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Victor

"I Am No One's Adam..."

0 · 221 views · located in London

a character in “Blood Before Dusk”, as played by Raidose

Description

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~Paradise Lost, Book X, Line DCCXLIII

Theme



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Name: Monster, Devil, Fiend, Wretch, Adam, Victor.

Age: Almost exactly one hundred and fifty years.

Gender: Male

Species: Creation

Height: 8'1"

Weight: A little over 55 stone.

Family: "I Once Believed I Held A Father. I Was Mistaken."




Physical Description:
Victor, as he's taken to calling himself now, is unique. One of a kind, and he'd damn sure keep it that way. No man or woman, no matter how cruel or wretched, should ever walk in the life he holds. Victor was not born. He was assembled. Crafted by two hands eager in the pursuit of science over the spirit, and brought into this world cold and frightened by the stolen power of God. Victor is Frankenstein's infamous Monster. The creation, abandoned by it's creator, and tormented by it's own hellish existence. Centuries pass, the book has closed, yet here he stands in this age of "modern" Man. Forced from his seclusion, and bound to walk just beyond the light of the human world.

He travels in concealing garments, hand stitched and scavenged from whatever he can find to blanket his colossal form, usually in the form of a long, patch-work leather duster and hood. His britches are stitched together from random parts cloths, canvas, leather, and even tarp, tied up with a length of rope or whatever else he could find. His body, head, and hands are densely wrapped in gauze and bandages. Lastly, his boots, with soles of hard leather compressed by hand, were stitched together from the corpses of many of it's kin. Much like Victor, really.

Then comes the matter of the flesh. Pale-yellowish skin stretched taut enough to betray the details of his arteries and veins. Massive, mismatched musculature woven together from various "donors". Scars and burns covering his body in random patterns. Black lips receding back from decay to expose yellowed teeth in a skull-like scowl. Dull, black eyes sinking back into their deeply shadow sockets, appearing as tho empty voids. No nose, and a series of staples holding together a cracked skull. His body holds several struts and parts of solid steel within it, reinforcing his skeletal structure as a cheap repair for postmortem damage.

Victor was not blessed in sharing the nearly flawless asymmetry of God's creations, either. One ear has been fused to the flesh by burns, while the other is gone entirely. One side of his lower jaw is not the same as the other, and it's teeth had to be replaced by brass duplicates. His right Index finger holds the same length as his middle, because isn't an index finger. His left hand has no finger tips, instead only the bones, capped with copper reinforcing to complete the closed conduit of his nervous system. His right leg is two inches longer than his left. His left foot is a size larger than his right. Left shoulder higher than his right by 2 inches, right arm three inches longer than his left, right hand about an inch wider than the left. The list goes on.

His voice has a deep, raspy gravel to it, unpleasant for any ears. His mannerisms are those of someone who'd much rather keep to themselves. Defensive, private, and suspicious of everything. But this is when he's calm. When angered, the story changes entirely. The low whisper becomes a booming howl, powerful enough to shake the walls. Sparks can be seen in his eyes and mouth at times. Green and vibrant, as well as the cinders which appear to glow from within his visible patches of muscle tissue. When particularly enraged, emerald arcs radiate from his body, and fill the air with the stench of burning flesh.




Personality:
Cold. Lost. Confused. Afraid. Alone. This was how he came into the world, and 200 years later it hasn't changed much. New things emerged. Bitterness, anger, hatred, envy, but the old him is still in there. For all the dark. For all the few spots of good, as well. Of course, those seem to be getting more rare as the years progress. He is still an affront to creation, an unnatural abomination of man and science. A mockery of "Intelligent Design". This life, this world we live in, it rejects him on a fundamental level. So, he rejects it. Isolation became his protector. Walking in the lands no human would touch for over a century, the loneliness did take a hefty toll. Voices of both the dead and those he'd never met before became his companions, but one would stand higher than the rest. The one who tormented him the most, who had abandoned him to this world's clutches, and who Victor haunted in retribution. His persecutor in life, and now warden in death. Tho still uncertain as to why, Victor feels compelled to carry a piece of his Maker with him. It strangely seems to keep the other voices abated. All except his.

Victor is private, defensive, and sometimes even callous. He doesn't want to give a damn about anyone, because he doesn't wish to ever feel the need to. His acts of random kindness often end with mobs and pitchforks, and so the world and all it's living creatures are kept at a distance. It wasn't long before he found out about the other, not so normal living creatures in this world. Along with a few of the unliving one's, that is. It didn't matter, changed nothing. In his mind, they belonged, probably around since forever. Part of some balance, or cycle, or natural order. He still wasn't, so he avoids them as well. That's how the years got spent, watching the world slowly turn from his side of the looking glass. Seeing how we act, what we create, the stereotypes we justify, and the one's he justifies for us. Not just with humans, but all creatures. Odd exceptions exist, but keeping to what he expects from other beings has kept him alive.

There was a time when he believed himself able to craft a better life. To build a place of belonging, to better his Maker in all ways. He was wrong. Such things should not be, not for him. They bring only pain, death, and fire. There will never be a home. Victor knows this now. Holding on to things is difficult, complicated. The tighter you hold on, the more fragile it becomes. Someday it will break, and it'll cut you. Friends, family, home, love, faith... That's the one which held on the longest. He still carries that bible he'd found so long ago, and has recounted it's pages a thousand times in hopes of answers. One hundred years, and he still hasn't found God. His mistakes haunt him, and they are many. Lives he's taken, lives he's ended. From destroying all his Creator held dear, to following in his damned footsteps, to playing God himself. Victor has made many mistakes, and learned a great many lessons. But does what we know now ever truly make up for what we have done?

The world has changed, now. He has a job, a mission to do. One last purpose to complete, and maybe earn his right to rest at long last. At least it's kept him moving forward, tho at times it's made him ruthless. Victor will lie and manipulate to whoever he needs to for his mission. He's broken, burned, and destroyed before. Killed....? No... Not since... Not since her. Not yet, anyway. The day may yet come when blood stains his hands anew. Do the ends justify all? Will he be vindicated in the end? Will the few, small lights he's scattered about balance out so much darkness?

Can he ever be forgiven?

He... doesn't know.




The Story Beyond The Story:

We know how the story ends. The Monster, carrying the body of it's Creator, would walk endlessly into the arctic wasteland, never to be seen again. But such tales do not simply cease at the closing of the tome. In those days, he bore the name Adam. An almost blasphemic irony at his Father's arrogance. Adam saw fit to allow his father one final service. A nameless grave of ice and snow. Respect measured in equal amounts with spite. All, save for one piece. A token, a trinket to perhaps remember him by, or simply to torment the Man as he had done the Monster. To drag a part of him away from himself, to remind him, in spirit, that he is forever a part of the Creature he made. All the way to Adam's final resting. Parting the sheets of white with black, smoldering hell. A mountain, belching gouts of Dragon's Fire. A viking's funeral, atop a pyre of natural flame. It seemed fitting, after all. Fire would always be the bane of monsters. Now, it would be his end. His final journey, and it would not be taken alone. Perhaps tied to the remains Adam carried with him, Victor's ghost seemed to accompany his climb. Words they had never shared while living now came forth. Damnations, curses, accusations, but also the last thing either expected. Acceptance of their mistakes. This was not forgiveness, merely an understanding of the tragic tale which encompassed their lives.

The bitterness never left the other's words, however. Father and Son, yet sworn enemies to the very last. Victor's words haunted Adam, as the monster clambered and clawed his way up the slope. Half way eager to finally embrace his doom, if only to escape his Maker at long last. The mountain quaked, an eruption of flame and smoke gave warning of what was to come. An endless tide of volcanic ash and mud. Adam gave one last promise to his Creator's spirit, before he was consumed by the Earth. A promise that the two would meet again in Hell. And then, the end came. This was.... strange. An unexpected disappointment. There was no fire, no biblical nightmare awaiting him. No suffering or penance to be paid. Simply a bleak nothingness. An abyssal black oblivion, and wakeless dream which ushered him in to Purgatory. It seemed neither Heaven nor Hell would have such an abomination as him. He'd drift dreamless throughout the decades, forgotten to the world until they came for him. An expedition into the ice unearth a curiosity that would stun it's discoverers. A mummified body of some man-like creature, sealed in the mud. Inhuman in it's proportions, with what seemed to be artificial modifications made to it's body. The curiosity was dragged back to wow and amaze the civilized world. A strange affront to creation, set on display for crowds the gawk at, till the storm came.

He could feel it, calling in the distance. The charge, the power. It was coming for him. Drawn to him. Tingling in the air, through his sleeping tissues. In that darkness, the light reached out. Graceful, but forceful. It pulled him, dragged him back into life. To the boom of thunder and a terrible howl, the crowd stood agasp as the Monster became animate once more. Rejected by the afterlife and birthed once more by the touch of his mother, confusion and fear swiftly gave way to blind rage. Fire began to spread, covering his trail in a wake of chaos and destruction, letting him slip once more into the shadows he now coveted. His mind was... scattered. His past was so clear, so vivid it blurred with reality in terrifying ways. Hallucinations and voices of times long gone echoed back at him with force, but it was more than that. Were he to focus, he could remember every single detail his eyes beheld since the very moment of his birth. His muscles didn't seem to tire, even as his escape carried him through the woods faster than the hounds beset upon him could ever hope to match. His strength grew terrible, knocking over trees as if mere child's playthings. He... understood now. The storm was his life, and it's touch stimulated every aspect of his being. But the mysteries of this would have to wait, as it began to set in exactly how long he may have slumbered. Nearly sixty years had passed, and the world had shifted frightfully. Industry had grown explosively, and seemed to choke the life out of everything around it.

The world was darker, growing as bitter as Adam had found himself. Such a place.... it was no longer worth haunting. This place, this Victorian England was the epitome of corruption. The downtrodden sharing equal rights and population with the rats which flooded the alleyways. If ever Adam needed proof of humanity's black heart, it was here. He abandoned the island with haste, stowing away on a ship meant for Norway. From their, his journey took him North along the Swedish borders, through Finland, and at last into the Siberian Wilderness of Russia. Seclusion at last, but the solitude did not bring peace. With nothing more than the phantoms of his past to keep him company, Adam felt his mind beginning to wane. Curses began anew for this life he was damned to walk alone. But... did he have to be alone? Perhaps it was the madness at last taking hold, but a terrible thought began to creep it's way through his mind. The night that his Maker had promised him a companion. The night he was betrayed. That moment burned fervently, more so than it had ever done before. Adam watched as his maker assembled the pieces, began the process. That was it.... the process. If Frankenstein could defy God, then why couldn't Adam do the same? Ambition lent speed to his actions. Perhaps of the same terrible kind that had guided Victor to his tragedy, but it mattered not. The tools and equipment were... "acquired", through whatever means Adam saw fit. His once isolated lair now became that of some mad scientist, befitting his intentions. Years of testing began and ended with dissatisfying results.

No matter how perfect the specimen or how extreme the power, the tissue refused to animate.... But why? Everything had been done as best his memory would allow him. Copper probes inserted into every bundle of nerve endings. No more than eighty percent of the subject's body had been submerged in Saline. All the organs were well preserved and fully capable of functionality. Even the storms, a regular occurrence in this region, all seemed well suited for the task. What was missing? Why Wouldn't She Live?! The question was driving him insane. No matter the test subject, no matter the precision, no matter the years, nothing would work! WHY?! Some damnable thing, some key step in the process that only Victor would know! ....That only Victor would know. Of course.... it was that simple. Adam may not have known the secret, but he knew all to well of the man who kept it. His Maker was a prideful and arrogant man, far too obsessed to let his triumph of Science over God go without records. records well hidden. The man worked with high voltage, lightning itself. He would have expected a fire, even greater than the one he caused. Adam remembered the exact moment of his Father's betrayal with crystal clarity. His face, his body language... it was an act of impulse. There was no pre-planning. That meant only one thing. The notes of Victor von Frankenstein could have survived. And Adam knew just where to look. His place of birth, that ramshackle laboratory hidden not far from the very University where Victor first learned the Sciences. The place dreadfully hadn't changed much. The wood still bore scars from the fire so long ago. This place... it was frightfully familiar to him. Past and present intermingled nigh flawlessly here. Hallucinations nearly driving him mad, when suddenly he was woke from his trance.

The floor echoed below him, not with a hollow thud as it should, but with something more.... solid. A lock box, just beneath the floorboards. How archaic of the Man, to leave something so precious scarcely hidden. It didn't matter. The lock soon found itself "persuaded" by Adam's efforts. At last, the leather bound journal lay in his hands. The Secret of bringing Life to the Dead. There would be no time to waste. A secluded cave as established as a new home. The equipment here proved to be far superior, far more efficient than those found in Russia. The apparatus was set, now came only the need for a subject. No more grave digging, no more patchworks of corpses, and no more tests. No, this one would be Perfect. Everything must be Perfect. Time spent haunting the nearby village came to fruition when a young woman was forsaken on her wedding day, and saw fit to take her own life. By God, she was beautiful. Skin like flawless porcelain, pale and delicate as driven snow. The physical state of her body was immaculate. Save for two slashes cross her wrists, there was no need for repairs. This time, there was no caution, no planning or wasting precious moments on elusiveness. It wouldn't matter in the end, anyway. He spirited away her body that very night, and the work began. Every cut, every stitch was done to meticulous precision. Tiny and insignificant, Adam wondered if they may even heal, unlike his own. Victor's work had shown otherwise, but this was not Victor's work, now was it? It was Adam's, and it was perfect. The storm came as if beckoned, and the hour was nigh. A bolt had stuck, sparks lit up the room, and as quickly had come the sound, quicker yet was the silence that followed. He waited, fearful and anxious. When thoughts of failure began to rise within him, he heard it. Soft, weak, yet rhythmic. The slow beating of her heart. A breath.... then another.... Her eyes began to open.

Adam hid his face, not wanting to frighten her. No, everything must be perfect. He would right all wrongs in this very moment. She tried to move, panicking slightly at these strange accommodations. Softly, slowly, Adam moved in to calm her. At first this only served to further upset her, but hesitantly... she became compliant. She was a work of art. His Perfection, his Creation. His and his alone, no God nor Man would intervene. His to care for. His to cherish. He gave her a name, that day. Eve. Days lingered slowly, trying to sooth her and easing her welcome into this life. He told her of what had happened, of what miracle she represented. That she held the gift of life, and what a great yet fragile thing it was. Adam saw in her a chance for innocence, the same he too once held. A good soul, free of judgement, expectation, or persecution. His love for her was such that he scarcely cared if it went unrequited. Perhaps it was some form of parental care, or perhaps his spite for his Maker was more than enough to find his peace, it did not matter. She lived, because of him. As the days grew shorter and winter began it's approach, he showed her the ways of humanity. Not from bitterness, but from their potential. They observed the daily lives of the villagers, as Adam swore to his creation that one day, she too may walk freely among them. Her form would bear no suspicion, much was the fruits of his labors.

But... there was a strangeness to Eve's mannerisms. She seemed dark.... distant. Adam became naively unaware, even as she became fascinated with how they both were given life. He thought it innocent enough. Man has asked for hundreds of years the simple question of "why am I?", so it seemed fitting she be no different. She became an avid learner, even asking Adam's help in experimentation. Still he thought it innocent, oblivious to her growingly morbid fascination. It was not till the cadavers she had brought home were somewhat too.... "fresh", that Adam became unable to ignore his concerns. Upon his investigations within the village, all his fears were realized a dozen times over. Unexplained murders at reduced the population considerably, and while they villagers were baffled as to what devil could be the culprit, Adam could not deny such a horrid truth. The walk home was long. The longest he'd ever taken in his life. He.... knew what he had done. What he must do. This was.... wrong. She was so perfect..... why..... Eve was waiting for him. A smile curling at his return. Adam's hand gently caressed her face as she leaned into it. Her eyes never blinked. They were a shine-less black, as Adam's were. A side effect of the humours required by the process, but there was something more.... It was as though nothing existed behind them. No soul. No feelings. Just.... darkness. He barely found the strength to speak, asking her if she had indeed done these terrible things. She confirmed with hesitation. Unflinching, uncaring. Still smiling... Adam was beside himself. He begged her for reason, for why in God's name she had done this? Her reply brought a chill that had claimed him far more than the ice of the North ever could. "It was not God that made me. It was you, my Maker..."

Adam fell to his knees, unable to think. Her touch mimicked that of a loved one's comfort, but he now saw it for the lie it was. She smiled at him. Dead eyes never blinking, even as his hand slowly encircled her throat. She was still smiling.... Still smiling. As Adam's grip strangled the life from her.... she still smiled. In the end, it seemed Adam had succeeded Victor only in bringing an end to his abomination. No.... not Adam. That name.... He did not deserve it. He walked too far down his father's footsteps, and had come out the same devil for it. He was no better, letting ambition overcome reason. All for what? Was it love? Or jealousy? No. He was not Adam anymore. Far more deserving to wear the name of the bastard that began it all. So, he did. The wretched thing now called Victor set fire to his own work. Burning Eve's body in the same hell that he let engulf the laboratory. He grasped the journal, that damnable thing. Victor cursed God for ever letting him find this thing. He stood, ready to walk it into the flames himself, when his mind hinged on a terrifying detail. The notes.... He had not realized it before, too blinded by his obsession, but... They were not all of the same handwriting. Much to his horror, several sections of the journal were newer. Details that were added on by another. Someone had seen this book before. Someone who could understand it, who.... who could recreate it. Somewhere in the world, right now, there could be another Creation. Another mistake waiting to unfold. Victor knew now more than any living being that these Things should never exist. They must all be forgotten, burned to ash.

Even himself.

Victor's investigations into the matter, however, revealed only more dreadful things. There were copies of it. Many copies. The journal had become a hushed legend of sorts. A secret handshake shared between close colleagues behind closed doors. A dark, scholarly topic spoken of in whispers between Men of Science and Medicine. Laughed off as some joke or ruse at first, only to be furthered studied, and finally, understood. The Promethean Manuscript. That was the name it had been given by such dark societies. It had already spread throughout Europe in only the time Victor had been asleep. Now... he could only fathom a guess as to how far it's influenced reached. Every copy he burned only served to elude to another. Every lab destroyed, in time only to be rebuilt. every experiment..... In small thanks to God above, there were none such as Victor. Not yet, but he knew they would be close at hand. He had found four copies of the cursed book already, and had found found trail of a fifth in the place he swore he'd never return. The year is 1940. The man in question, Dr. John Bodkin Adams, who was currently practicing in London, England.

So begins...

Victor's Story