Chapter 4: Part 6, The Call Part 2

Though his eyes stared out and up at the chilled tendrils of moisture which trailed form the ventilation register in the ceiling, his vision had now turned inwards. He no longer saw the steel walls which housed him; instead he wandered through the infinite corridors of his mind. He roamed easily as the internal war within had now dwindled to guerrilla skirmishes; their random attacks now causing only minor tremors along his musculature. The tactic of assimilate or be forever walled off from the sensational world had brought the majority of his quilted consciousness in line. There was now only one master steersman in control over this vessel, with the tapestry of his new consciousness as the sail. This stitched canvas however had many holes where obdurate fragments of Patchwork’s mind held fast; though the “Me” within him knew that it was only a matter of time before these last bastions of free thought gave out and joined the collective.

Flashes of memories continually flickered like failing neon signs; simultaneously cluing him in to who he was yet adding to the overall confusion which infused him. Battalions of nerve cells battered the fortified resistances. His consciousness was continually drawn from the outside world to the scarred landscape of his mind. Despite his situation he continued alternating from external to internal for he knew that just as many answers lay within him as without.

One instance of him was restrained in a cold dark room while the other was racing along his neuronal superhighway at the speed of light. A seemingly infinite store of memories sat before him waiting to be sorted and relived, and each was a clue to who he was. With his inner vision he saw himself in a vast wasteland as ruined buildings stretched before him; he scanned the landscape through the scope of a weapon as he searched the sightline for insurgents; his whole body was taut with fear. All at once he was under fire and running towards the safety of an armored Humvee; Patchwork... was a warrior. Another set of memories had him climbing a glacier on Mount McKinley as cold Alaskan clouds passed threateningly by; his muscles burned from exhaustion as he grappled with the splintering ice beneath his hands; Patchwork... was a risk taker and an athlete. The gloved hands before him melted away morphing into the slender hands of a woman as they worked diligently with a scalpel as she tried to save the life of a young man on an operating table. Years of diligent training and education had helped to get her into a residency in the ER of one of the best hospitals in the world; Patchwork... was a healer. The bright surgical lights faded away into a dark alley where the scalpel was replaced with a glinting steel blade. He saw his victim turn down the shadowy path and head towards him. He lay in waiting as his victim approached, as the distance shortened to an arm’s length he lept out and blindly drove the knife into his unsuspecting victim; Patchwork... was a killer.

Back in the cold cell Patchwork’s breathing began to accelerate and his forearm rippled as he clenched on the invisible weapon.

The blade disappeared as it morphed into a wooden cross. The body remained, though it now rested peacefully in an oak casket. The cross was raised and a sense of surety filled him as he spoke words of comfort to those gathered. They looked to him with love and grace as probing eyes sought answers to their fundamental questions; Patchwork... was a man of faith. The crowd faded into cracked plaster walls. The corners of a bare room lay in darkness as a small candle burned slowly in its center. A shallow spoon sat above its dancing flame as she tried to steady her hands. They shook from withdrawal and the exertion of recent prostitution, unfortunate facts of life, both of which had now left her weak and numb. She stared at the doorway to release as it bgean to roil and froth in her makeshift crucible. A dirty needle dipped its blunted tip into the cooling amber liquid and with a quick draw engulfed the entire contents of the deadly brew. Swirling warm liquid flowed into the barrel of the syringe. She scanned her cratered forearm for a place to land the needle and deposit its cargo. A barren patch of bruised yellowed flesh in the crook of her arm beckoned the needle and after a moment of painful pressure finally yielded to its metal shaft. Within moments a dizzying numbness filled her with itchy warmth as the world fell away from her; Patchwork... was depraved.

The surety of it all hit him; Patchwork was human, or had been at one time, but what was he now? He was a conglomeration of memories which mocked the sanity of any one lived life. He was beginning to feel a terrible pressure building in his head as the memories continued. The world was swimming again, as it slowly came into focus he found himself lying on leaf littered ground staring up into the green canopy of an elm tree. A sharp pain radiated from his leg as he tried to sit. High up in the tree he spotted a broken limb dangling dangerously, and then he remembered. Like all trees to ten year old boys, this giant elm, with its curving branches had begged to be climbed and conquered. He was about half way up when the branch he had been standing on broke. It wasn’t the fall which had snapped his femur; it was the sudden stop at the end. Fighting back the building pain he surveyed his surroundings. He was in ditch a full fifty yards from the roadside, and he was alone. He pulled himself along with his injured leg dragging behind; each agonizing inch bringing him closer to rescue; Patchwork... was a fearless survivor.

As the roadside approached it faded into a paved pathway with manicured grass lining either side. A rustic shed lay at the trails end. Its normally locked door stood ajar and movement could be heard inside. He opened the door to reveal a raven haired child standing in the darkness. “What are you do…” The words halted as he began to comprehend the scene in front of him. A long stick protruded from the boy’s hand, the end of which was now buried in inanimate flesh. With a sinking realization the form began to take shape, the soft silver fur of a Persian cat glinted in the weak lighting.

The boy’s pale face floated in the stillness “Itss dead dad, it must have eaten ssome of the rat poisson.” A twisting smile played on his face, his eyes never moving from his father’s as he gave the carcass another jab. The cold orbs seemed to challenge his father for any reaction, and within seconds he had his answer. Without warning an iron hand belted the boy across his face, soundlessly he fell to the floor landing within inches of the dead animal.

Picking the boy up and throwing the limp child out of the shed he repeated the warning he had issued many times before. “I told… you never… to go into… my shed!” With each pause he launched the pointed toe of his shoe into the boy’s soft midsection. Though the child’s eyes remained cold and defiant they began to water from the pain of the beating. There was the click from behind him as the door was locked. Then the hand came down one last time with a loud Thwap! “And stop talking like a sissy!” Patchwork… was a cycle of violence.

Patchworks vision fogged over as his mind worked overtime processing the puzzled memories. It felt as if a dozen daggers had pierced the inner workings of his mind and were now busy doing cartwheels; set in motion by some crazed circus performer. The migraine clenched Patchwork’s mind in the jaws of a barbed vise; the harder he fought to make sense of it all the tighter it clamped down. He pushed further and further into himself, deeper into the pain. A trail of blood began to flow from his ear as his meningeal lining tried to crush his hyperactive neurons into docility.

As the pressure reached an agonizing height he broke through the threshold of a buried memory. It was one enshrouded in a fog of vagaries. He lay on a gurney as IV lines dripped various drugs into his weakened body. It had all gone to hell so fast. Less than a year ago he took tenth place in a local Iron man triathlon and a few months later he had run in the Boston Marathon. It was then that the weakness had begun, followed by the continual nausea, and now… now he was dying. He had tried everything to stave off the disease that ravaged his body, from new age healing and homeopathic medicine to positive thought and oil puling; none of which had even slowed the terrible progression of sickness. His sharp decline in health had most recently led him to enroll in a clinical trial for an immune stimulation therapy using a set of experimental drugs.

He was alone for a majority of the time but two people religiously visited him, though they had to be masked and gowned from head to toe in sterilized clothing. The first was the clinical trial director; he was a tall man whose slinking accent and cold questioning always left him feeling like a guinea pig in some grand experiment. It was his daughter though who truly broke the routine monotony of the clockwork nurses. Just the sight of her face could always make him smile. Even when she wasn’t around the thought of her soft features made him feel better. She looked so much like her mother; she had his smile, but those eyes, those blue within blue eyes were her moms. Those eyes were now the only things he saw of her through those sterilized garments… Those eyes… Patchwork was... he was...

Those eyes were all that remained in his mind. As the wave of memory washed back into the sea of darkness it left behind the gritty sands of rage. Patchwork’s mind exploded with pain “Nooooo…” His arms first tugged against the leather straps of the wrist restraints, then pulled as his unleashed strength caused them to stretch and finally tear under the strain. He ran to the polycarbonate door and with strength unknown smashed his hand into the steal control panel at its side. “Nooooo...!”

In a lab down the hall Pieces began to pace the length of his cage.

Patchwork slammed his fist a second time, causing the metal casing to buckle under the immense force “Nooooo…!”

In a cold cell two floors below Eric awoke from the catatonia caused by the T.C.C. and began to pound on the steel walls of his cell.

Blood now dripped from the twisted metal of the control system. Its cover hung loosely from damaged wiring and fell to the floor as if it saw the determined rage of Patchworks face and thought twice about being in the path of another damaging blow. That blow came, along with an inhuman howl that seemed to come from the bowels of hell itself. “Nooooo…!” Sparks showered his forearm as the machinations of the door activated.

In various places across Boston in the dark of its back bay Nick Daniels stopped his mindless pacing, Mocha paused as he fled from the flames Jen had set, and Jackson halted in the middle of his feast of a homeless man in a darkened subway tunnel. They all paused in unison, and turned their heads as if listening to some inaudible call. They all paused… and then, they began to walk.