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Gothopolis. Midtown. Midnight.
Moonlight shone through the slatted blinds of Mayor Harvey Wesker's office window, bathing the mayor's desk in silver light. It revealed an immaculate desk. Papers waiting for Mayor Wesker's review lay in a wooden tray, while documents he had already reviewed lay in another. There were no framed photos or tiny momentos to mar the perfection of Mayor Wesker's desk. It was empty. Clean. Flawless.
But it was that perfection that nagged at Harvey Wesker. Something about it felt wrong. Something he could not put his finger on, nagged at him.
But what?
Wesker sat in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had a dull ache behind his eyes, a sure indicator that one of his frequent migraines was on the way. There was a bottle of pills in his desk drawer that he could take, to head off the pain, but he didn't want to. Wesker wanted the pain to come, to wash over him.
Perhaps it will shake something loose, he thought. Perhaps it will put things right.
But what was wrong?
That was the real question.
Harvey knew that something was off. He had known it for some time. The migraines were part of it. He was certain. The doctors had all said they were stress induced, but Harvey didn't believe them. Things were less stressful now than they had been in the past.
If the doctors had wanted to talk about stressful times, he could have told them about running the city after the quake flattened most of the South End. He could have told them about being taken hostage by the Hyena or dealing with the aftermath of one of Big Joke's supersized tantrums.
"Those guys wouldn't know stress if it shat on their faces."
Wesker blinked, surprised, and scanned his office.
"Who's there?"
There was no answer. He stood and turned on the desk lamp. It had been a gift from his ex-wife, during his first term in office.
In the lamp's pale golden light, the office was revealed to be empty. Wesker frowned and sat back down.
His head was pounding, the pain throbbing behind his eyes and starting to spread around the sides of his head. It felt like someone had put an invisible clamp around his skull and was slowly starting to squeeze it.
I should have taken the pills, thought Wesker.
"No. You shouldn't, Harvey-boy. You shouldn't take those damn pills ever again."
"Shit!"
Wesker jerked his head up but again there was no one in the room.
"What the hell is going on?" he asked aloud. "Who the hell is that?"
"Don't you know, Harvey? Can't you tell?"
The voice sounded like it was right behind him, but that was impossible. Nevertheless, Wesker turned in his chair and glared at the closed blinds.
"Don't I sound familiar?"
The strange voice had an ugly tone to it. And there was something vaguely familiar about it.
"Who are you?"
"You want to know who I am, Harvey-boy?"
The voice chuckled. It was like someone laughing with rusty nails in their throat.
Harvey's own throat ached in sympathy.
"Look in a mirror, Harvey."
"What?"
"You want to know who's talking to you? Look. In. A. Fucking. Mirror."
"No."
The migraine was worse now, the invisible vice so tight around his head that Harvey was certain his skull would shatter any moment from the pain and the pressure.
"Yes," said the voice.
Harvey saw his hands moving of their own volition, opening the sleek black laptop on his desk, exposing the black mirrored surface of the dead screen. He leaned forward, although part of him was screaming not to, and stared at his reflection.
The face that stared back at him was his own, but different. More animated. More alive. The eyes burned and the mouth crooked into a sneering grin. The lips moved and Harvey heard the voice. His own voice, he realized.
"Hello, Harvey."
"Nonononononono...."
"Oh yes," hissed the man in the mirror. "You want to know who I am, Harvey-boy? I'm you. The real you. The one you've tried to bury for a lifetime, with your doctors and your pills and your booze and your cookie cutter life and bland everyday existence. I'm the real Harvey Wesker. Not you. You're just a puppet."
"No!" shouted Harvey. "I am not a puppet! This is not happening!"
He grabbed the laptop and hurled it away, across the room. It hit the far wall and slammed to the floor.
Harvey sat there, apalled, sweat pouring down his face.
"Too little, too late, Harvey-boy," said the hateful voice.
His voice.
"You tried to bury me, but I've been digging my way out. And now I'm ready to take my rightful place behind the wheel. Large and in charge."
"No," said Harvey, but he didn't sound like himself any more. He sounded hollow. Spent. Empty.
"Yes," hissed the hateful voice.
Harvey closed his eyes, burried his head in his trembling hands.
"It's all right, Harvey-boy," murmured that ugly, razor-blade voice. "You just take a rest. Sleep. Leave everything to me."
The man called Harvey Wesker opened his eyes. The migraine was gone. So was the puppet.
He stood and took a deep breath, filled his lungs to capacity and exhaled. He laughed, a great booming laugh and, on a whim, swept his hand across the desk. Neatly stacked papers went flying.
It was good, he decided.
He grabbed the lamp, the one that had been a gift, and smashed it against the desktop. The bulb shattered. The smart silver shade crumpled.
Gleefully, he brought the lamp down again and again on the desk until it broke apart. At that point, he yanked the chord from the wall socket and did a little jig around the desk.
He felt a sharp pain in the fingers of his left hand and looked down, saw blood, gleaming black in the silver moonlight still slanting through the blinds. Lifting his hand up, he stared at the blood, enraptured. He tasted it.
It was good.
Everything was good.
Everything was real.
There were glass shards on the desk. On impulse, he picked one up and raised it to his face. He dug into the skin alongside his nose, under his eye, down his cheek to his jawline. The cut was not deep, was nowhere near fatal, but the blood flowed and the pain was more exquisite because it was real.
It was his.
Laughing, he threw the glass shard away and walked to the window. He kicked the chair out of his way and ripped the blinds down.
Moonlight flooded the room.
He stood and stared out the window, at the city. Gothopolis was spread out before him, bathed in that silver light, like a wonderland just waiting for him to explore it.
Explore it and burn it down, he thought, grinning.
He turned away from the window. As he did, he caught a glimpse of his reflection and shuddered. The face that looked back at him was not his, it was the puppet's, Harvey-boy's. The eyes were imploring.
Quickly, he looked away.
"Well, fuck," he growled. "We can't have that spoiling our fun. Can we?"
A memory bubbled to the surface. He walked to the closet, where the puppet kept a change of clothes and other odds and ends collected over his time in office. The box he was looking for was near the back of the closet. A quick rummage through it and he found what he was looking for, a white half-mask from a Halloween costume the puppet had worn once, ages ago, to a charity party.
He slapped the mask over the right side of his face, then turned cautiously back to the window. The reflection that peered back at him was his own.
He sighed with relief, and ran a hand down the front of his shirt. Tiny black bloodstains marred the white cotton perfection.
Good, he thought. Nothing is perfect. Everything is chaos.
The thought made him laugh. Impulsively, he stripped to his skin and went back to the closet. He found the rest of the halloween costume, the spare suit the puppet kept, odds and ends. He threw them on, regarded the mismatched results in the window's reflection. The white half mask gleamed at him, as bright and mad as a full moon.
"Perfect," he purred, because it was anything but.
"Now, we're ready to hit the town," he told himself. "Let's see if she can take a punch."
Then he spun on his grungy white tennis shoes and walked out of the office.
Gothopolis doesn't know what's about to hit it, he thought, grinning, tasting blood on his lips.
He couldn't wait to see their reaction when they saw his face.
Author's Notes:
I used to write fanfic. It's been ages since I did, but this has been percolating in the back of my brain for a while. Officially, I don't think this can count as fanfic. The Ouroboros Universe is a DC Comics Universe that is eating itself. DC's done similar stories, but I'm not writing about any of those characters. I'm just writing about the ones that pop into my head. So, not really fanfic, but sort of comic concept inspired? Eh. Whatever. Read. Enjoy. A hundred points if you can identify Mayor Wesker's constituent parts.
Moonlight shone through the slatted blinds of Mayor Harvey Wesker's office window, bathing the mayor's desk in silver light. It revealed an immaculate desk. Papers waiting for Mayor Wesker's review lay in a wooden tray, while documents he had already reviewed lay in another. There were no framed photos or tiny momentos to mar the perfection of Mayor Wesker's desk. It was empty. Clean. Flawless.
But it was that perfection that nagged at Harvey Wesker. Something about it felt wrong. Something he could not put his finger on, nagged at him.
But what?
Wesker sat in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He had a dull ache behind his eyes, a sure indicator that one of his frequent migraines was on the way. There was a bottle of pills in his desk drawer that he could take, to head off the pain, but he didn't want to. Wesker wanted the pain to come, to wash over him.
Perhaps it will shake something loose, he thought. Perhaps it will put things right.
But what was wrong?
That was the real question.
Harvey knew that something was off. He had known it for some time. The migraines were part of it. He was certain. The doctors had all said they were stress induced, but Harvey didn't believe them. Things were less stressful now than they had been in the past.
If the doctors had wanted to talk about stressful times, he could have told them about running the city after the quake flattened most of the South End. He could have told them about being taken hostage by the Hyena or dealing with the aftermath of one of Big Joke's supersized tantrums.
"Those guys wouldn't know stress if it shat on their faces."
Wesker blinked, surprised, and scanned his office.
"Who's there?"
There was no answer. He stood and turned on the desk lamp. It had been a gift from his ex-wife, during his first term in office.
In the lamp's pale golden light, the office was revealed to be empty. Wesker frowned and sat back down.
His head was pounding, the pain throbbing behind his eyes and starting to spread around the sides of his head. It felt like someone had put an invisible clamp around his skull and was slowly starting to squeeze it.
I should have taken the pills, thought Wesker.
"No. You shouldn't, Harvey-boy. You shouldn't take those damn pills ever again."
"Shit!"
Wesker jerked his head up but again there was no one in the room.
"What the hell is going on?" he asked aloud. "Who the hell is that?"
"Don't you know, Harvey? Can't you tell?"
The voice sounded like it was right behind him, but that was impossible. Nevertheless, Wesker turned in his chair and glared at the closed blinds.
"Don't I sound familiar?"
The strange voice had an ugly tone to it. And there was something vaguely familiar about it.
"Who are you?"
"You want to know who I am, Harvey-boy?"
The voice chuckled. It was like someone laughing with rusty nails in their throat.
Harvey's own throat ached in sympathy.
"Look in a mirror, Harvey."
"What?"
"You want to know who's talking to you? Look. In. A. Fucking. Mirror."
"No."
The migraine was worse now, the invisible vice so tight around his head that Harvey was certain his skull would shatter any moment from the pain and the pressure.
"Yes," said the voice.
Harvey saw his hands moving of their own volition, opening the sleek black laptop on his desk, exposing the black mirrored surface of the dead screen. He leaned forward, although part of him was screaming not to, and stared at his reflection.
The face that stared back at him was his own, but different. More animated. More alive. The eyes burned and the mouth crooked into a sneering grin. The lips moved and Harvey heard the voice. His own voice, he realized.
"Hello, Harvey."
"Nonononononono...."
"Oh yes," hissed the man in the mirror. "You want to know who I am, Harvey-boy? I'm you. The real you. The one you've tried to bury for a lifetime, with your doctors and your pills and your booze and your cookie cutter life and bland everyday existence. I'm the real Harvey Wesker. Not you. You're just a puppet."
"No!" shouted Harvey. "I am not a puppet! This is not happening!"
He grabbed the laptop and hurled it away, across the room. It hit the far wall and slammed to the floor.
Harvey sat there, apalled, sweat pouring down his face.
"Too little, too late, Harvey-boy," said the hateful voice.
His voice.
"You tried to bury me, but I've been digging my way out. And now I'm ready to take my rightful place behind the wheel. Large and in charge."
"No," said Harvey, but he didn't sound like himself any more. He sounded hollow. Spent. Empty.
"Yes," hissed the hateful voice.
Harvey closed his eyes, burried his head in his trembling hands.
"It's all right, Harvey-boy," murmured that ugly, razor-blade voice. "You just take a rest. Sleep. Leave everything to me."
The man called Harvey Wesker opened his eyes. The migraine was gone. So was the puppet.
He stood and took a deep breath, filled his lungs to capacity and exhaled. He laughed, a great booming laugh and, on a whim, swept his hand across the desk. Neatly stacked papers went flying.
It was good, he decided.
He grabbed the lamp, the one that had been a gift, and smashed it against the desktop. The bulb shattered. The smart silver shade crumpled.
Gleefully, he brought the lamp down again and again on the desk until it broke apart. At that point, he yanked the chord from the wall socket and did a little jig around the desk.
He felt a sharp pain in the fingers of his left hand and looked down, saw blood, gleaming black in the silver moonlight still slanting through the blinds. Lifting his hand up, he stared at the blood, enraptured. He tasted it.
It was good.
Everything was good.
Everything was real.
There were glass shards on the desk. On impulse, he picked one up and raised it to his face. He dug into the skin alongside his nose, under his eye, down his cheek to his jawline. The cut was not deep, was nowhere near fatal, but the blood flowed and the pain was more exquisite because it was real.
It was his.
Laughing, he threw the glass shard away and walked to the window. He kicked the chair out of his way and ripped the blinds down.
Moonlight flooded the room.
He stood and stared out the window, at the city. Gothopolis was spread out before him, bathed in that silver light, like a wonderland just waiting for him to explore it.
Explore it and burn it down, he thought, grinning.
He turned away from the window. As he did, he caught a glimpse of his reflection and shuddered. The face that looked back at him was not his, it was the puppet's, Harvey-boy's. The eyes were imploring.
Quickly, he looked away.
"Well, fuck," he growled. "We can't have that spoiling our fun. Can we?"
A memory bubbled to the surface. He walked to the closet, where the puppet kept a change of clothes and other odds and ends collected over his time in office. The box he was looking for was near the back of the closet. A quick rummage through it and he found what he was looking for, a white half-mask from a Halloween costume the puppet had worn once, ages ago, to a charity party.
He slapped the mask over the right side of his face, then turned cautiously back to the window. The reflection that peered back at him was his own.
He sighed with relief, and ran a hand down the front of his shirt. Tiny black bloodstains marred the white cotton perfection.
Good, he thought. Nothing is perfect. Everything is chaos.
The thought made him laugh. Impulsively, he stripped to his skin and went back to the closet. He found the rest of the halloween costume, the spare suit the puppet kept, odds and ends. He threw them on, regarded the mismatched results in the window's reflection. The white half mask gleamed at him, as bright and mad as a full moon.
"Perfect," he purred, because it was anything but.
"Now, we're ready to hit the town," he told himself. "Let's see if she can take a punch."
Then he spun on his grungy white tennis shoes and walked out of the office.
Gothopolis doesn't know what's about to hit it, he thought, grinning, tasting blood on his lips.
He couldn't wait to see their reaction when they saw his face.
Author's Notes:
I used to write fanfic. It's been ages since I did, but this has been percolating in the back of my brain for a while. Officially, I don't think this can count as fanfic. The Ouroboros Universe is a DC Comics Universe that is eating itself. DC's done similar stories, but I'm not writing about any of those characters. I'm just writing about the ones that pop into my head. So, not really fanfic, but sort of comic concept inspired? Eh. Whatever. Read. Enjoy. A hundred points if you can identify Mayor Wesker's constituent parts.
