After Brian had gone, Dr. Gillicut sat for a time, contemplating the vial in his hands. Distilled. Isolated. Purified.
Moving hesitantly, Gillicut stood and approached the small refrigeration unit. He opened it with a puff of icy smoke. Rows of similar vials stood within. He fondled the vial in his hands, then turned.
He crossed to the closet. Inside, the mask and cape hung, still bearing the stains from his struggle against the tidal wave. “I’m supposed to be preventing this,” he muttered. “But I can’t stop. I can’t. Not yet.”
He downed the vial and reached for the costume.
Whimpers From My Bed Of Woe
1 day ago