4I decided to rewrite the Book of Life, it was ass, I know. It's such an interesting concept with an interestingly simple system. I decided to rewrite it since I felt I did not do it justice. This is the only chapter that will take place in [PROTOTYPE], mid-next chapter will find us moved on to another world. More specifically, RWBY.
He lurched forward, awakening with an asphyxiated gasp. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe! Gasping, then grabbing, and furiously grasping at his throat he attempted to rein in the panicked need for air. The sensation at the back of his throat resembled clogged tubing, only it felt as if were less by obstruction and more from faulty gateways.
He shut his eyes, then began to count from five. Four, three, two, one.
He gradually inhaled through the nose, then similarly exhaled. The process was further repeated.
Thankfully, the breathing exercise proved fruitful as the perception of choking receded to nothingness.
Suffocating no longer, he began to scrutinize his surroundings. Sterile and stark was the atmosphere of his current placement, with the dimly lit room casting eerie shadows. The air stank of disinfectant with an iron tinge and that no soul but his own was present.
His gaze traveled downward, having lingered briefly on a nearby wall. Goosebumps prickled his skin as he sighted the clinical instruments neatly arranged in trays. Rows of metal drawers lined one wall. The final observation he noted shook him to the core: he was sitting in a body bag, presumably the next in line for autopsy.
[Get moving.]
He sharply turned his head, scanning every possible space within the morgue to ascertain the source of the voice he had heard. But nobody was around.
[Not for long, now get moving before you're found!]
Once again! That voice! He couldn't locate its source, but if it was urging him to leave, then he best listens to its instruction in case his situation became fatally dire.
He shuffled out from the body bag and kicked it aside. Swinging his legs to the side, he attempted to stand, only for his legs to give out, causing him to collapse forward onto the floor.
So weak. He felt so weak. His muscles burned with every faint motion. For a moment he thought he was paralyzed, but then felt himself wiggling his toes.
[You'll regain your strength soon and then some. You've been given a boon to make up for being thrown into this temporary hellhole. It won't kick in until later, so you have to get out and survive until then.]
He began exerting himself, crawling forward in the poorly lit morgue past the carts and trays that held their instruments.
Eventually, he reached the door at the end of the room. With one hand against the wall for support and the other on the floor to provide lift, he shakily and slowly rose to his feet.
He stumbled, nearly falling once again, yet managed to catch himself and lean against the wall. His body felt as if it were aflame with the way his muscles protested his every action.
With pained effort, he managed to turn the handle of the door and push it open, slipping through and beginning his trek to the building's exit.
While searching for an exit, to ease the burden on his muscles, he leaned against the walls to support his weight. He eventually came to an alarming string of thought: he could not, for the life of him, recall his own identity.
[That can be rectified with time and effort, until then, you must leave the morgue and find somewhere to hide!]
Once again he was urged and once again he heeded. His ability to move and support himself grew at an adagio. Painstakingly slow progress, but progress nonetheless as he improved.
[Someone is approaching. Duck into the broom closet on your right and do not make a sound.]
Without questioning the voice, he hastily hobbled across the corridor to the opposite wall and entered the custodial room. The sudden pace left him significantly fatigued and short of breath. His calves burned from the exertion during his concealment.
The following moments had him pondering possible consequences as he overheard someone's voice and footsteps beyond the door.
"Of course. We'll be conducting the autopsy in less than an hour. It should prove insightful at the very least. Rigor mortis made it difficult to pose the body in a supine position to fit in the bag." The voice, carrying aged, masculine tones, had paused as a smaller and muffled voice responded to it.
"Yes, yes, I know. Dahlia is my pride and joy. The team and I worked tirelessly to bring that project to life and…" The voice grew distant and unintelligible as it passed, the footfalls fading into taps until neither it nor the voice could be heard.
[That is the Good Doctor. He will hunt you down once he realizes you've disappeared. Do not let him catch you. It's in your best interest you don't.]
He wanted to question the voice's knowledge, to understand the peril that may befall him should such a thing occur. He refrained, referring to the age-old adage of ignorance being bliss and avoiding the question—and the Good Doctor—altogether.
After having ascertained that the corridor was once again relatively safe to traverse, he exited the closet and again braved the barren corridors with the odd door or two strewn at every corner or four-way section.
With such stretches of halls and scant doors, he could only assume that he was in no simple morgue. There were too many additional hallways, stairs, doors to unknown rooms, and no clear exit in sight. The expansive interior left him questioning the true nature of the building.
[You're not incorrect. This isn't your everyday morgue. It's much, much bigger than that. Meant for more than just studying corpses, too.]
He grimaced, none-too-pleased with the voice verifying his doubts. Eventually, his hobble improved to short strides with a near imperceptible limp. His wandering succeeded soon enough, for he came upon an emergency exit. It was high time he slipped away.
He paused. Before he left, he needed something to address himself as in case he ever needed a name.
[Your surname was Prophet. That is all I will say until you're away from here.]
That was definitely a question to ask.
Pushing on the emergency exit doors, the building began to screech in protest, its high-pitched alert sounding off in response to his interaction. He wasted no time and rushed past the doors to the building exterior.
Prophet's eyes scoured the surroundings and revealed a compound enclosed by fences, walls, and gates twice his height. Four armored patrol vehicles stood within, their presence daunting with large belt-fed guns on their roofs. Hopefully unmanned for now, as he had no intention of engaging in a battle he couldn't win.
Four men in dark clothes, gas masks, and raised hoods emerged from around the corner of the building. Prophet couldn't properly assess their appearance as he took off in a mad sprint towards the massive fence, intending to climb it.
"Don't move! Hands up! Runner! We've got a runner!" One of the men who had rounded the corner shouted commands, shouldered a rifle and lined up its sights.
Not happening, Prophet thought to himself. He leapt for the fence to latch on and begin climbing—only he flew forwards with an unanticipated amount of force and tore through the fence.
"What the fuck?! It's another one! Open fire, open fire!" The armed men began to unload their magazines at their target.
Immediately after landing, Prophet scrambled forward, stumbling but quickly regaining his footing for another dash to safety.
Prophet burst onto the street, his pace hastened by panic and adrenaline coursing through him. Encouraged by the urgent need to find refuge from the gunfire and the towering building he had just escaped, he kept up his frantic momentum.
Prophet ran nonstop, refusing to glance back until he felt assured of his safety. But even as he kept his gaze forward, he couldn't ignore the obvious: he was moving faster than humanly possible, easily keeping pace with, if not surpassing, the traffic on a freeway. Buildings blurred past him in a dizzying rush.
Thinking he might be in the clear, Prophet began to slow down—until the roaring sound of a heavy diesel engine thundered behind him down the street.
Glancing over his shoulder, Prophet's heart sank at the sight—not out of concern for the carnage left in the APCs' wake, but for his own life and safety. Two of the armored patrol vehicles he had seen earlier careened through traffic, heedless of what or whom their tank-like vehicles collided with in their relentless pursuit.
As if matters couldn't get worse, red lasers blinked to life from the large machine guns mounted atop each armored vehicle, each one targeting Prophet's back. The threat only spurred him to run faster, pushing his legs harder as heavy-automatic weapons fire barked from behind.
Prophet leaned forward, his body pushing to its limits as he barreled through traffic. His movements seemed almost instinctual, reacting to obstacles on their own. He vaulted over cars, leapt over vans, and weaved around trucks. Despite the chaos, Prophet never lost momentum, his speed remaining constant as he dashed into an alley.
Thinking he was about to run headlong into a wall, Prophet shut his eyes.
Seconds later, instead of the impact of a solid wall, Prophet found himself running parallel to the very surface he thought he would collide with. His eyes snapped open, an expression of disbelief painting his face.
"Wooooohoooo!" Prophet whooped in glee once the astonishment faded. Dread and fear for his life weren't the only things he felt within the last hour or so. Windows rushed past as he reached the rooftop ledge and spun over it, landing in a roll before coming to a stop on his rear, legs splayed out as he supported himself with his arms. His chest heaved as he drank in the air, desperately hoping and assuming that he had finally lost his tail.
Minutes passed as he attempted to cool down and catch his breath, but Prophet realized he was wrong. He should have kept moving.
In the distance, he spotted the approaching silhouette of a Black Hawk helicopter. His blood ran cold. Scrambling away, he used his newfound agility to leap over the building's edge and onto the next complex.
The helicopter zeroed in on him, keeping pace and closing the distance quicker than the armored patrol cars ever could in civilian traffic.
Prophet took no further chances and eventually dropped between two buildings, crossing his arms over his eyes to protect them as he fell at an angle and smashed through someone's window and into their living room.
"What the hell?!" a gruff voice cried. The sound of a weapon being drawn and cocked rang out after the falling glass settled.
"Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my home?!" The voice belonged to a bald, blue-eyed, and black-bearded man. He supported the handgun in his grip, his finger wrapped around the trigger.
Prophet slowly stood up, hands out, attempting to placate the man. "Look, I don't want trouble. I'm just trying to lay low. Maybe if you put the gun down, we can talk like adults—"
The man jabbed the gun towards Prophet. "I don't care! Make any moves and I'll put a bullet in you!"
Still panicked and fueled by adrenaline, Prophet lunged for the weapon. The move ended in failure; the entire magazine emptied into his chest.
He stumbled back, his hands palming the various entry wounds on his torso before collapsing. His vision swam before darkening, and he no longer heard the world.
[Wake up.]
[Get up, user.]
[I said, get… UP.]
Prophet awoke with a sharp intake of air, lurching forward. He blinked away the spots in his vision and quickly took stock of his surroundings. His hands patted his chest, finding no entry or exit wounds. He was still in the living room he had invaded.
"—course officer, the body's still in my living room. I left it undisturbed." The gruff voice of Prophet's shooter sounded from the kitchen.
A white-hot rage burned in Prophet's veins. He stood slowly and walked into the kitchen, his footfalls oddly silent as a subtle red mist billowed from his limbs. Once in the kitchen, Prophet's eyes narrowed as he came to stand behind the bald man.
Prophet wound up his right fist and thrust it forward with all his might. The result left him baffled and horrified. His punch had pulverized the man's head, turning it into mush, with remnants of bone and gray matter embedded in the wall.
As he tried to extract his hand, dark-colored fleshy protrusions extended from his arm, plunging into the corpse, breaking it down into masses of flesh and bone before absorbing it into Prophet's body.
Prophet stumbled back, his expression a horrified rictus. "W-What?" he stammered. Instead of his own voice, he heard the voice of his victim. He dashed into the bathroom and gazed into the mirror. Instead of his own face, he saw the face and apparel of his recent kill.
Oh God. What—what the hell is this?!
Several knocks came from the front door. Prophet pursed his lips, thinking he could use this to his advantage.
"NYPD, please open the door!" a voice called from outside.
Carefully, Prophet opened the door to find two officers. He pointed at the living room floor, where there was nothing except broken glass.
"Right there, officers. I shot him good after he broke in," Prophet, still in the form of the inhabitant, insisted.
The two officers exchanged a look, clearly noting the absence of a body. They shared a glance that communicated they were not paid enough for this and said they would file a report and refer an investigator to the scene—something they clearly had no intention of doing.
The encounter went well enough for Prophet, allowing him to shut the door and collapse on the couch. The chase was finally over, and he could be at ease, at least for a moment. Through the reflective black screen of the television, he saw his shapeshifted form revert to his own, sighing in relief. He had feared being permanently stuck as his kill. Prophet's black hair seemed to absorb the surrounding light, his sunset hued eyes shone unnaturally, and his sun-kissed skin gave off a comfortable warmth. His form was that of a well-rounded athlete. He was also apparently naked... that needed fixing.
Now. Mysterious voice, I believe it's time you answered some questions.
[I did say I would once you found refuge.]
Welcome to the rewrite of The Book of Life. If this does better than the shitty original, Then I'll be focusing on this instead of that one. I have an outline for this one that's more fleshed out than the original. If you enjoy this more, please leave a review. Criticize the story and tell me what you think. I know this beginning is slow going, what with the book not even being mentioned in this beginning and how it's all happened. That is something that will be resolved in the next chapter.