Who: Drs. Archer and Griffin What: A narrative about the strange doctor's experiences Where: #102 When: The rising of the moon Warnings: Naked invisible people
Archer had been in his "laboratory," watching his gel electrophoresis machine run. The tiny bubbles that rose from behind the clear plastic gates seemed to spell out cryptic messages. They were the whispers of secrets, promises that this gel would be the one to break the code. This one would reveal that mystic gene product that he was dying to find.
When his eyes finally began to grow weary, he pulled his wire spectacles from his face, setting them down on the table beside the machine. Just as he was about to go and pour another cup of coffee, he realized that there was something wrong.
His hand was missing.
Frowning in contempt - was he dreaming? - he held his hand up to the dim light of the ceiling. He squinted, trying to see what it was that he was missing. But all he saw was what he did not have. The cuff of his shirt fit neatly at his wrist, highlighting the bumps of his fine bones. But there was no palm, no fingers, no flesh! He was gone, it seemed. There was nothing left.
The accusations from that R1 fellow, the one who had physically transformed into a beast - was he the Beast now? - began to flood his mind. He had suggested Frankenstein, Dr. Frankenstein, the man obsessed with reanimation. But Archer had known from the start that that was wrong. No, he didn't care about the dead. The dead were gone, they were buried, they were mere whispers. As a student pursuing his Master's degree, Archer had had the misfortune of knowing a neighbor that had died. He had gone to borrow a roll of duct tape - the poor man's plumber - and opened the door when he realized it was unlocked. He had gone inside, and found the man facedown on the floor. Though it would have been expected that Archer take his pulse, he couldn't bear to do it. The man was dead, that much was certain. And the dead cannot protest when you relieve them of the fiscal burdens of their former lives.
He stumbled into the bathroom, turning on the light and leaning over the sink. What he had expected was his own face, gaunt and pale, staring back at him. What he got was a headless shirt hovering before the mirror, moving as if animated by some unseen force. Gasping, Archer clapped a hand to his mouth, though the gesture looked more like somebody had just folded his shirt. "This is..."
"Extraordinary."
Tensing, Archer looked cautiously over his shoulder. Where had that voice come from?
"You won't find me."
A shiver ran up his spine. "Who is it? This is a private residence!" Feeling the hairs prickle at the nape of his neck, he slowly reached for the closest blunt object he could find - a bottle of soap that was more empty than full.
"This apartment, perhaps. But you are not."
He dropped the bottle the second he had grasped it, the surprise shorting the rest of his mind from working. Closing his eyes, he straightened up, licking his lips nervously. "Show yourself," he said firmly, clenching a fist at his side though he knew it would do no good. "I mean it, I will call the authorities."
"And they would arrest the both of us." As if held by a ghost, his arm waved before his eyes, an action that wasn't his own. "If they could find us."
Gasping, Archer stumbled backwards, digging his nails into the sides of his head. This couldn't be happening. He wasn't Dr. Frankenstein. He wasn't Dr. Jekyll. He wasn't Dr. Seward. So many famous doctors, so many prolific men that were stripped bare to their wiring and paraded before the world for entertainment purposes. "You're..." But there was one that had eluded speculation. "You're inside of me."
"In so many words." His spine straightened, arms dropping to his sides. He carried himself with a power that he never had before as he approached the sink once more, gripping its smooth sides with his invisible palms. "Do you know who I am, boy?"
Archer stared into the empty space that was supposed to be his own face. He fixated on a point in the wall behind his head, a small crack that had been spreading ever since he moved in. "I'm afraid I don't."
He felt a wave of rage boil in his belly, his shoulders flexing as if to try and make himself seem more powerful. "Fool," the voice said, lifting a hand to his face. "I have crossed the lines of modern science. The physical world of sight has been rendered obsolete, and I need no longer live by its rules. I am your God." A pair of hands that weren't exactly his own tugged off his shirt, dropping his pants to the floor. It was a raw, sickly feeling that consumed him as he backed up in front of the mirror, knowing that he was there and yet seeing nothing. He was completely nude, and completely unseen. Archer felt his stomach begin to ache as his hands rose at his sides, fingers spread and straight. "I am the Invisible Man."