In a dark alleyway, Ken hid, his head hanging low as he sat on the hard, wet concrete. The shadows covered the teenager like a blanket from the all too loud outside world. He could hear everything, the whispering of two women almost an entire street away, the distant hum of power lines, even the slowly pulsing blood in passing veins.
He could see tiny individual dust mites in the air, each one sharp and distinct.
He was so, so wrong.
Unnatural.
It was freezing, he was wearing torn, dirty clothes that he'd stolen from a thrift store.
It had been two days since he'd…since he had…
He swallowed, the memory bringing an unimaginable amount of guilt to the surface, even thinking of what he had done, what he did to his own–
He wanted to throw up, but he knew he couldn't.
His body wouldn't let him.
He was too hungry.
His jaw clenched at the burning sensation clawing at his stomach.
It's time, he told himself as he shakily stood, eyeing the bright entrance of the alleyway.
He needed to eat.
Slowly, he got to his feet and eyed the busy street from the darkness of the alley. It was the evening, the sun hanging low in the smog filled sky. It must be the weekend, a lot more people are out than usual.
But he needed to get out of this alley, find something to eat, anything before he—his mind flashed back, his teeth sinking into cold flesh, yet somehow the blood inside felt so incredibly warm oh his tongue, he needed to do it again and aga—
Ken shook his head violently, trying to dislodge the horrible thoughts and memories.
He sighed, he needed to get out of here.
—-
He tried to ignore the scathing, pity filled, suspicious looks he received from the people in the street. He tried to ignore the salvia building and filling in his mouth or the way his hands trembled at his sides with the effort of not grabbing someone, and tearing into them.
He entered a small run down diner, he'd never been in here before, but he'd walked past a few times. A bell above the door jingled weakly as he entered, catching the attention of an older man sat behind the counter.
Ken ignored the attention and took a seat in the far corner, glanced at the menu and saw it blur as his stomach twisted in on itself.
He bit back a groan as the waitress approached. She wore a bright but creased uniform, with an all too wide but empty smile and an askew name tag stuck to her chest.
'Mary'
His heart dropped into his stomach.
That was his mothers name.
"Good Evening!" She grinned, awfully chipper with a customer service grin plastered onto her face. "Are you ready to order?"
Ken couldn't take his eyes off of the name tag.
"Just—can I just get a burger?" He whispered, afraid if he spoke any louder he'd burst into tears.
The waitress gave him another smile, jotting down his order onto an old worn notepad. Ken watched her go, his fingers twitching as some deep instinct screamed at him to pounce.
She had her back turned.
She'd never even notice, it would be an instantaneous death.
He growled to himself, tearing his gaze from the waitress onto the table below. His hand pressed tightly against his own stomach, the hunger was destroying him.
Making him think and act like a wild animal.
Minutes later the waitress came back, setting down a chipped plate with a small, greasy burger on it.
"Enjoy hon" the waitress said before moving back to the counter, speaking to the old man.
It wasn't very busy at all.
Ken eyed the burger, not feeling the pull of hunger, not like he did with…
He shook his head, the meat looked grey and the bun looked damp and stale at the same time. Still, he forced himself to pick it up, his face grimacing at the texture of the bun.
He took a hesitant bite, chewed—
His throat tightened, gagging loudly as he spat the burger onto the plate below. His body convulsed as the taste stuck to his mouth, it was like ash in his mouth, it was the worst tasting thing he'd ever put in his mouth.
His eyes watered, and he coughed, spitting all remains of the bite out onto the plate below.
And then he heard it, clearer than anything.
A small hiss from the kitchen, followed by a muffled curse. The cook had cut himself, just a nick.
A drop of floor hit the kitchen tile.
The smell hit Ken like a freight train.
Rich.
Warm.
Alive.
His pupils dilated, one of his eyes darkened, the iris going a dark dangerous red.
His breath quickened, his body tensed and his nails dug into the cheap table below. Wood splintered loudly as Ken tried to anchor himself.
The old man behind the counter frowned, grabbing a bat from underneath the till. "Hey!" He shouted at the boy.
Ken smacked his hand against his face, trying to block out the smell. But it didn't block the sound of 'Mary's' pulse, or the approaching old man's heartbeat.
"Hey! You're gonna have to pay for this!" The old man, the owner shouted as he looked down at the table Ken had all but destroyed.
All Ken could hear was the man's rapid heartbeat.
"Hey! You listening—"
Ken bolted from his seat, knocking the old man to the ground as he moved at such speed he blurred. He crashed through the door, ripping one of its hinges off. He tore through the darkening city, as far away from the smell as possible.
—-
The low hum of the bat computer filled the cave, accompanied by the distant drip of water echoing off of stone. The light from the large monitor cast a long, dark shadow behind Bruce.
"The lab was under a private contract." Bruce said flatly as he typed rapidly. "I can find zero records of its existence."
Alfred approached quietly, a tray with tea and biscuits balanced neatly in his hands.
"I presume they weren't making shampoo, were they Master Bruce?"
Bruce's eyes narrowed as he scrubbed through footage he captured at the lab. He paused it on a specific frame. A cage, hidden in the back of one of the rooms he'd passed, too big for any testing animal.
"Human experimentation," he said. "Our target appears to be a test subject named Patient 037. His RC levels are off the charts…"
Alfred set down the tray besides Bruce, looking at pictures of the equipment and medical forms that had been tracking this Patient 037.
"And what, exactly, are RC Levels?" Alfred asked.
"Unknown" Bruce responded. "Whatever it is, it must have rewrote his physiology." He switched to a picture he'd taken of the room containing this patient. Blood covered the walls, bodies layered the floor below.
But what Bruce focused on was the bed, and the thick metal restraints that had been torn apart like paper.
—-
Ken stared down into the puddle at his feet.
The reflection that stared back wasn't his own.
One eye burned a deep, unnatural red, the sclera around it a void black that swallowed the faint city light. Blood slicked his chin and streaked across his cheek, mixing with the rain until it ran in diluted rivulets down his face.
The metallic taste lingered on his tongue, rich, intoxicating, wrong.
Behind him, half-hidden by shadow and rain, lay the limp form of a homeless man.
Ken didn't turn around. He couldn't.
He just kept staring at his reflection, waiting for it to look human again.