Chapter Text
With his legs threatening to give out and buckle, the man was forced to grasp at the tree he leaned against, breathing becoming more uneven than before. He truly felt better after being shot out of a second-story window.. whatever the entity had done to manipulate his body made him feel absolutely disgusting. It always kept him obedient and weak outside of trials; but this was miles worse.
He just watched the survivors huddled around the fire before him. He wasn’t stalking this time, there wasn’t anything leveling up inside him; no “power” building up for him to use in their slaughter. Something along the lines of anxiety pricked the hairs on his neck instead.
And he had no mask.
No knife.
He was weak.
Just as much as prey as the survivors now.
And there was nothing he could do about it.
That’s what he hated the most. Sure he came into this realm fairly willingly, chasing his dear sister in, but there was no escape now for him nor anyone else trapped within the entity’s grasp. It was a one-way trip to eternal damnation for both the innocent and the sinners. And now he has joined them.
As if it wasn’t well deserved.
He knew he deserved it as much as anyone. Him — The Shape — a ruthless, bloodthirsty, young bastard who would finally get his ass handed to him. The hunter turned into the hunted. How poetic.
He despised how vulnerable it made him feel. How naked, pathetic, and powerless he felt standing there; his name about to be forever dragged through the dirt and ditches until the once-feared name would be no more than a joke.
An absolute joke.
What the survivors would do to him at this state brought a trickle of something like fear onto him — something “The Shape” never felt. He was surely weaker than them now, barely able to keep himself upright, much less defend himself if they decided to attack him. The thought of being at these survivors' mercy was nothing short of disgusting. And if they pitted him…?
Even more disgusting.
Just the thought alone made him want to carve up each of their faces and burn their flesh in that damn pit of fire…
The chatter suddenly went dead as he lifted his gaze to find they were all staring at him now.
Took them long enough.
He felt he’d been standing there for hours. However, his face never staggered from that blank stare, even as the bark bit into the tips of his fingers, peeling black his skin a bit.
One of the rats finally called to him. Michael never bothered to learn their names properly, but this one had some short, mullet-like haircut and a leather jacket. Not Laurie. “You new here?”
He felt his jaws clench. The same man who he stabbed countless times, who would run in fear from him — as well as mock him for any tiny mistake he made — was talking to him so casually. How dare he.
They sat, confusedly waiting for a response that would never come. Myers’ fingers would twitch against the bark with the undying urge to wrap them around their necks and squeeze the life out of all of them one by one.
As the one that called out prior — David King — stood, Michael could feel his body tense up and stiffen. Even he couldn’t pinpoint if it was him getting ready to attack or if it was defensive.
He forced himself to stand up straighter, his nails digging into the bark with the effort to not double over once more. His breathing grew heavier, hiding strangled grunts and grinding teeth.
He kept his head defiantly high as the man he realized was now a couple inches taller than him came face to face. His hand worked and grasped at nothingness at his side, relying heavily on quick, harsh pants to control the twitches he couldn’t hide.
It hit him over the head like a pipe how much bigger and stronger this measly survivor was compared to him. Still, he stared up into David’s eyes with this undying, black challenge.
“We got a problem here?” The man’s voice was gruff and tight now, fists balled up and clenched, apparently not taking lightly to Michael’s demeanor.
The Shape has never been challenged like this before.
Almost uncertain what to do, he pulled back slightly, letting out a soft hiss between his teeth as a sharp pain jutted through his chest once more. He stumbled backward, his body curling with a mix of reflexiveness, nearly losing his balance, as well as growing agony; his overgrown and sharp nails splintering as he clawed at the tree to keep upright.
Fucking hell…
“You- you good?” The man’s voice shifted to something almost gentle, his body quickly loosening to be replaced with a hesitant hand as an offer laced with concern .
Michael Myers did not want a filthy survivor’s pity.
Bad enough he had to physically look upwards, let alone have to accept help from it? However, his buckling knees begged him to reconsider. Knowing he would never really get his dignity back after this one, he forced himself straighter again, unable to hide trembling anymore.
His jaw worked meaninglessly, his eyes still burning with a cocktail of hatred, disgust and growing agony — both mental and physical. He hated with every bone in his body how much smaller, how much weaker, he felt now compared to a pitiful survivor. The same one whom he had killed for sport so many times was now holding the power.
He sarcastically wondered if he should plead for mercy now or later.
As if.
“Are you hurt?”
Nothing. It wasn't like a response should be expected from him.
The survivor steadied the killer, wrapping an arm around Michael’s side for support, who in return just stiffened and quickly angled away. Part of him wanted to try his luck with his usual violence, but with about 20 others around…
Before given proper time to react, he was pulled towards the campfire and others, his head hanging in shame. As much as he wanted to dig his heels into the earth and perhaps flee — he’d doubt anyone would actually go after him — he also knew once he’d get out to the woods he’d just pointlessly collapse once again. He bet he felt like deadweight in the other’s grasp; about the only effort he was putting into the whole ordeal was restraining his urges and not absolutely doubling over into the dirt.
The one thing he had realized was the voices that always nagged his ear were finally gone. The absence of voices didn’t dismiss his urges however. He still very much wanted to slaughter every single one of these filthy creatures without being ordered to do so. The voices had mingled with his own mind far too long that they couldn’t just be unmended too easily. And he still had that little tattoo on his wrist…
turning his wrist upwards to make sure, the black rune was still very much etched into the man’s skin. The beautiful mark of Thorn — the same thing that equally fucked over and excelled his life.
Now, it meant absolutely nothing.
At least he could be grateful that Laurie wasn't here yet. The second that blondie’s eyes landed upon him he knew he would be done for. The rest would either have to hold her back or join her to gang up on him. He’d be happy for peace while it lasts.
David brought him over to a log to have a seat on while a dark skinned woman with glasses - Claudette Morel - rushed over to his “aid”. The second he touched the log he slouched over, fingers digging into his knees with stiff arms for support, dark hair shrouding his ever so pale face.
He looked ill. He knew he looked ill. He felt even more ill, his fingers trembling against the stiff fabric of his coveralls as he tried his best to suppress the growing nausea and overwhelming fatigue that overtook him. His body kept giving out twitches, his shoulders trembling with each heaving breath he took, eyes fixed on the roaring fire.
“Your nose is bleeding.”
His eyes shot over to the makeshift medic of the camp, who was holding out a rag expectingly.
Oh. He just blinked, hesitated for a second, then slowly peeled it away from her grasp to hold to his face. As he licked his lips, he realized some of it had leaked down into his mouth already, the metallic taste causing him to freeze.
“You got a name?” It was the first guy again who kept prodding him - David. Michael didn't even bother looking, his gaze already returned to the dancing, golden flame.
He was about to open his mouth up again for another round of pointless questioning before Claudette put a hand on his shoulder, pretty much telling him to shut it.
Michael’s posture began to slightly improve, the sharp pains replaced by heavy weakness that wasn't much better. Though, since it didn't force him to double over in pain, he called it a win. Claudette was now sitting beside him, still quite hesitant to touch or bother him. His nose had also stopped bleeding by now, the remaining blood crusting over as he dropped the rag to his lap.
He could feel the others just staring at him, their minds racing with hundreds of unanswered questions they knew better than to even bother with asking. His left eye was blinded and milky, a large scar crossing over it that rendered it utterly useless, so he had to rely on his hearing and occasional movements to keep tabs on everyone. He supposed Laurie was out for a trial, and he surely hoped she would be gone for a while. Truthfully, she was the last person he wanted to deal with right now. Seeing him so weak would probably be as good as it gets for her. Revenge would surely be made fifty times easier in this state.
One of them ended up stepping up to him. It was the twinky looking guy with the tie and glasses who he knew simply as “The Leader”. Michael didn't bother looking up. “Hey… I’m Dwight.” The man was sweating bullets, trying his best to keep a steady voice while failing miserably. “Welcome to the, uhm, fog I guess.” Michael picked up on the fact was fidgeting and picking at his nails, and the clear unease he showed around the — unknown to him — serial killer was more than entertaining. “You are…?”
Myers could tell the lack of response on his side was nerve wracking. Finally, as if just realizing The Leader was there, Michael lifted his head to look up at him. He still held onto that blank, almost innocent and doe-y look. Of course he didn't respond. Of course he still wanted to squeeze the life out of this young man, and was currently contemplating the best ways to do so that would leave the rest in so much shock and horror the very thought of revenge wouldn’t hit them until he was far gone.
“Okay… okay. So, are you mute or…?”
He was close enough. A mute person wouldn’t answer that and nor would he, so he just continued to look at his addresser without a word. He always was told back in Smiths Grove he had this innocent charm to him, yet he truthfully couldn’t tell if that was for the better or worse.
“Would you mind if I gave you a name?”
How considerate.
“Nick?”
His brows immediately furred. Oh no he hated that. It was so close yet so far from his name, and the thought of being referred to as anything other than ‘Michael’ didn’t sit right with him. He worked his jaws slightly as if to break that vow of silence and tell this thing off for its ignorance.
“How’s that? Do you like it? Or…?”
Michael just looked away, jaws clenching again.
Sure. Good enough.
Trying to preserve what was left of his dignity, he tried to sit up straighter once more, his back almost immediately giving out to slouching again. In defeat, he took his palm to rest against his forehead, which he felt burning with presumably a fever of sorts. His aching limbs begged him to lay down and surrender to the temptation of sleep, but the group of 20 still watching him made that impossible. He was used to being watched in his sleep back in Smiths Grove so he didn’t really mind that part, but he didn’t trust these people wouldn’t go for his slaughter the second he closed his eyes.
The moment the pain was beginning to ease fully, he felt another sharp knife in the gut. His forearm dug itself in his stomach, letting out a gasp through clenched jaws, his other hand latching onto the log for support. He let out a silence snarl, his hair veiling his face and he writhed once more.
At least the pain was less excruciating here than out in the surrounding woods. He had tried to stay out in the woods instead of the campfire, but the further he was from the smoldering flames and others, the more agony he was put in.
The others watched in various degrees of concern and uncertainty. There was no blood on him, no obvious wounds or injuries for them to see. It was all the entity’s invisible hand while the others remained oblivious.
Feeling Claudette’s presence behind him just angered him more. He whipped his head to face her, and the look in his face made her pull back. His fingers tensed into claws, about ready to lunge and rip at her throat before another wave of the pain crashed down on him, chasing the idea right out of him as he struggled from fully doubling over and writhing.
“Michael…?”
It was Laurie. Cynthia. He froze completely, his broad shoulders stiffened, one hand still tangled in his curly hair.
Well shit.
He didn’t want to look at her. He wished he stopped himself from whipping around to see her horror-stricken face, still bloody from her last trial. His own eyes flashed with his old urges returning full force.
She was the one that made him loose control.
But now, as he tried to pull himself up, his body felt too heavy for his weak and shaking limbs to support. His knees immediately dropped back the second he tried to put weight on them and his arms refused to let him pull himself up. So he just sat there and stared; his eyes still cold, dark and hard with absolute hatred and the same soullessness that never left them.
Laurie’s mouth was agape, body tensed up with the instinct to flee but something held her back. She hasn’t seen her brother’s face in years, but she remembered every detail about it, not one of which has changed. She wanted to say something — anything — but the words just got caught in her throat.
“Michael…” she spoke his name a second time, her voice shaking. “What are you doing here?”
‘I am here to kill you. To kill all of you.’
That’s what he wished he could say — why he wished it was true.
But it wasn’t. She knew it wasn’t.