Chapter Text
Fate really had a way of batting people around like a ball of yarn. Unraveling them and unraveling them… until there was nothing left but the hard truth.
These were things people faced day to day, swallowed down as they pushed on. It was to be expected. The people callow enough to test fate’s steady and unyielding hand were eventually met with one, hard-hitting fact:
They are what they are.
So then why, Kirk wondered, was his jaw locked around this man's throat? Why couldn’t he pull himself away, hard as he tried? His inhuman eyes shut tight, not daring to see the work he made of his victim, but he could feel warmth pooling around his palm on the concrete.
They were in a well-tucked alley. The man’s feeble struggling was of no consequence to him, red steadily spilling down his throat to fill the bottomless pit that was his hunger. Granted, he was a scum-of-the-earth, child-trafficking bastard, but what exactly did that make Kirk?
He couldn’t even recall the moment he jumped him; it all happened so fast. He’d heard the commotion from the fire escape of an abandoned building, young girls crying and pleading to be let free. The man barked at them, threatened to blow their brains out if they didn’t comply. Kirk heard the click of a gun.
For Gotham’s worst, the nighttime was the perfect time to get on with their sick business, and tonight was no different. The shadows were a cesspool of quiet havoc. But Kirk hid there, too.
His eyes were trained on the man as he corralled the girls into the dilapidated building across from him. The hunger swelled inside him, much like it always did. It always thirsted. Always wanted. And sometimes the rodents he’d come across weren’t enough. No… They were never enough. The fire he felt in his throat was unrelenting, and the aches that overtook him were mind-numbing. He pondered the taste of this man’s blood, of the life that coursed through him over and over again. He didn’t deserve it.
Then… blackout.
He thought to himself now: Was this a good deed, a heroic one? The gun was forgotten on the ground, harmful to no one. The man fought no more. He rose from his kill, fangs hanging like bloodied daggers behind his snarling lips. The frenzied haze behind his eyes slowly dissolved, and it was then that he truly grasped what he had done.
Yes, this had to be right. He was making the best of his… circumstances. This had to be right, otherwise…
Running from the thought, he kicked open the door that held the girls, taking no care to clean himself up. His collar was stained and soaked through, fingers dripping with red. There was a group of six, all no older than seventeen. “You’re safe.” He said. The girls simply stared, terror in their eyes at what stood before them. No doubt they’d heard the gurgling shouts of their once-breathing assailant. “Please,” he insisted, “I won’t hurt you.” As if that was the assurance they were waiting for, the trembling girls poured out of the space, not looking back.
He stared after them, a sinking feeling in his stomach as soon as they disappeared around the corner of the building. Alone again. These days, he’d grown used to it, skulking around in the dark for fear of losing control. But the city was large, and the smells that wafted to him day after day had eaten away at him. More and more he found himself… indulging certain scenarios in his head before stuffing it all back down. That question of fate rose once more as he stared at a face unrecognizable. It was his own, gleaming back at him from a puddle beneath the gutter. Until tonight, he refused to take a human life. Until tonight, he was just a man in a cruel predicament.
The line was crossed. Fate stepped in.
He was what he was.
“Monster…” He said, just above a whisper. He dragged his fingers over his deathly pale face, eyes slowly widening. “You’re a MONSTER!!” His fist met the brick wall before him, a crumbling hole in its wake.
…
The police arrived some hours after the incident, possibly tipped off by a concerned Samaritan, and he watched them place cones and tape around the area. How ironic, he pondered, that their perp was just a few stories above them. And how ironic, he thought, that for all the crushing guilt he felt, he did not want to turn himself in. Perhaps his survival instincts were finally kicking into high gear. Or perhaps he knew that his capture would be good for no one. Either way, he forced himself to watch. To feel and sit with it all. But all he could really notice was the taste that lingered on his lips.
Something in him praised his actions, implored him to do more of the same. He grasped at the straws of his conscience and dared not ponder it.
Instead, he decided to think back on the man he once was. Kirk Langstrom. A man of science. A man with people near and dear to him.
Tina and Will. They were always good to him. Always supportive. Always a shoulder to lean on.
Kirk wondered what they would think of him now. It’d been 7 ½ months of this hell, but not a day went by where they weren’t on his mind. His best friends. His family. He craved the warmth of an embrace, the sound of familiar laughter. There were days he’d linger outside their door, hoping someone would open it before he turned around and left. But it was for the best. He wasn’t… safe anymore. At least with the lymphoma he was only a danger to himself. His arms wrapped tightly around his frame, night’s chilling breeze matching the coldness of his skin.
How did it go so wrong?