AN: I don't own Prototype, or the lines I took directly from it.

0o0o0

Alex Mercer.

The name sounds both familiar and alien. Or maybe it only sounds familiar because I feel I should know it, I know I should know it - but I don't. It rolls off my tongue with the distinct air of trying out a stranger's name for the first time. It navigates uncharted territory as it passes over my lips, striking no chord of acquaintance with my ears. Alex Mercer. Two words, spoken over a dead man's body at his autopsy.

It's my name, and somehow I don't know it. I don't know anything. All I know is that I'm not nearly as dead as I should be.

Can it really be my name, the title that defines and encompasses who I am in four simple syllables, four flicks of the tongue and vibrating vocal cords? What does that even mean? I don't understand much - some muscle memory has slipped effortlessly into a slightly loping walk, and I can remember these sounds to form language and communicate, but my mind is empty, obscured. I have no yesterday - I try to look back, but there's nothing. Whatever experiences defined me were wiped away, leaving only a functioning shell of whoever I was. And it seems inherently wrong that the first time I should ever hear my name is fifteen minutes ago.

And I wonder why I can think about this at all, when pain claws at my consciousness and my heart pounds to the frantic rhythm of the hunted. Why it feels like I've only just been born, and already I'm about to die.

0o0o0

"Hey, I knew this guy."

Awareness. Dull, sluggish, but awareness nonetheless. A voice breaks through my slumber, and I awaken for what feels like the first time.

"He was Blacklight."

The sounds resonate meaninglessly within my ears for a few timeless moments before they coalesce into recognizable words and form even the barest semblance of understanding. Even then, they don't really mean much. What are they talking about? What's going on?

"Yeah, well, now he's ex-Blacklight."

It's a different voice this time, lower and more gravelly. But it's all the same, more words, more out-of-context jargon that makes no sense. Other things start to trickle into my field of awareness - the air is cool and dry, I can smell the harsh bite of antiseptic, and my body aches horribly, the pain centered in several stinging jabs across my chest. Where am I? I try to open my eyes, but they feel glued shut.

"His name is... Mercer." Back to the first speaker. "Alex J. Next of kin, Mercer, Dana A. Is that his wife?"

It begins to dawn on me that perhaps I'm the subject of their conversation. Still, the words - the names - that they say spark no recognition. I try to recall my own name, only to realize I can't. A little further prying and I only have more questions; how did I get here, who's speaking, why does it hurt? All wondered in futility; there's simply nothing to grasp, and my tongue is too thick and heavy in my mouth to ask. Where a lifetime's worth of experiences and memories should be, there's a void, a blank slate. Alex J. Mercer... for all I know, it's me. Or it isn't. More frightening than the gap in my memory - the gap in my identity - is the apathy of my own reaction to it.

"Dunno."

I try to move, to speak, to give myself some reassurance that I'm still alive and not completely detached from reality. But the only response my body affords me is a renewed sense of pain. It bites at me in sharp, nerve-wracking waves.

"Does this have anything to do with the test subject on 51?"

These things mean nothing to me, but it doesn't stop me from straining to hear his answer. Anything, anything to shed light on this total confusion.

"I have no idea. And even more, I don't want to know."

Apparently, luck doesn't feel like cutting me a break. Joy.

"Just give me the 8-inch blade."

I still don't fully understand, but there's something distinctly ominous afoot as the sounds of rummaging and plastic scraping metal resound above me. I'm beginning to visualize words here and there, and the mention of a blade is unnerving. The first vestiges of control return to me as my limbs begin to tense in anticipation, reacting to the sudden pressure in the room.

"We'll start by going through the torso."

On pure reflex, I recoil, sensing some imminent danger I can't see. My eyes finally snap open as I jerk upright - god, that hurts - every inch of my body screaming in protest as I struggle for breath.

Everything is hazy; I can hardly see, and the bright light shocks my eyes, instigating a throbbing headache. There are two faces close to mine, and a hand with a glittering strip of steel hovering right before my chest. But as my sight becomes clearer, I see they're not real faces – just two navy hoods, helmets, reflective black bands where the eyes should be. My vision is swimming. Dizziness overwhelms me as I try to straighten up, and I totter sideways, my arm grazing metal as I fall off whatever raised platform I'd been on. It hurts. Everything hurts. I tumble to the floor in a heap.

Reaching out blindly, I stiffen as my hand clamps onto cold metal, but try to pull myself up anyways. The cart emits a whining creak and gives slightly, rolling away as I rise. The voices had fallen silent over the past few moments of my sensory overload, but suddenly they were back.

"Get the fuck out!"

Wait, wait, don't leave! But I can't form the words yet; all my mouth can do is heave and gasp, desperately pulling in the sterile air.

"Get the kill team in here, now!"

Before I can try to comprehend that through the dizzy pain, a warning klaxon starts to shriek. The shrill wailing alone causes me to stagger back, to say nothing of the flashing lights; if my head hadn't felt like it was on the verge of splitting before, it sure as hell does now. Reeling, I catch a fleeting glimpse of the suit-clad men clamoring out of the room, tripping over themselves in their haste. As they flee into the hallway, some feeble flicker of recognition is stirred. I've seen the dark, full-body outfit before – it's scientist's gear, specialized for dealing with hazardous material. I wonder how I know that, but the memories go no further.

I want to follow them, but I'm having enough difficulty remaining upright. It takes a couple of falls before I finally stabilize my posture against a table, one with an array of sharp-looking instruments. There's a light weight on my head, like a strip of cloth, but a quick shake doesn't dislodge it. Clumsily, I look around; I'm seeing trails. The room I'm in is mostly bare and uninviting, with machinery humming faintly among the walls. There's the surgical table I'm propped against, and the metal cart I'd been lying on when I woke up. If it's a bed, it's a pretty bad one - no pillows, and only a rumpled thin white sheet covering it. Other than that, there's virtually nothing here. A morgue, my mind supplies, conjuring the word out of the blue. A place to store and examine dead bodies. But what would I be doing in one of them? Does that make me dead? I'm pretty sure the fact that I'm walking around precludes that, but... a glance down at my feet, and I stiffen.

My eyes don't travel down any farther than my chest. I'm wearing a leather jacket and two undershirts, one gray, one white. Or they used to be gray and white. My entire front is splattered with rusty brown, still thickly crimson around what are clearly several bullet holes. Somewhere in this past I don't remember, somewhere recently, somebody had emptied the contents of a gun into my upper ribcage.

Almost dreamlike, I finger the edge of one of the wounds. The jolt of nerve-wracking agony that results is anything but dreamlike.

But I'm alive. I'm clearly alive. There has to have been an accident. Something, a mistake. Some sort of residual medical knowledge tells me I'm in shock, that there's a reason nothing's clear right now.

The sirens continue to wail in the background, red lights flashing in patterns painful to my dazed eyes, and a thought materializes.

Run. Escape.

It's not so much in words as it is a feeling. A current, a need, something deep and inexorable that had always been within me - how long has always been? There's nothing but haze and confusion. It had gone unnoticed up until now, but now it's screaming in my head and I can't imagine not feeling it. It precedes language, precedes self-awareness and this utter perplexion that accompanies it, but I know exactly what it wants – what I want. In the end, it doesn't matter what it is; something is telling me that staying where I am is a very bad idea, and I'm feeling less and less at ease by the second.

So I follow it. There's nothing else to do.

Moving is a daunting task at first, but it only takes a few tentative steps before my stride is in rhythm. The real problem is the disorientation, not the act itself. It's like my body remembers things better than my mind does. Still, my gait is hardly dignified, staggering and stumbling, arms waving like the tentacles of some eldritch sea creature in a drunken bid for balance. The corridors pass in a reeling blur of coruscating lights and slate-colored walls.

I have to find those men before they get away. I have to figure out what's going on.

Dimly, I wonder how the hell I know where I'm going. This place is full of side halls and winding turns. But somehow, I can sense where the two scientists went. It's almost like a scent, if that sort of thing were possible to chase; I can practically taste the rubber and disinfectant in the air.

Whatever I'm tracking, it doesn't lead me astray. I can't tell how much time elapses, but the gray halls give way to a back exit. I can practically feel the choking weight lift from my shoulders as I stumble out of the claustrophobic building and into the open.

It's nighttime, but no less bright than it had been indoors - harsh white light is everywhere, blazing from signs and lampposts and windows. The air is crisp and chill, and a little refreshing; a few deep gulps of it and the dizzy stupor begins to recede. I'm in a parking lot, surrounding a stylized skyscraper that brings up those faint traces of almost-recognition when I look at it. There's a sign, inscribed in white block letters - GENTEK. Another name, another piece in this puzzle.

Peering above the rows of parked cars, I can see that the two men from earlier are on the far end of the lot. They've been joined by a third one who wears the same raiment. They're standing in a loose circle; one of them is gesticulating wildly, while another shakes his head. I hesitate briefly - something instinctual balks at the idea of revealing myself - but I steel myself. I need answers. However, before I can start towards them, a shadow falls upon the asphalt.

I look up. The belly of a great black machine is descending from the sky - somehow, I know it as a helicopter - maneuvering carefully between the tall building and the concrete walls fencing off the lot. I pull back as it draws close to the ground, rotor blades thumping.

"Move, move, move!"

Men pour out of the helicopter, in pairs of two. There's something immediately unsettling about them, something intentional; even without knowing who they are, where this place is, or who I am, I can recognize an image deliberately crafted to instill fear. They're clad head to toe in black, a segmented mix of mesh and kevlar. Their combination of gasmasks and helmets completely obscure their faces, and glowing ocular scopes replace their eyes.

The people who'd been in the morgue, I would have asked my questions to. But not these men. I don't know much, but I know danger when I see it. I hang back behind the corner, warily watching the scene unfold.

It's immediately clear that the new arrivals are a part of something. My guess is that they're soldiers of some sort - they act in perfect unison, each one an acting copy of a single entity. They hold long-barreled guns with the confidence of weapons masters, and there's something arrogant and predatory in the way that they move. But they don't seem to have noticed me, because they're heading in the opposite direction, towards the scientists. And for that, I'm glad.

Keeping low to the ground, I slide between the rows of cars, trying to remain hidden while getting a better view. I'm waiting to see how things play out, but I can't really tell what's going on between the scientists and the mooks. It looks like they're arguing, going by the angry gestures and aggressive stances, but I can hardly hear what's being said. I focus as best I can on the speaking soldier.

"I'm authorized to shoot and burn your fucking corpses."

I blink. That definitely does not sound good.

A moment later, it's terribly clear that he wasn't bluffing. He raises a hand as a signal, and the two men flanking him lift their guns, peppering the scientists with bullets with mechanical apathy. In sequence, the trio crumple to their knees like deflated paper sacks. It didn't look like they'd been planning to resist the soldiers - what the hell had that been for? I don't know if I've ever seen anyone die before, but there's something in it that shakes me - that those two voices I'd heard earlier were never going to speak again. Three lives, gone with the flick of a finger.

It dawns on me that waking up in a morgue may not actually be my greatest problem at the moment.

"Ah, shit."

I'm cursing inwardly before the words have finished leaving my mouth. Stupid, stupid! Bodies swivel towards me, where I'm only half-concealed by a parked Mazda - more or less a sitting target. On instinct, I bolt, but quickly find my poorly attempted escape stymied by a wall. When I turn around, the entire contingent of soldiers has me in their sights. In disturbing unison, a series of machine guns are trained on me. "All points, priority target, priority target!"

My panic spikes up several notches. What had I done? I don't want trouble; I lift my arms in surrender. "Woah, wait, wait-"

"Take him down!"

"Aaaugh!"

I'd almost forgotten about the pain in my chest up until now, but I can't help but scream as it returns with a vengeance, hailing the entry of a few dozen rounds. There's copper on my tongue as I hack and cough, head nearly hitting the pavement. And...

And something's wrong. Any moment, darkness should creep up from the corners of my vision and smother me. Or maybe it's supposed to happen in the space of a heartbeat. But it's not. I should be dying, but if I am, I can't feel anything of the sort. There's no denying that I was just shot several times at a lethally close range - it hurts enough to testify that - but nothing's happening.

My hands slip on blood as I try to push myself back to my feet, groaning with exertion. I choke out the only thing that comes to mind. "What's happening to me?"

Nobody spares me an answer. Except myself, and it's not much of one.

Jump. Climb.

To the side, I can see a dumpster, a single and highly inadequate step towards the towering, razorwire-tipped wall directly behind it. I look at the rough but handhold-devoid expanse of white concrete. Then at the squadron of soldiers, who had retreated a few paces, but were still aiming at me. Then back at the wall.

I tense my legs.

"Get him!"

And I explode into the air, feeling the dumpster buckle under my shoes as I leap skyward. The ground speeds away at an illogical rate - it's like jumping on a trampoline, putting in a little effort for a lot of turnout, but far more magnified. Even as nauseous and hurt as I am, clearing the top of the wall is child's play. I don't even graze myself on the barbed wire.

Only when I land, cracking the pavement with the impact, do I feel reality sink in with a hard jolt. How had that been possible? Why the hell had I even tried? A glance over my shoulder reveals that the concrete I'd cleared was at least ten feet high, and it had been lower on the other side as well. Nobody could do that. It just wasn't possible. Wasn't human.

Just like it wasn't possible to survive getting shot dozens of times at point-blank range.

"That was... easy," I murmur to myself, disbelieving.

My priorities have flipped, and taken a definite turn for the worse. Figuring out what the hell was happening now took second fiddle to getting away from those gun-toting psychopaths. Now that I'm safe, as transient as the development is, I have time to examine myself. There are fresh bullet wounds in my chest, brighter rings of red than before coloring the stained canvas of my shirt. Backing up against a wall, I allow myself a moment to buckle over and cringe away from the pain, gradually slumping to the ground. But then I have to murder the strangled whine that forms in my throat. Can't give away my position, can't make a sound. Just breathe. Breathe and survive.

Gritting my teeth, I look around. I'm in some sort of alleyway, dark and narrow with grimy walls. Exactly the sort of place to hide, if it wasn't so close to the source of danger. Where the nook met the open streets, another wall loomed up, this one metal bars with stratified slats of wire crossing the gaps.

"I need to get the fuck out of here... I can't keep this up forever..."

Everything I know is telling me that there's no way I can clear the barbed wire, that jumps are made in inches, not yards - but I had just pulled it off a minute ago, haven't I? If I stay here, those men are going to catch up to me, and I've got no idea how much more I can take. I should be dead by now.

Hell, maybe that's why this is happening. I woke up in a morgue, after all. Death doesn't like being cheated - it's probably just trying to collect on what I owe it.

I gather up my strength as I walk towards it. I don't feel as... as confident as I did when I was jumping away from those soldiers. I didn't have time to think then. I definitely didn't have time to consider the biting holes in my chest, or the strange, body-deep weariness that hadn't vanished with the rest of my disorientation. It seems like it's not really affecting my ability to do anything, given the way I just jumped over a ten-foot wall, but I still feel like crap.

Despite the fact that my legs are burning and my torso feels like I just wrestled with a bed of nails, I don't have much trouble. When I kick off from the ground, I'm propelled higher than anyone has a right to go. The rush of air tousles my hood as I casually ignore several laws of physics.

As I sail over the top, a muted sound catches my attention above the rest of the disjointed street ambience. In itself, it's no more interesting than the raucous car horns and subtle vibrations of the subway trains underneath, but my neck is prickling as my feet touch down on the sidewalk, none too gently. It takes me a second to realize that the odd thrumming, beating sound is coming from above me.

I look up just in time to see a helicopter pull up and start firing.

"No, no, no," I pant, horrified. There's more of those soldiers, and they're right here - but I don't want to run, it hurts...

I vault myself over a moving taxi and dash across the street. Bullets tear into the asphalt around me, the air turning bitter with gunpowder and smoke. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see a young man stumble to the ground, the tiniest telltale spot of blood blossoming on his argyle sweater, but I don't have the time to dwell on it. The gunship's blades pound the air as it banks, trying to follow me; I'm forced to skid to a halt as bullets rain down from the front, heralding the arrival of a second vehicle. A deadly hail marks my tracks. I duck into an adjacent alley, hoping that the tall buildings will at least protect me from the helicopter's cannons. But I can't stay here. I have to get somewhere where they won't look for me, somewhere far away. Another street, a few corners - hell, I'm running as fast as the cars are driving, but the gunships are still overheard, bearing down after me. Now I'm in a park - the frozen moments of shock are over, and people are screaming and panicking full throttle as the well-tended grass is incinerated by explosive rockets. I feel like joining them - I'm just as confused - but I only have time to comprehend getting the hell out of firing range. I shove several people aside as I run, knocking over a few benches and trash cans in my haste to get away, get away!

Running straight ahead isn't going to shake pursuit, so when I'm surrounded by enough people to hide me for a moment, I change direction and flee to the side, where more dead-end sidestreets flank the surrounding road. The city apparently has no shortage of decrepit alleys. I'm not complaining.

I stagger sideways and briefly prop myself against a brick wall. I can hear the thrum of the helicopter overhead, but the firing's stopped for now. I don't think they can see me. This ache in my chest is growing. I don't know what it is; it makes sense that it'd be the bullet wounds that litter my torso would be bothering me, but they aren't. It's less of a stinging pain and more of a burning. Somehow, this feels deeper, more internal. But then again, who knows? I've never been shot before. Or maybe I have. I can't remember anything, anything that led up to this little slice of hell.

Before I can get too comfortable, a pair of those black-clad men emerge from nowhere on the other side. Where did they come from? This chase has barely begun and I'm already getting sloppy. How am I ever going to make it out of this alive?

"It's him! Get him!" A series of cracks ring out as two submachine guns are emptied in my general direction.

Shit. I'm on my feet again, stumbling away as a hail of bullets flies past me and staggering with a cry when one clips my shoulder. I burst out of the insufficient shelter and race back up the open street. More screams, more shots, more chaos. Everything is falling into a surreal pattern, this whole nightmarish flight-for-life, all punctuated by the staccato thud-thud-thud of my footsteps.

Heat rushes over my skin as a fiery explosion blossoms behind me, only this impossible speed I possess managing to keep me from instant immolation. A quick glance over my shoulder spurs on a fresh wave of panic - one of the gunships is back, hovering above the crowded intersection and firing down missiles nigh indiscriminately. Two more fiery flowers bloom in my tracks, and then one hits its target. Another dimension of pain inserts itself into my already battered perception as I sprawl forward and hit the ground flat on my back, opening my eyes just in time to see a spinning taxi cab about to join me.

"Shit!"

And the next thing I know, I'm on my feet again, bracing myself against the unlikely projectile. The car's frame screeches and warps as I hold my ground against it, forcing it to a stop. Without thinking, I wrap my arms around the edges and hoist the vehicle over my head.

"What are you going to throw at me next, huh?" I roar. "What do you want from me?"

Ropes dangle down from the helicopter - soldiers are starting to slide down, and it's like a series of lead weights are piling on top of my hopes. I'm tired and frightened and frustrated and sick of being hunted. And that makes it easy to be furious. There's too many of them already, and I don't want to have to fight any more...

I hurl the taxi. It spins top-over-bottom as it flies in an upwards arc, crossing at least fifty feet before it collides with my pursuer. The gunship explodes, descending soldiers and all. I can't process it. One second, there was a helicopter and a taxi. The next, there was a fireball, a raging minisun falling to earth.

For a moment, all I can do is stare like an idiot.

"I can't believe what I just did..."

What the hell am I? The thought of a few spandex-clad figures briefly occurs to me, and I'm not sure whether to laugh at the notion of being some fucked-up superhero or actually consider it. This isn't normal - everything I know tells me what I'm doing is wrong, and everything I don't remember fails to lend any insight on that conclusion. Was I always like this? Was that the reason why I had ended up in a morgue?

And those soldiers... I killed them. I blew up their transport and took them with it, and I don't feel anything. The act is offhand, instinctive. Mercy's not a commodity I can afford.

So many questions... and so many dangers. I can't stop to think - the chase isn't over, not even close, and I definitely don't have the time to stand around, slack-jawed. Removing one enemy from the picture isn't going to save me. I have to get away. Where can I go? I despair. It's all the same, bright streets wedged between towering buildings, with dead-end alleys providing little more than a moment's respite from what seems like an army's worth of pursuit.

And it occurs to me that I'm just not thinking creatively enough. The buildings. The soldiers I'm running from can't jump as high as I can. The mere thought of higher ground appeals to me on a base level; just thinking about it chips away at the panic coiled in my heart. Running around in the streets is leaving me open and accessible, the instinctual equivalent of allowing a foe to hold a knife to my throat. In height, I might find safety.

There's a low drugstore among the skyscrapers, and I start with that, no longer caring about the terror my preternaturally high jump solicits from the pedestrians. With the way my pursuit has been tearing up the streets, I'm astounded that there's a single person out there who hasn't gone running for cover yet. Not my fault if they're going to be idiots and get caught in the crossfire. I have bigger concerns at the moment. From the drugstore, I leap to a mall complex. The sunroof shatters under my weight, and it's only through the grace of these unbelievable reflexes that I don't plummet three stories down into a claustrophobic trap full of shoppers. Hell, what can't I do? I set my sights on a high-rise hotel on the other side of the road. That sort of height is exactly what I crave. I gather as much strength as I can muster and vault off the mall's roof.

Almost immediately, I realize that I won't make it. My battered legs just aren't willing to put forth the effort needed to scale dozens of stories, and getting cocky doesn't pay well. The slapdash bricks and windows are rushing towards me at unnerving speed, and I grit my teeth, waiting for the inevitable impact, arching my back so that my hands and feet might take the brunt of it.

There's a jolt; jarring, but not painful. Instinct kicks in, and the dark stone blurs before me, interspersed with short bursts of light. A few moments amble by hazily before I can process what I'm seeing.

And... oh, hell. Oh, hell.

I'm running up the wall. Running up the goddamn wall.

If I wasn't furiously trying to keep myself two steps ahead of death, I'd have stopped right then and there. Out of all the things I'd done so far, this one hits me the hardest. I start laughing; not out of any amusement, but because I can literally feel reality slipping out of my fingers. Or maybe I'm the one escaping reality's grasp?

The unhinged giggle gradually burns itself out as I reach the top of the hotel, clambering over the scaffolding and pulling myself onto the roof. I enjoy relative security for about a second.

Then it hits me. It was pretty stupid to assume I was safe on high ground anyways, because while normal people cannot blatantly disregard gravity and all those other hard laws of physics, I'm running away from helicopters. Helicopters fly, as readily shown by the two that are homing in on my position.

Stay. Fight.

How? Even if I could reach them without falling to my death, I'm unarmed. What am I supposed to do? It's not like I can punch a well-engineered war machine down from the sky with a single blow. Fists don't work that way. But I'm operating off faulty information as it is, because whatever science I have down as a default logic system also tells me that I can't jump a story high, run alongside cars, and then pick them up and throw them around for good measure. Actually, that had taken out the first helicopter pretty well...

"Now I've gotta kill them, too." I finish that train of thought aloud. I don't have anything on hand to throw at them, but if the helicopters got close enough, I could take yet another foray into insanity and try to bring them down with my bare hands.

It sounds pathetically crazy even to me. But this, hell, everything; it feels like nothing's real anymore. Maybe that's the case.

One of them makes a pass over the roof, launching a guided rocket before it. I hurl myself to the side and leap upwards, slamming my knee in a snap kick towards the vehicle's middle. Acrid smoke pours like a dragon's breath from the colossal dent. I reach down and pull myself towards the helicopter's tail, using at as leverage to halt my jump, and slam my fists into the rotor like a madman. It splinters off, and I tumble back down to the rooftop, buffeted in the slipstream and showered with metal parts.

The aircraft is not so lucky. Flames are spreading from the damaged areas, and without a tail, it can't balance itself. It careens towards the streets in a shower of thick smoke and sparks.

The other gunship hovers a ways off from the building, too far to hit. My eyes flick from side to side, scanning for any loose objects to use as a makeshift projectile, but the rooftop is barren save for a radiator on the far end. It's soldered firmly to the concrete - there's no way I can move it.

Or isn't there? Everything's gone absolutely batshit insane already, anyway. Hadn't I just picked up a car? I'm still not sure if this isn't just some acid trip or crazy nightmare, but if it is, I haven't woken up yet. A single bound and I'm at the device, wrenching it nigh effortlessly from its stand. It's sailing through the air towards the vehicle before the second's over, and I still don't feel any more winded.

The second helicopter erupts into bits of flaming metal along with the radiator, shapeless fireworks in the moonlit cityscape. Radio chatter screams in dissonant terror as the embers rain down, seeming to float gently in some sort of shock-induced slow motion.

"This can't be happening," I mutter aloud.

I shake my head in vain, hoping to clear it - I don't have time to pay attention to the destruction I'm able to cause. High ground was a mistake. It's only making me easier to spot. Without thinking, I spring off the side of building. Forty-six stories rush by in a matter of moments, and the impact is only a jolt to my legs, even if it was enough to shatter the sidewalk below into a spiderweb of cracks and chunks of concrete.

Now that the immediate threat is gone, I can feel the weariness bear down upon me like a tsunami, harder than before. I knew that I couldn't keep up this escape for long, but now I can really feel it - I'm close to my breaking point. People are pointing and screaming at me; some run while others stand dumbfounded. The noise hurts my ears. They're holding me up. I'm starting to stumble again as I force them out of my way, losing my balance. My chest feels positively on fire now, and it's flaring up whenever I come into contact with these aimless, mewling idiots. Everything's falling out of focus, and it's an uphill battle to remain aware. I can't shake the feeling that it's all for nothing, and that I'm going to die no matter what I do. Where else is there to run?

I duck into another fortuitous alleyway, craving sanctuary, a place to hide. It doesn't feel like I'll get it, not for long, but I can't see anyone else and the shadows are long and welcoming. They beckon in the all-penetrating, flickering lights of the city, and I embrace the hope of sanctity. A few turns through a labyrinth of faded brick walls, and I can't bring myself to move further. Whether this spot is sufficient or not is almost irrelevant now. I just don't have the strength to keep running.

Alex Mercer.

Briefly, I ponder the conglomerate of four syllables - what it is and what it means about me. Shouldn't it explain something? Shouldn't it mean something? Shouldn't there be something behind it? But the pain is relentless, and panic all-consuming; such musings are lost as I double over, clutching my chest as if that might alleviate the agony that plagues it.

I want to sleep again, where I couldn't feel anything and had no inkling that I was being hunted. If this is what being awake is, I don't think I ever want to wake up at all. Or am I asleep, and this is the dream, not the other way around? It's surreal enough to be one, but dreams aren't supposed hurt like this.

And now there's a soldier nearby. I can sense him a few bends away. Rubbish rustles and stirs under his boots as he marches through the alley, taunting me as he seeks out his prey.

"Come out, germ. Don't ya wanna infect me?"

What the hell is he talking about...? What does he mean? I don't understand, and I don't have the strength to fathom it. I just want to sleep.

The footsteps come closer. Hard, jarring; steel-toed footgear clacks against the pavement without any rhythm. There's really no chance he won't find me, at this rate. It's over.

I can see him now. Close up, the soldier's armor looks almost insectoid, like a wasp's dark chitin. And that mask, with those glowing lenses - it's not human. I'm staring into a monster's eyes.

"Hostile sighted, contact imminent." The words have the feel of a death sentence, but they're just broken syllables to my ears.

He cocks the rifle, and I can't even bring myself to look up at him. I can't run anymore. There's nowhere to hide and I'm so very, very tired.

A single shot, the ping of a bullet and the dull rip as another round lodges itself in my chest. There's an air of finality to it, but nothing changes. Why can't I die? Why isn't it over? Why won't this nightmare end?

I slump further, more out of a sense of utter defeat rather than anything else. What was one more cartridge between my ribs? Just another bite of cold metal, useless even with its Teflon coating. I was an idiot to hope that it even had a prayer of changing anything.

"Tango down," he announces into his communicator. "Terminated."

Hunger. Devour.

And those selfsame instincts that have propelled me this far rise up with more fury than I could have imagined. I'm moving before I realize that I'm off the ground, lurching to my feet with a frenzied, demented energy.

Rage - there was definitely rage. What the hell had I done to deserve getting chased by military-grade gunships across the city? Why couldn't I remember anything? What had happened to me? But they wouldn't explain anything. Wouldn't listen. Wouldn't leave me alone. They wanted me dead - and suddenly, dying doesn't seem like such a merciful escape anymore, because the hell if I'm going to give them what they want. But even then, it's not just anger; anger doesn't come close to covering this sudden, intense rush. There's something deeper in this burst of sudden motivation, something frantic and utterly primal.

He turns around just in time to see my see my fingers curl around his arm. I absolutely relish his short-lived scream before my other hand closes around his thin neck, appreciating the fragile nubs of tendons and bones before I crush his frail windpipe. With a raw-throated yell of mingled pain and fury, I slam him headfirst into the pavement, feeling his vertebrae snap and bones shatter. In that moment, I am nothing but vengeance; I have taken the ones who hunted me and destroyed them, and I revel in it. It's not enough. I want them to fear me, I want them all to break. But something strange is happening, an odd sensation pulling me away from my bloodthirst. I can feel a faint… prickling across my midsection. Wriggling. Briefly, my gaze leaves the dying man, travelling downward, and there aren't words to encompass what I see.

I scream. Just a wordless, inarticulate cry, an attempt falling miserably flat in its futile attempt to express the deepest fear a mind can comprehend. My body's rippling, wavering, mutating, and things are reaching out from it, rearing like striking serpents. Four ropy, barbed tendrils extend from my stomach, two on each side, while other, more vestigial copies erupt across my clothes and skin alike. The shifting red and black tentacles move of their own accord, curling around the fallen soldier in a perverse parody of a caress before engulfing him.

Suddenly, it's not a man on the floor, but a nightmare mass of the same bloody material in the shape of one, and it's not even holding that form - as I watch, repulsed, those protruding tentacles begin to retract, pulling the shapeless, writhing thing towards me, and I scream again as my entire body breaks out into more of these awful tendrils-

It feels so good.

The burning pain inside - hunger, I realize belatedly, with dim horror - is quelled, soothed by the dark and shifting mass I'm pulling into myself. All of the aching, jaw-clenching hurt melts away. Part of me is screaming disgust and shock, a desperate litany of no, no, no, but the other, deeper half of me feels only satisfaction.

And then color explodes behind my eyes. I clutch at my head in pain; it's the worst migraine I can imagine and more. Images rush across my perception at lightning speeds and schizoid intervals, faster and faster, trembling and bright. A face in the mirror, a face beneath that mask. A school, a house, a barracks - constant perception changes as if the world were seen from different heights with every vision. Am I hallucinating? It's not just sight - I can hear a young girl's bubbly laughter as I swing her back and forth, feel the blazing summer heat and my muscles burning as I struggle through an obstacle course alongside several other men in army fatigues, taste the cherry lipstick as I share a passionate kiss with a woman.

I see - myself, that's me - collapsed against a wall, eyes shut and breathing ragged, blood splattered down my front. I - is it I? If that's me, who am I right now? can feel my contempt for - myself? It's a cold, clinical hate - I look at this form that I know to be my body and see something to be exterminated. I pull the trigger and I - the I that isn't I, the one that looks like me but isn't - slump down and move no more. I speak to my communicator. I hear a rustle. I whirl around as I lurch to my feet and I yell and I reach out and I break my neck and pain erupts and I scream as my tendrils burrow into my skin -

Only as it recedes can I recognize the episode for what it is. It's a rush of memories, but they're not mine, not the elusive past I've been struggling to reclaim. They're seen through the eyes of the man I just... I just...

What the hell was that? What had I done?

I'm not sure when I closed my eyes, but when I open them, the man is gone. No bones, no clothing. The only sign that he was ever there is a semiautomatic rifle, lying abandoned on the bloodstained asphalt.

He's gone, utterly gone. But the memories aren't. They're still inside me, raging memoirs of a past that isn't even mine, belonging to the man that I ate... no, that I consumed. I want to throw up, but whatever the hell my body is, it doesn't have that reflex. Looking down, a few traces of those black tentacles shiver and snake across my body before vanishing into the now-unblemished skin. The injuries I'd carried, the injuries that should have killed me, have vanished. My shirts are spotless, belying no sign of having been splatter-painted with blood moments prior. Hell, even the bullet holes are gone.

All at the cost of a life.

The power, the speed, running up walls - it's meaningless. Nothing. Parlor tricks compared to this.

Physically, I feel brilliant - the exhaustion has turned to vigor, the pain to a dull and negligible phantom ache, and I'm brimming with energy. If those bastards want to come at me, I'm ready. I'll show them just who they decided to pick a fight with. I'll kill them all. I'm almost hoping they return. I want more.

Inside, I feel like I'm dying.

What have I done?

What have I become?