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“Right now, the last thing we need is another despotic god claiming the earth.”

                                Antoinette Stark, Marvel Mangaverse

                I can hear myself talk, but I’m not the one speaking. Everything that’s happening is like its two feet in front of me, like I’m watching life on some panoramic movie screen. The sound seems muffled and a bit hazy. If the screen shifts, the colors swirl and the outline of things get a bit iffy. But I can make out what’s happening. I can make it out, but I wish I couldn’t.

                “What is he?” Morcean asks as he stands with the rattish-looking guy that tortured Slate. I hate that guy. He’s got a big wart on the side of his jaw that’s got two little hairs sticking out from it. It just makes me want to reach up and pluck them out. My body actually moves to, but my wrist dig into the sharp edges of the tight handcuffs. I’m suddenly reminded of why I can’t feel my fingertips.

                “I don’t know.” Comes my voice. Do I really sound like that? I mean, I know I don’t have a deep voice, but I sound like I did when I was fifteen. That can’t be right. I can’t sound like that.

                “Where did he come from?” Morcean asks, his voice echoing in my ears. The screen reels. My head is drooping. Oh crap, I feel sick. I feel my stomach churn with acid. I can vividly imagine the vile green liquid building up in my bowels, ready to rupture forth from my mouth like a fire hydrant.

                “Argent . . . Argent labs.” Says my voice. Did he come from Argent? Wait a minute, no he didn’t. He came from . . . he came from . . . well, he sure as hell didn’t come from the labs.

                “So he’s a product of the virus?” The rattish man says. I bet he’s some type of renegade scientist or something. You know, they type of guy that had his medical license revoked because he was touching little kids during surgery or something like that. He looks like the type of guy that would do that kind of thing. I had a dentist that looked like that. I tried to get my mom to switch dentists, but she didn’t believe child molestation ever took place. And every time I had my braces tightened, I went into the bathroom afterwards and made sure he hadn’t stolen anything or I didn’t have any bruises or anything. Yeah, I was kind of a paranoid kid. It came naturally with doing all the wacky crap I tried to get away with. I say ‘try’ because my dad was just like me when he was a kid and man did he know every stupid thing I was ever going to pull, usually before I tried to pull it. Jesus, he can still guess what I’m calling about within two minutes of me calling. It’s insane.

                “He . . . he’s not, . . . not a . . .” My voice stumbles. I had a grammar coach when I was younger who would kick my ass right now.

                “He’s not a vampire.” Morcean says, impatiently. “He’s not a zombie. What is he then?”

                For some reason, I want to listen. My mind clears a bit. I mean, come on. This is fascinating. How often do you get to hear yourself talk to someone else when you’re not in control?

                “He’s . . . he’s a demon . . .”

                Wait, he’s a what?

                “Oh, Jesus.” Morcean says, rolling his eyes.

“But . . .” My voice says.

But what? I want to know.

                “But what?” Morcean yells.

                “No . . . not . . . not . . . not a . . . a . . . not a bible . . . demon.”

                What? I watch Morcean lean in close, listening. The rattish guy, the scientist child molester, is also listening. Hell, all three of us are listening. It’s kind of funny when you stop and think about it. Me being in the back of my own head, listening to me talk, like I’m somebody else.

                “He’s . . . here . . . here . . . here for . . . for some . . . something.” My mouth manages to vomit out. God, do I really sound like that?

                “What is he here for?” Morcean demands.

                Yeah, what’s he here for?

                “Don’t know.” My mouth grumbles. I bet I’m drooling. God, I hate when that happens. Like when you’re passed out in school and you wake up with a start and you look around to see if you were snoring and you look down and there’s this little puddle of spit on your books. God, I hate when that happens. Used to happen to me all the time. I had this biology teacher in high school. Man, talk about boring. She went on this one time about how she was involved in this peanut butter study, about how fast peanut butter went bad. And it always turned into a discussion about how much you needed to wash your hands every time you got home. No matter what. Went outside? Wash your hands. Went to the bathroom? Wash you hands. Bought a new carton of milk? Wash your hands. No matter what, that was the single most important thing to her ever. Wash your hands. I think I started to not wash my hands just to spite her. God, I hated her.

                “Then how do you know he’s here for something?” The science molester says.

                That’s a good point. How do I, me, that person talking, knows that the big dude, god he’s scary, is here for something. Seems like a dubious leap in logic if you ask me. I have an itch on my nose. I want to scratch it, but my hands can’t move thanks to the handcuffs. I wonder if they’re the trick handcuffs you buy at magic store. I doubt it. I can’t tell though, seeing as I can’t actually feel my fingers because the cuffs are on so tight.

                “He . . . he . . . he con . . . contacted . . . me.” My voice stumbles out.

                I can feel the hairs on the back of my neck go cold. Even as drugged and delirious as I am, the very thought of that guy scares the crap out of me. He’s so big and he’s built like a damned tank. He’s like every possible bad thing on the planet all rolled into one, and then times a hundred. And he’s all dressed in black. Bad things are always dressed in black. Unless it’s a penguin, but then it’s got white too. And maybe some orange, you know, around the beak.

                “How did he contact you?” Asks the child scientist. He sounds like he’s got an east European accent. And by an east European, I mean he sounds kind of like a really bad count Dracula rip off. Ha, maybe I’ll start calling Morcean Count Chocula. I bet he’d punch me. But it’d be funny. Or maybe Frankenberry. And what was the ghost’s name. There was a ghost, I remember. He was blue. And he had this dumb Huckleberry Hound hat. You know, the kind vocal groups used to wear back at the turn of the century. Or the turn of last century, I guess I should say. If they were called the 80s and the 90s, what are they going to call the 00s or the 10s? I know they called the 00s the ‘aughts’ back when it was referring to 1900s, but that’s really weird and nobody refers to a zero as an aught any more. Which kind of sucks, because it’s a neat word. My grandma always called James Bond double-aught-seven. I used to think it was so weird, but it was cute too. I miss my grandma.

                “A dream.” Comes my voice. “Only . . . not a dream.”

                I think back to the dream. And in a flash of clarity, I can think. He’s standing over me, his giant presence dwarfing mine. I’m back in that parking lot, dressed in my gear, standing in front of him on the dark, moonless night. The wind kicks up around us, sending leaves scattering.

                And then it hits me.

                I’m not remembering.

                I’m back there with him.

                “Sam Helms.” He says, his voice slamming into my like getting punched in the chest with a dump truck. His voice is deep and gravely, like the death rattle of a demon from beneath hell itself. His leathery, dark eyes glare down at me.

                “Yeah?” I whisper.

                I’m back in front of Morcean and the doctor. I can think clearly again. I can see clearly. Whatever they did to me, it’s gone. I’m back to normal.

                The doctor leans back from me as Morcean stares in disbelief. “What happened?” The vampire asks.

                “I don’t know.” The man says in his strange accent. “When he spoke his own name, it was without his own voice.” The doctor looked at Morcean. “Multiple personality, perhaps?”

                Morcean turns back to me, an infinite wash of emotions passing through his vampirific eyes. “What does he want, Sam?”

                I swallow hard and look up at Morcean. “I don’t know.” I say. “But I don’t think . . .” I turn my head. I can feel something in the back of my head now. While I was drugged, I felt like I was sitting in the back of my skull, looking through my eyes, hearing through my ears. But my head seemed empty. Now, I feel like I’m inside of it. And yet, I feel like there’s something inside with me. I literally feel like there’s someone else in my head, in my skull, looking out through my eyes and hearing out through my ears with me. It’s scary.

                Morcean and the scientist still stand over me. The vampire turns back to the rattish man. “We need to deal with Slate now. Let’s go.”

                “But the woman knows nothing of the giant.” The rattish man said, glancing at me. But then, a look came over his eyes. He looked at Morcean. “Do you suppose that Alamance might have something to do with this?”

                I listen up. I don’t know the name Alamance, but I pay close attention. “Perhaps,” the scientist goes on. “Perhaps his project has progressed faster than he has led us to believe. Perhaps he has found his balance of the virus.”

                Morcean turns back and looks at me. He considers me for a moment, then speaks. “I don’t see how that’s possible.” He says, his eyes never coming off me. “But its worth looking into. If he has developed a prototype, then he’s lied to us.” Morcean stares for a breath longer, then turns away. “Come on.” He says, leading the scientist out the door.

                Once the two are outside, the door shuts. I lean back in the empty, silent, white room. I sigh, feeling defeated.

                Then I suddenly notice it.

                My handcuffs are open.

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