Damian goes Wolverine.

A while ago I participated in a fun, sort-of-annual mash-up with the fabulous Purgatorians over at Absolute Write. The idea is basically to write a beginning of a scene for someone else to complete later on before merry guessing ensues, to figure out who wrote the beginning or the continuation of said scene.

This year, I used a bit from a now deleted scene that didn't make the cut into this current draft of EMPIRE OF LIGHT and what can I say, I was hilariously amused by the lovely Gretchen McNeil's very nerdy take on my opening.

Enjoy as Damian gets a bit of a growly, clawy make-over into one of my favorite comic book heroes ever here.

~Alex






Something was bleeping right by my left ear. It was one of those ridiculously high-pitched, horribly annoying sounds. An alarm clock from hell. I reached out to swat at it -- anything to make it stop -- but I could barely move. All I managed was a limp twitch; my whole body felt as if it’d been stapled down tightly. With excruciating slowness I turned my head to one side and opened my eyes. My eyelids were stuck together with some crusty, dried goo, but at the second try I managed to crack them open. Bright white light stabbed through my pupils, making me blink like crazy; everything blurred in runny watercolors.

Images came in close-ups. There was a bump in my arm. A giant needle buried deep in my vein, which would be why moving my arm hurt like hell. About half a million wires and cables came out of me, running to way more machines than should’ve fit into the tiny hospital room. Though this wasn’t a hospital. This was—

Fuck!

Adrenaline spiked.

The bleeping got louder, frantic like my breathing as I tried to pull free, ignoring the pain that flared up in my arm. My throat was too raw to let the scream through anyway; what came out was more of a strangled whimper. It didn’t matter. I had to get out of here. Had to—

“He’s waking up,” someone to my right said, vowels sharp like the edge of a scalpel.

I knew that voice.

When he leaned over, the bleeping amplified to a violent screech in sync with my panicked heart rate.

Oh shit. Oh shit!

#

Stryker.

"Stop yer strugglin'," he said in that slow drawl that made my skin crawl. "It'll be over quicker, like."

"Fuck you." My voice was a raspy growl. There was a craggly deepness to it, and the words, though I spoken them a million times before, sounded foreign as if my vocal cords had never phonated before that moment. Had that voice even emanated from my throat? I could have sworn my lips moved but that sound – half animal, half human – couldn't have come from me.

"Come now." I peeled my right eye open and saw a sickly smile spread across Stryker's face. "Is that any way to greet your old friend?"

"We're not friends," I said through clenched teeth.

Stryker glanced at my needle-riddled arm, reached out a smooth, manicured hand and patted me in a friendly way. Searing pain raced up my arm sending shockwaves through my body. My stomach clenched and I could feel the bile racing up my throat. I squeezed my eyes shut as a series of neon flashes blinded me behind closed lids. My entire body was on fire, from my toenails to my hairline.

I prayed I'd black out, but no such luck. After an eternity, the pain eased. Just enough. I lay there panting, exhausted, the sound of Stryker's high-pitched giggle ringing in my ears.

"Save your strength," he said. My eyes were still closed, but I could feel his body lean over and whisper in my ear. "You're going to need it, Logan."