Mortimer leans against Claribel's doorframe. His eyes are glazed, and he is wearing his electromagnetic equipment. He quietly watches her rest on her bed, wearing her Block World pajamas with large portions of her body bandaged and her limbs supported with splints.

  As Mortimer watches her, Ramsey approaches him.

  “I have good news and bad news... The bad news is she's going to die from internal bleeding,” says Ramsey.

  “So, the good news is that she won’t suffer any more?” says Mortimer.

  “No. I can fix her.”

  Mortimer looks at Ramsey, her glazed eyes lighting up and his ears perked. “How?”

  Ramsey nods to the stairs. “Follow me.”

  Mortimer follows Ramsey down the stairs, and they stop by a metal door with a keypad lock. Ramsey types in the code, the door unlocks, and he leads Mortimer in.

  Upon entering, Mortimer’s eyes widen. Ramsey's room is a chemist's dream with every equipment imaginable for crafting. Brightly light with the table of elements and cheat sheets for chemicals, and models of various compounds and computers running simulations.

  As Mortimer looks around, he sees a large couch with a collection of plushies, plus a large picture of Claribel tacked to the wall. He furrows his brows at the picture, and the confusion morphs to anger as he looks at Ramsey, jabbing his thumb at the picture.

  “Why do you have a picture of Claribel?” asks Mortimer heavily.

  “Oh... Uh... Anatomy study,” says Ramsey.

  Mortimer narrows his eyes. “Take it down.”

  Ramsey sighs in disappointment, takes down the picture, and gives it to Mortimer, who quickly folds it up and puts it in his pocket.

  “Now, what did you want to show me? And make it quick. My mood is doubly soured by you being weird about Claribel,” says Mortimer.

  “Alright... It is in my safe,” says Ramsey.

  Ramsey goes to a safe, types in a code, spins a dial, has his eye scanned, his tongue scanned, and his foot scanned. Then the safe has fifteen locks that unlock one at a time. Once the safe is open, Ramsey pulls out a vial of glowing blue liquid.

  Mortimer squints at it and leans forward. "What is that? And why is it glowing?”

  Ramsey shakes the vial, smiling proudly. “This is the Prosper-Lawless-Oasay-Truman-Alvarez-Rivers-Moore-Olson-Ryder Serum. A-k-a… the PLOT ARMOR Serum! And its glowing because this is its pure form. Most of them are slipped into liquid medicines. But one little shot of this will save Claribel. She’ll get some kind of mutation, but she’ll live, and that’s all that matters.”

  Mortimer stiffens, his focus snapping to Ramsey. “What? Do you know what kind of mutation she'll get?”

  “Nope! The mutations have been different between every subject like me and the eighteen million six hundred and fifty-two thousand three hundred and ninety-two official experiments. If we add unofficial experiments, increase that number will increase tenfold. Heck, I’m willing to bet that you got exposed to this since you’re able to manipulate electricity.”

  Mortimer’s heart skips a beat, and he stands straight, his bones and vertebrae grinding together like overworked gears while his mind fuzzes out from the information he just received.

  (((((O)))))

  The rope burned against his neck as Mortimer kicked the chair away. His throat constricted. The air was gone. His lungs burned. Tears streamed down his scarred face, tracing the gouges in his mangled flesh taking up half of his face.

  Even as he dangled, even as his lungs shriveled and his neck burned, he still heard the sneers, the whispers, the snickers. Not even his gasps and wheezes could stop the swirling voices from flooding his ears.

  "Freak."

  "Two-Face."

  “Fugly.”

  “Monster.”

  “Melty.”

  “Burnt Dog.”

  “You’re scaring the kids.”

  “Drop out. No one likes ugly magicians.”

  “You wasted our time.”

  “Go away.”

  “Stay away.”

  The voices echoed in his mind as his vision darkened at the edges. His lungs screamed for oxygen, his body thrashing against his mind's decision.

  As consciousness slipped away, the voices still tormented Mortimer. He closed his eyes, hoping for peace in the darkness. But the voices remained.

  Crack!

  The ceiling fixture broke free, sending Mortimer crashing to the floor. As soon as his head cracked against the floor, the bulky fan landed on his face.

  Mortimer’s eyes snapped open, and he found himself standing in his apartment. Everything was where he left it, and the ceiling fan was back to where it belonged, but it all had a light gray haze.

  Mortimer looked around, and he saw a door with colorful balloons etched on it.

  His heart raced, and his feet move on their own, grinding against the carpet as he inched closer to it. He extended his hand to the bronze doorknob but stopped when a fiery glow appeared to his side. He looked to the source, and saw a humanoid figure made of light with fiery wings, and in their hand was a book. A mix of fear and awe surged through Mortimer as he stared at it, unable to move or look away.

  “It’s not your time,” said the figure. “It is time for you to wake up.”

  Darkness engulfed Mortimer, and there he stayed. No up, no down, no voices, no sound. It was pure isolation, and he loved it. He couldn’t even tell if he was sitting or standing, or if he was moving. It was perfect.

  But the perfection was killed by a steady beep. At first it was faint, but the beeps grew louder and remained steady.

  Mortimer's eyes fluttered open to blurry white ceiling tiles and the antiseptic smell of hospital disinfectants. Wires connected him to a heart monitor, and an IV with a gray-blue liquid was plugged into his arm, making him feel an odd tingling sensation moving through his veins like electrified sludge. His throat felt raw, bruised, like he'd swallowed broken glass, and his face throbbed and felt like it was encased in a cocoon.

  He winced and lifted his hands to his face, feeling the stiff bandages, and a cast on his snout.

  "He's awake," a nurse called out, her voice distant and muffled.

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  Mortimer’s hands dropped, and he winced again as he tilted his head, his neck aching. The featureless blurry figures moved through the room, and a doctor stood next to him, holding a clipboard. All of their features were blurry, and even their voice sounded like it was underwater.

  "Mr. Walters, you're lucky to be alive. Your snake neighbor heard the crash. If she hadn’t been at home, you’d be dead by now," said the doctor.

  Mortimer turned away, unable to bear the lighthearted tone in the doctor's voice.

  "The bad news is your face is messed up, but the good news is the drugs we gave you will make you feel better," continued the doctor. He pulled out a large piece of paper stapled to a brochure depicting a smiling couple and dropped it on Mortimer’s chest. "Also, your insurance expired, so you’re getting a full bill. But we do have payment plans!”

  (((((O)))))

  “Mortimer!” yells Ramsey.

  Mortimer jumps and blinks, and Ramsey smiles and lowers his fingers in mid-snap.

  “There you are. You zoned out there for a second. Are you okay?” says Ramsey.

  Mortimer blinks rapidly, his heart pounding. "The serum... it was in my IV bag, wasn't it? After I…" He swallows, unable to finish the sentence.

  “You tried to kill yourself, didn’t you?” says Ramsey.

  Mortimer frowns and Ramsey snorts a laugh.

  “Relax, it’s no big deal. The people I used to work for loved slipping this stuff into IVs, especially during the Toxic War, and really prefer to use it on people who were either close to death or tried offing themselves,” says Ramsey.

  “That’s messed up,” sneers Mortimer.

  “But we got results, so it all works out.”

  Mortimer looks at his hands. They are now quivering, and his throat and eyes burn. He can feel the rope around his neck again and the weight of the ceiling fan bashing his skull to pieces.

  His breathing wavers, and he looks up again when he registers a faint snap. Ramsey’s fingers are near his head again.

  “I know it’s a shock to you, but this serum is the only way to save Claribel. She’s close to death and the serum works best when applied to people whose bodies are fatally compromised,” says Ramsey.

  Mortimer looks down, and then at Ramsey. When he speaks, his voice is raspy. “You promise she’ll live?”

  “Oh yeah. My serum is built for the best results. All fatalities have been tested away! You should know. After all, you survived its dose,” says Ramsey.

  Mortimer swallows. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

  “Yep, you sure did!” Ramsey grins and pats Mortimer’s shoulder. “By the way, before we get too far… Did you happen to see any angels when you were on the verge of death?”

  Mortimer stares at Ramsey for a few seconds, and then very bluntly says, “No.”

  A minute later, Ramsey and Mortimer go into Claribel's room. Mortimer sits next to her and rubs her hand while Ramsey readies the syringe.

  After the syringe is ready, Ramsey sticks it in Claribel's neck and injects her.

  Claribel twitches, and then then her eyes snap open and she releases an agonizing scream and thrashes, limbs flailing and body contorting. Mortimer and Ramsey lay on top of her, holding her down as her body bucks, her tail thrashes, her fingers and toes curl and rip into the bedsheets, and her agonizing scream turns to painful sobs.

  “You asshole! You said it was going to save Claribel!” yells Mortimer, adjusting his position to keep Claribel on the bed as she continues bucking and twisting.

  “It is working! If it wasn’t working her scales would have melted off, her muscles would have bulged until they ripped apart, her veins and arteries would have popped, and her eyes would have swollen until they exploded!” says Ramsey loudly over Claribel’s wails.

  "Oh, that makes me feel so much better!" yells Mortimer, struggling to hold Claribel's thrashing body and his ears aching from Claribel’s screeching shrieks and warbling sobs.

  “It should! The other path was her turning inside out and exploding!” snaps Ramsey.

  “Holy shit! You’re a damn psycho for making this thing!”

  “Hey, I wasn’t the only one! This was a team effort and it’s working out great! You went through this exact same thing when you got the injection!”

  “I don’t remember this!”

  “Because your brain blocked it from your memory! Duh!”

  By the time Claribel finally stops convulsing, both Mortimer is panting and sweating, and Ramsey is calm and smiling. Mortimer’s muscles ache from pinning her down, but Ramsey doesn’t appear to be facing any sort of fatigue. Claribel's eyes are half-lidded now, her breathing shallow but steady. Mortimer collapses into the chair beside her bed, reaching for her hand.

  "Claribel? Can you hear me?" says Mortimer gently.

  Claribel’s fingers twitch in his, and she looks at Mortimer.

  "I saw… something…." rasps Claribel, her voice barely audible.

  Ramsey rushes to her side, knocking Mortimer aside.

  “Oh, what did you see?” asks Ramsey eagerly.

  “Light… fire… wings… Told me to wake up,” says Claribel weakly.

  Ramsey grins broadly and rubs his hands while Mortimer stares at her with wide eyes and drooped ears.

  “Very cool,” says Ramsey. He turns his grin to Mortimer. "See? I told you it would work! She's already recovering."

  Mortimer glares at him. "You didn't mention the pain."

  "Well, of course there's pain," says Ramsey, waving dismissively. "You can't rewrite someone's program without a little discomfort."

  Claribel's eyes suddenly snap wide open, her pupils dilating until they nearly swallow her irises. Her fingers dig into the mattress, and her tongue flicks out.

  "I can... smell everything," says Claribel. "I can taste... the air."

  Mortimer stands up and sits on the bed to stroke her hair. "What do you mean?"

  Claribel turns her head slowly, her movements oddly fluid, like she's swimming through invisible water. "Your fear... it smells like rust. Ramsey's excitement... like burnt sugar."

  Claribel licks the air again and sneers.

  “Ramsey also needs a shower,” adds Claribel.

  “Come on, I don’t smell that bad,” says Ramsey. He grabs Claribel’s hand and feels her scales. “But your scales do feel harder. Do you notice anything else, besides enhanced olfactory perception?”

  “My teeth hurt.”

  “Fascinating. Can I look inside your mouth?”

  Claribel recoils, and Mortimer stands up, putting himself between Claribel and Ramsey, and he has to tilt his head a bit to look at the ram’s eyes.

  “That’s enough. She’s been through plenty and needs some space,” says Mortimer.

  “Mortimer,” calls Claribel.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “What are you in the mood for?”

  “Tacos and caffeine.”

  “Then I shall go get you Taco King.” Mortimer glares and points at Ramsey. “You leave her alone. If I find you messed with her while I was gone, I will break your face open.”

  “No you won’t, but I’ll leave her alone out of respect for both of you,” says Ramsey.

  Mortimer hums skeptically, and Claribel uses his arm for support as she pulls herself off the bed, standing on wobbly legs.

  “I’ll be fine,” says Claribel. She looks at her computer and strokes Mortimer’s arm. “I’ve got my game, and I’ll lock the door.”

  Mortimer nods and tugs on Ramsey’s arm.

  “Alright, let’s get out of here. You go back to being weird in your secret lab, and Claribel, don’t open the door for anyone but me,” says Mortimer.

  Ramsey says nothing, and once he and Mortimer leave the room, Claribel locks the door and leans against it. Her legs give out and she slides to the floor, gripping her head.

  A moment later, she took a deep breath and looked ahead, seeing her Stetson on the floor, dirty and warped and stained with her blood. Her eyes watered as she crawled to the hat, and she pressed her back to the bed as she held it, her eyes closed, and head bowed.

  (((((O)))))

  Young Claribel’s room was shrouded in darkness. The dolls, the posters, the TV and movie collection were reduced to featureless silhouettes. What little light was left reflected off the blood splattered on the yellow paint.

  A trail of bloody dots led out of the room, going down a hallway where an older male snake laid, dead with multiple holes in his body, his blood on the wall and floor.

  The trail of bloody dots went past him and led to a kitchen, where a female snake was lying in a pool of blood, a hole in her head and her brain matter splattered on the open fridge, food spilled on the floor.

  The trail of blood went to the kitchen door, which was open with a bloody handprint, leading to a night sky, its dark clouds warped by the ever-shifting cracks.

  Two flashes of light with two deafening cracks broke the silence. Two sets of voices cursed and groaned as a young Claribel, barely a teenager, hobbled towards them, eyes bloodshot, her face wet with tears and blood. One hand clutched her bleeding side, the other, holding a pistol.

  On the grass were two weasels, shifting and cursing painfully while a car speeds away. Their blood rapidly spread on the grass, and the backlights of the fleeing car rapidly shrunk.

  “What the hell?” coughed the first weasel.

  The second weasel turned on his back and held up his hand to Claribel.

  “Wait a sec. It wasn’t personal! It was just a job!”’ said the weasel.

  Claribel put two more shots into him, one in his chest and one in his head. He went limp on the grass, and the second weasel attempted to draw his pistol, but his arm was shot. He howled and attempted to grab his pistol with his other hand, but Claribel emptied the remaining rounds into him, each shot making him jerk. By the time Claribel was done, he was a twitching, bloody mess on the grass.

  Red and blue lights breached the darkness, and with it came the wailing siren. Claribel hobbled back inside, went to her room, and grabbed the Stetson off her nightstand. She curled on her bed, gripping her wound, and closed her eyes as she bled out.

  (((((O)))))

  Claribel’s eyes opened, tears streaking down her face. Her hands tremble as she pulls herself up, using the bed for support. She looks at her computer and rubs her hat as she walks towards it with steady steps.

  Time to forget, even if it is for a few minutes, thinks Claribel.

  She sets her hat down on her desk and sits in front of her computer and boots it up. She stares at the screen, eyes heavy and senses on overdrive. From the taste in the air to the pain in her teeth, to the enhanced colors and the new durability of her orange and brown scales picking up the atoms of texture of everything she touches. It makes her nauseous.

  She is tempted to crawl back on the bed, but falling asleep would bring her back to the night of the murders, and how Jayson nearly caved her skull in. So, after a few minutes of staring into nothing, she turns on the recording program and Block World, slips on her headset, and loads up her last save file.

  “Good afternoon, everyone. I am Ms. Fritz Bee and today we’re going to be building a nice, safe place to call home.”