint at its presence. However, this Thylas, this so called god, knows of him. In hindsight, it is to be expected of someone who appears to have a vast deal of power and knowledge. Still, I cann
His hand jerks again, and this time, he swears he feels something. A pang of something, and then hot, then cold, then hot then cold and he feels as if he is breaking out into a cold sweat. No, he is, he realizes, and temperature is becoming a blur to him, because something is closing in, he cannot breathe, gasp and wheeze and something is closing in, something is coiling itself around him.
He needs to get up, needs to escape, but he only succeeds in knocking both the chair and himself to the ground. His hands are tearing at his collar, tearing buttons, because he cannot breathe. An all too familiar pain begins to build up inside of him, from the tips of his extremities to the core of his being, and his screams echo throughout the underground.
Trapped, free, trapped, constricted and trapped and again it's here, there is no freedom, he is trapped.
It's here, he's here, go away, why are you here—why have you followed me—how are you here why are you here--I am always here—always, just a matter of time—wrap around, constrict, embrace—shhh, don't worry, I always take good care of you, don't I—can't breathe—into me, breathe into me, life once more—
Stillness.
There is a faint sound, the sound of a bell far in the distance, signaling the time. Midnight. He stands up, shaky at first, but steadying himself as he gets to his feet.
Midnight. There is a small beaker laying on the table but a foot away, and he takes it, smashing it against the edge of the surface. With one of the broken pieces, he slices into his arm, just a little, watching curiously as the blood pools up, letting himself revel in the pain. With his left index finger, he swipes a little, bringing it to his lips.
Copper. Bitter.
Life.
Edward Hyde laughs low in his throat as he drags the glass just a little more across his skin, giving him what he needs to work with as he coats his fingertip once more with the crimson liquid. The wooden table before him has become his canvas, his parchment, and this is such a fitting way for him to leave his message. Why use paper and pen? No, he thinks as he smiles and paints, this suits him much more.
He stands back when he is done, regarding the three words, before turning and making his way out of the basement, skipping every other step as he bounds up the stairs.
Missed me, Henry?