1965-03-03 - Pathetic Bastard
Summary: Adam lands in America to discover he is hot on the trail of a possible clone sighting. Little does he know that Morbius also reads the tabloids. The two converge and come upon a disturbing discovery.
Related: If there are no related logs, put 'None', — please don't leave blank!
Theme Song: None
adam morbius 


Plymouth, Massachusetts. It's symbolic, isn't it? It's where we're told the Puritans landed to officially start the take over of the New World, but nobody is going to be taught that in school for at least another fifty years, so it's still an 'untainted' landmark. The container that Adam manages to hide himself in lands in the shipyard without any serious issues, aside from the usual challenges of, well, you better hope you aren't blocked in, or 5 stories straight up.

The smell of fish, rust and the sea; the same things that Adam has been smelling for the last two weeks on his journey over. It's a remarkably dull journey. Which is fortunate, for 'may you live in interesting times' is a curse as much as it is a blessing.

The container is left in order of reception to be unloaded, allowing him a mighty generous period of time to get his bearings after he's certain the container is set down on solid ground.

The big metal boxes are much more private than how Adam used to need to travel by ship. The roar of engines covers up any sound he may make in an admirable fashion. Altogether it's a safer ride for him, although it certainly lacks the romance of the old wooden ships. He's spooked the crew on the cargo ship a few times, as he tends to do, because he can't resist getting out and roaming abovedecks when he can. The sea, the wind! They're his loves, rather than anything of mankind's.

He waits until dark, despite his deep craving to see the New World in the light of the sun. After dusk, it's easy for him to slip out, drop silently down the side of the ship to the dock. There's artifical lights everywhere, but they throw sharp, crisp shadows. These he sticks to, prowling in their depths, like the sharks that his ship has passed over. The docks don't smell much better than the ship, yet the night wind off the ocean is kind to him.

+1 to stealth, Adam.

For a big guy cobbled out of other bodies, he can move quietly when he needs to.

Must be ninja feet or something.

There's enough movement on the dockyard where the containers are being stored that a little thudding around isn't going to raise alarms. The ship itself does not immediately move back out to sea, fortunately, so he has plenty of time to himself.

Darkness falls quietly and Adam makes his way on to the docks, weaving through the precise lights as they slice through the darkness while it creeps up from the sea like a fog, trying to slurp up the shore. Blown in by a westernly wind to help soothe some of Adam's possible stir craziness.

Trash blows around the docks the closer that he gets to the shore, which is also fairly quiet. Plymouth isn't a 'city that never sleeps', and when darkness falls in the cold winter, most people will retreat further into the city. There must be a fish market nearby (because of course there is. It's a coastal city.) because the waste bins are emptied but still stinking from the day's haul and gutting. Blood and scales sticking to newspapers and what have you that they were wrapped up in earlier.

A fluttering of pages, a crumpled up headline skitters across the cement, then over the final few boards, swirling around Adam's immense form in a theatrical sort of flapping before plastering itself against one thick leg.

The Enquirer. Trashy tabloid nobody takes seriously. Crackpots all of them.

'"My Husband was abducted by Frankenstein's Monster, and turned his skin into a fashionable vest!" — An account of horrific cannibalism in a sleepy Massachusetts town!'

That *name*.

Always it leaps at him when he doesn't expect it. Always it bites his stitched-together heart. The fifties were rough—nothing but "Frankenstein" movies, "Creature Features", laughing at him from every poster and marquee. He has thanked his meager luck that the craze died down. Now here is the name again, mocking, screaming at him in print. Frankenstein.

He can no more ignore the word on paper than he could ignore those movies. It compels him, yanks his arm to reach down into the filth and pull up the paper in a brief glittering shower of scales. Likely it is nothing, just a sensationalist headline created whole cloth to sell papers. In the Victorian era, things were no different. And yet, he can't allow himself to take the chance. He has to see.

It's a frustrating time to *be* one of said monsters. The silver screen constantly featuring new horrors, but none quite as prevalent as Mary Shelley's supposed creation. Swamp monsters are generic. The blob? Eh. The only thing that comes close to his notoriety is Dracula and his wives.

Still, with worldwide awareness, the name brings to mind a very, very specific image. Instantly recognizable. The Enquirer is a rag, undoubtedly, but when looking for monsters, who else can you trust?

And judging from the article, even if it turns out to be garbage, it's an hour away from his currently location, on the area deemed the 'Outer Lands' of Massachusetts. The article itself is only seen in part, as the article is written inside the front page and continues on to page two, which is missing. It's written like a sensationalist dishrag, as expected, but is is /weird/. A woman claims that she went to her sister's home in Vermont for the weekend, and when she returned to her family's sleepy house in the tiny village of North Truro was ransacked. She looked for her husband, who she found grotesquely murdered, his skin missing in portions, and she claimed seeing a blood-dripping figure fleeing who— — (cont. page 2).

Well, one can imagine that description.

Adam growls to himself, deep in that massive chest. Someone in the nearest building might wonder if there's a tiny earthquake. Yes, he can imagine. There is no mistaking himself, or more to the point, one of his mad, Nazi-grown clones. Those fascists, for whom no meddling is too far, for whom God and Nature are old-fashioned ideas to be defeatedhe hates them for reasons too numerous to count, but his clones are high on that list. Unwanted siblings, as hard to kill as he is himself, with nothing of his intellect ordare he think it—humanity. When Frankenstein promised Adam that his race began and ended with him, neither of them could have foreseen this awful new science, propagated by awful men.

He lifts his head up to the night, casting his imagination through tree and hill to where his "brother" might be. He goes as the crow flies, and it's not far. Before the sun rises, he might well know if another him is running amok.

As the crow flies is going to be interesting as the quickest way is across the bay. Whether by sea or by land, it hardly matters, Adam will arrive at the tiny village of North Truro at night. It's mostly a sleepy support village for Provincetown, with a couple of very stately looking lighthouses marking the coast. Beach houses on the inner coast while the outside of that curl is mostly vacant and cliffy before bending into sandy beaches. It really is a lovely bit of coastline. There's a vinyard a little south in Truro—which is separate from North Truro, actually, making it that much smaller and rather insignificant all told.

Still dark, there is nobody stirring on these streets or the beach (depending on how Adam chooses to travel). Night falls in the winter and people hustle inside for warmth eventually. The late night lighthouse directors are inside those giants, keeping an eye on the seas and wayward ships. It's a living.

The name of the woman, first and last /was/ mentioned in the article fragment Adam was able to find. Margie Sampson. It's a small step to find a phone book, as they still exist, and hunt down the address. The land is flat and her house is seated on the outskirts of the sleepy village, near the cliffy north-eastern side of the peninsula, on about an arcre. It's the kind of house that reeks of 'one of us is a reclusive writer who will only use a typewriter'. If that weren't already the norm, that is, of course.

Adam knows this kind of house, and this kind of recluse. Sometimes it seemed like the Victorians invented them. He's approached the area by foot, travelling fast along the empty, cold beaches. There's the occasional house along the beach, but he's as fast as a good horse and the houses are lit from within, turning windows into mirrors. He climbs up the cliff, pausing before he gains the flat ground, listening for life.

Lights are scarce here. Adam's friend, the darkness, sinks back in, deep and quiet along with the constant, rocking back and forth of the sea crashing against the nearby shoreline. Sea winds sweep in at a constant breeze, gathering up speed across the water and rushing along the mostly flat grounds to tug on Adam's limbs. It's a peaceful sort of place. Romantic. Classic.

The scent of blood old in the air, coming from the house.

Everything is still. Remarkably, unnerving still. No lights on in the house. Naturally, humans flee places of great distress and trauma. Like the grotesque murder of a spouse. Police tape flutters across the front porch, wrapped around the quaint columns and taped to the front door.

Adam rests his forehead against the gritty cliff rock for a moment, as he listens for anyone about. When it seems quiet, he flings himself on top of the cliff with a sudden surge. The house is dark, and he creeps towards it. Sure, it seems abandoned, but he has an excess of caution about approaching human beings on their turf. He notes the police tape on the front porch. Yes, this must be the place. Approaching a window, he peers in.

There are no lights on inside. No signs of life. Which is something of the point. Inside, the house is nicely furnished with upper-middle-class tastes. Two bed, one bath, standard single floor ranch. It's nice for a beach-side retreat, save for there seems to be a very deep, dark stain of pooling blood surrounded by tiny evidence tags and the classic noir chalk outline of a body.

Otherwise, it's nice.

"They say—" a masculine voice hums from behind Adam. Accented English, slightly nasal and clicking against the backs of his teeth delicately. Educated and smooth, though there is a slight malformation to certain words which makes the accent more difficult to place. "That the guilty always return to the scene of their crime."

Adam's about to move to get inside, when that voice speaks. Fast, faster than human, faster than it seems he should be able to move, he whips around. His hands are up, not in any particular fighting style, but does he need one? His long, bony fingers are equipped with short claws. "Who are you?" The owner of that voice can be no human. Can only be another bizarrity like him.

It's a single figure standing in the dark as Adam whips around. Huddled against the cold of the season and the cutting wind of the sea, while ethereal fingers tear at the hem of his longcoat. Silhouetted against the shimmering light of the starry night sky reflected off the sea, it's a subtle silvery light, but enough to cut a suitably dramatic figure.

Adam dwarfs him, easily. More slender, shorter, and hands tucked away in his jacket, Morbius stays precisely where he is. His posture deceptively non-threatening. "My name is Doctor Michael Morbius." A sign of good faith, perhaps, if Adam can believe him. "I came for the person responsible for this act, however, I did not honestly expect you to return, despite that old adage."

"Doctor Morbius." Adam's voice is deep and resonant as a double bass cello, rich and beautiful as the rest of him isn't. "This act was not mine. If it were, I would own it, I pledge you to believe." He bows to him, shallow, polite. "Despite what you may have heard I am called, my name is Adam."

The bow is interesting. The voice with the well-formed words, polite intonations and so on. Then again, Michael seems acquainted with judging a book by its cover. Surprising. But not unwelcome.

"Adam. I hope you understand my skepticism. Few individuals fit your…unique stature."

Adam tips his head down, acknowledging that. The sea wind picks his hair up, tosses it about. "I am the only child of Dr. Frankenstein, yet others have caused me to be born again. They can create me from the merest scrap of my skin or hair. And these other selves are…imperfect, in their wits."

The figure shifts, subtly, probably a stretch of the shoulders by the way his silhouette moves. "Huh." Not a question. It's a thoughtful sound, instead, considering the gargantuan man in front of him thoughtfully. "Mindless copies. That…" He drifts thoughtfully in his language, then cuts off abruptly, taking in a deep breath and straightening his composure.

"Either way, my interest is not so much in the murder as much as the rumors." Stepping forward, he's been doing this not as long as Adam, but Morbius has that natural flair for the dramatic to know where the source of light it. Strafing subtly in a semi-circle around Adam, keeping a wide space between them, but allowing the dim light from the sea-reflected silvery sparks above them to shine over his deathly pallor.

He seems emaciated. His elongated features sunken and delicate while he's bundled with a scarf all the way over his nose, a hood fallen around his neck as well, allowing his wavy hair shift with the night sea wind currents around his pointed ears. Eyes hum with a pulse of faint crimson light, then fade again. "I seek out creatures like ourselves. Monsters. Those with a presence of mind, at least."

Darkness is kind to Adam in many ways. One is that it veils him from sight. A boon denied to those who can see in the dark. He is astoundingly, dizzying ugly, enough that it could stress the senses of a typical mortal. There's stories of madness that follow him. That could be why. "What is your purpose, in the seeking?" He stands still while Morbius circles, his great, terrible head following the motion.

There are boons to having night vision. Being able to see in the dark helps with many, many things. This…is not one of those things. Still, Morbius has seen worse. In his lifetime, he's seen worse, hell,he has recently been fantastically ugly. Though there is something unnaturally unnerving seeing Adam move so perfectly and swiftly with such a cobbled body. On one hand, he is /remarkable/ and interesting. On the other hand…oh my.

Morbius explains, simply. "Sanctuary."

"Ah!" Adam focuses sharply on Morbius, brow furrowed. "I had heard a whisper of sanctuary, from another. When I heard, I arranged to come to America. Sanctuary—could there be such a thing for such as we? I've come to discover it. This poor wretch," one clawed hand gestures to the house, "is only an incidental. I kill my copies when I can."

"Fortunate," Morbius observes, his attention lifting toward the house faintly. "I traveled a ways to get here. As much trouble as your wayward sibling may have caused, he's done you a considerable favor." Inhaling a deep breath, Morbius clears his throat and shifts again, uncomfortable. "Are you finished here? There is little inside aside from the gore. I did not see any remains that did not look like they were the victim's, either."

Adam studies Morbius, then looks at the house. "One moment." Swiftly, he's inside, having forced the door. He seems like he won't fit through the doorway, but he does, as if by magic. The look-round he wants to take, he's quick about, confirming what he can of the article and noting any differences. He wasn't kidding, it really only took a moment before he's back out. "Are you the provider of this sanctuary? If so, you are correct. My unfortunate other self has done me a favor indeed."

The scene has been properly picked over by the police. The carpet is sticky and matted where the blood is, but there is nothing physically there aside from that. The victim has been taken out and any weapons have been taken as evidence.

When Adam returns, Morbius is still there, though he waits on an edge of the property, looking back toward the village, trying to stay upwind of the house itself. "Provider is a strong word. It is a community, so we all work toward sustaining it. I am one of the easier to pass in the surface world, however, so I will often go on these missions to find others, or gather supplies." Michael explains delicately, hesitating before he adds. "I can offer it to you without trouble, if that's what you're concerned about." A gnarled hand lifts from his pocket, articulate fingers fan out toward the road. "I have a vehicle nearer to town, though…I may have to reconsider with your stature."

"You're troubled?" Adam asks, seeing that Morbius is avoiding letting the scent of the house hit him. He himself has almost no scent, aside from a certain black-earth scent, almost like the patchouli perfume oil popular among the youth. "Let us move away, then."

The word 'community' gives him pause. It's a word that's grown popular in recent years, but to him seems to be the same as the extended families he knew in Geneva. "There are many more of …our type, then. Monsters. If I cannot fit in your vehicle," he adds, "it's no great loss. I can run."

An impatient gesture with a hand, Michael disregards it as nothing, then explains. "I can smell what happened inside." That isn't the precise issue, but it explains enough about it for the moment. He doesn't need to bust out information that might concern Adam for no reason. Moving onward once Adam gives consent, Morbius walks at a human pace. At a nearer distance, there is a wheeze in his breathing from beneath his scarf and audibly the details in his articulation are more flawed. 'V's are 'Th's, 'M's are 'N's, 'Wh's have become harsher, 'P's are 'T's. Things along those lines.

"'Many' is not a precise word, but there are more, yes." A thoughtful glance turned on Adam, looking him up and down. "How quickly? We are nearly 330 kilometers away from our destination."

"Perhaps not that quickly," Adam says, smiling. It's really awful to look at. "Roughly forty kilometers per hour." He's timed it. He's the only one who knows anything about himself, and it's all been observed. Running experiments on his own person has been enlightening. "Before the automobile, it was a good pace."

Yeah, well, Morbius is friends with a mummy, so while that smile looks visibly painful, he gets the gist of it and nods, humming. "That's impressive. Lord, how long have you been about?" Sure there are stories and whatnot, but it's fair to ask, surely. A nice, personable conversation while they avoid the gravel road that leads to the outskirts of town. There aren't many cars on the road, but best to avoid any chance occurrence.

Which makes it all the more odd when the pair of them are walking through a windswept landscape with the very sparse speckling of streetlights in the distance, one exceptionally taller than the other, and they stumble upon a trio of vehicles pulled over in a field. Two sedans and one very large van—no, a truck. Like an armored bank truck. Headlights are off but the cab lights are on in the two cars, illuminating four people loitering, around the large truck. "That's…odd."

Adam says quietly, "Eighteen-eighteen was the year I was born." He had no childhood, of course. When they come into view, he regards this cluster of vehicles and people with distaste. In his experience, such things appearing in the middle of nowhere mean humans are about to do horrible things to each other. "They gather to spill blood, surely."

"I am sincerely going to appreciate having you around, Adam," Michael murmurs, his attention glued to the trio of vehicles and whatever is happening ahead. "Finally, someone with a more archaic way of speaking than myself. It's fantastic." Entirely unironically said, as well, Morbius is probably very genuine about that comment in the most complimentary way, but he's a little distracted.

There isn't much to hide behind, which is the issue. The island is mostly flat and the buildings are the largest thing. Trees are very wispy things and while there are vineyards, they are cultivated things. "I don't disagree, though. This doesn't smell right. Shall we ask?" Chipper, the man behind the scarf offers.

It's interesting timing, because the truck rattles, then shakes in its entirety as a hollow, animalistic cry emanates from it. Deep. Baritone.

Adam glances down at Morbius, amused. Then—that cry! His head goes up, alert as a bloodhound, his huge rangy body readying itself. "What manner of being do you have caged there?" he calls to the people, demanding in his rolling, resonant voice. He has no problem making himself understood, even from the distance. Nor does he have any fear.

That cry goes up, Adam cries out and Morbius' brows lift slightly. "That works as well. Pardon me." And in and instant, the pale man seems to vanish from Adam's side.

The demand certainly does its job and gets the attention of the four peoplethe four mensurrounding the trio of cars. Shock is their first reaction, naturally. And then, confusion. Guns are drawn with trained precision and flashlights are drawn. Beams of light directed at Adam across the plain, but no immediate bullets. One, presumably the man in charge, barks back. "Stand down! Knien! Bleibe!" He speaks English without an accent, then immediately switches to German, demanding that Adam kneel and stay, like a dog.

One of the men in the back drops his weapon and dives into the car to grab something else.

Adam also switches to German, repeating his demand. He does nothing that the man orders, and now he strides forward, allowing his full horrifying visage to be enjoyed. Not too close; he figures that if the humans can control whatever is in the van, they might have a method to try to control him, too. The good thing about his uglines is it gains everybody's attention, leaving Morbius to do what he will.

The men seem shockingly un…shocked from just how horrific Adam truly looks. Though his impressive stature certainly does rouse some anxiety in them and shuffling as the lead man fires a warning shot just over Adam's head. The crack of sound is deafening in the open and the inhuman shriek cries out again from inside the truck, shaking the whole structure back and forth again, testing its shocks. Metal screams and pounding on the back door.

Morbius nowhere in sight, but the men sure start to move! Two scuttle to the back of the truck to try to secure whatever is in there while the third pulls a rather complex looking shotgun of some sort, but with a larger barrel, from the back of his car. An electrical zap lights up along the barrel and makes the jumpy looking man start and steady himself again.

Again, in English, the man in front yells when his commands are not heeded, "Comply, Monster! The target is out there, not here!"

Adam regards the man with withering contempt. Can the wretch not tell that he is not his mindless clone? …Or perhaps this clone isn't so mindless. That would be significantly worse than he previously suspected. He's concerned about that shock gun, however. There's a lot of things he can stand, but he's unsure about the effect that might have on him. And what is in that truck?

The zap gun is his primary concern. So he charges the car, hurling his mass forward to seize the vehicle and use it as a club.

You'd think a lot of things with these folks, but their quiet evening has pretty much gone to pot.

Adam moves quicker than expected, another two shots squeezed off; one goes wide with Adam's swift advance, the second will try to wing the quick-moving man's bicep before Adam manages to grab the car and — holy shit, do the lead guy's eyes get big when he watches that one-ton car get picked up and used like a club! "SHOOT HIM!" Is all he manages to yell before trying to dive out of the way.

The guy with the fun mystery electrical weapon is frozen in place. He's a bit younger than the other guy and watching Adam move that fast, that large, and lift that car up like he has is just pants-shittingly terrifying. The order makes him fire the weapon, but it's not the most effective. However, the weapon's purpose becomes apparent.

An honest to god net it ejected from the shotgun like barrel, like some terribly sci-fi movie ten years in the future. Weighted leads spiral out and fan the net out, one of which will try to catch Adam's leg and wrap the wired netting around the limb. It's not very effective /as a net/. However…

50,000 volts try to stun Adam into compliance. Much of it is complicated by the netting on the ground, but that's not super friendly.

Adam bellows, a sound like an elk in heat from Hell. It rolls across the men and away across the bay, echoing. He thanks the net-wielding man by swinging the car at him, aiming to swat him like a baseball. Whoever else is nearby gets aimed at, too.

Well, that was probably the most terrifying moment in the man's short life. The sound of meat and bone colliding with metal and glass is sickly and hollow before he's thrown twenty feet with the momentum and crumples into a pile. The weapon he was toting flies farther than where he lands, lost to the darkness.

The lead man in charge tries unloading another couple of rounds into Adam from behind the second sedan, screaming back toward the truck, "UNLEASH THE ASSET! WHAT THE HELL IS TAKING SO LONG?"

Another monstrous bellow from inside the truck, but something has clearly gone wrong as Morbius strolls leisurely from behind the large vehicle, plucking at the scarf piled up around his face lightly. "I'm sorry, they're unavailable. Adam, do you need help?"

Adam turns his furious eyes on the leader, his hideous face wrenched up in a snarl. "That man. I wish to question him. Would you be so kind, Doctor, as to detain him?" He wrenches free of the net, kicking it away, eyes locked on the unfortunate man.

The netting itself seems to have had that single charge, or perhaps it was controlled by the weapon, which now rests in the scrubby grass, yards away. Now, it's just a useless arrangement of weighted wires that make themselves rather annoying, but pretty harmless.

Clearly, they are hilariously under-prepared for Adam. A veritable tank with a will of his own is enough of a challenge, but to add along with him someone like Morbius, who seems to have detained the other two men behind the truck. Well. It's laughable.

The gentleman behind the final sedan is not laughing, however. In fact, he looks pissed off more than anything else. The echo of fear in his eyes overshadowed by the easier to handle emotion as he straightens up behind the sedan, glaring openly. Terrifyingly calm. "You're a goddamn /tool/, Monster. You won't be able to understand anything more than a wrench, or a bullet."

Speaking of a bullet, Morbius sees it coming a moment too late, vanishing from the human eye to rush over to the final man standing just as the man turns his weapon on himself and blows the back of his head out. Crumpling, Morbius appears in time to catch him, bloodsplatter coating one half of the good doctor's face and shoulder.

"Ugh…gross." Morbius winces.

Adam snarls wordlessly in frustration. "Why?" he demands of the corpse, then growls. Too late, too late for anything more to do with that fellow. There's so many questions he has, and it seems like they will go unanswered. It's the story of his life, really. He turns his attention to the armored truck, and glances at Morbius. "Shall we investigate, then?"

With little respect for the body, Morbius drops the body and begins to wipe the bits of spatter and bone off of his face. "Clearly he did not take too well to being interrogated—dear god, I have part of his skull in my coat." Wicked fingers pluck a piece of what was once a person out of his clothing and drops it on the ground with disgust. Bending down, the good doctor searches the body and lifts the wallet while finding a handkerchief to quickly try to wipe his face off with.

"Yes, yes, let's," He agrees. A little bit of twitchy obsessiveness trying to get clean, but it's really a futile effort. He hands the wallet out toward Adam for his inspection should he like. The sounds inside the truck have quieted, though there does seem to be a low rumble, like the purr of a motor, or a heaving growl.

When they walk toward the back doors of the large armored vehicle, the two men who had gone back, presumably to unleash whatever's back there, are dead on the ground with their throats grotesquely torn open. They do not seem to be laying in pools of blood, however. Morbius hums, sounding slightly embarrassed while he blots the stolen cloth through his hair, "My apologies. I should have likely kept one of them alive."

The door has a standard looking double lock in the door. A set of keys can be found on one of the bodies.

Adam waves a hand, gracious in the midst of his anger. "It can't be helped." He observes Morbius trying to clean himself off, noting that it's troubling him to be covered in brains. "My thanks for the attempt." We're all doing our best. Turning to the armored truck, he takes the handle, tiny in his massive hand, and pulls.

The wallet doesn't have much in it when Adam goes through it. The small item laughable in his giant mitts. An ID card claims that the man is from Virginia, named Richard Cuttey. He doesn't seem to have a 'I am a Nazi/HYDRA fuckface' ID card on him, and honestly there isn't much more in his wallet other than about one hundred American dollars—which is damn excessive to carry around with you, honestly.

Morbius himself is a little fixated on getting the gore off himself, but he is trying to keep it under wraps. A crimson glow gradually spreads across his upper face, emanating from his eyes. Sunken shadows and austere features are emphasized while he stands to one side and back some, giving Adam plenty of space.

The door protests, reinforced beyond a normal armored truck, but with Adam's strength, it eventually pops free with a mortal scream of metal on metal. Inside, it is dark and Morbius exhales an audible breath in surprise. "Well…" The good doctor leans down to grab a flashlight off a body and points it into the carvernous darkness.

Inside is a hulking clone of Adam, huddled into a ball in one corner. His enormous frame is balled up, giant mitts and feet covered in full glove and shoe restraints and pinned together in a cluster. A short trio of bars connect from the bundle of restraints around his limbs to a large yolk around his neck to encourage bent posture. Hooded. Blind, bound and captured. The labored growling is the sound of him breathing. Dressed in ragslikely for theatrical reasonsthere is a sophisticated harness strapped to his chest that looks like it has wiring and metal on it. Another electrical control?

The clone inhales a deep breath, snuffling, trying to smell something past the hood. A loud, baritone howl emanates, echoing inside the metal cage on wheels.

Adam rumbles, eyes narrow. "Pathetic bastard," he mutters, using 'bastard' in its classic sense. "And they thought I was one. There must be more nearby." His jaw clenches. How can he not have pity for the thing? It too was brought into a world it didn't ask for, treated worse than an animal. It doesn't even have its freedom to console it. He addresses it. "Can you understand me?" It seems unlikely, but he asks. Any different answer than the one he expects is further data, after all.

"Well, if this poor sod is all they've known," Morbius reasons thoughtfully. "What's more likely? Another copy was let go, or that the original man has come hunting?" The flashlight beam continues holding steady for Adam's sake. "Though, you are a better dresser, the resemblance is uncanny." It's almost like they're clones.

The captured clone's chest heaves, wresting with deep, unsettled breaths. The shackles are pulled at and banged against the floor of the truck with the slight range of motion he has. A labored roar is his answer, throwing his body to one side. Uncontrolled and angry.

Behind him, Michael's brows twitch together. "Awful," the doctor murmurs with sympathy.

Adam grunts, acknowledging the point. The men had expected him to obey, and weren't persuaded that he wasn't a clone even by his speech. Then again, people aren't usually interested in hearing what he has to say, once they get a look at his face.

He gets into the truck, crouching to fit inside. It rocks with the combined weight of him and… himself. He investigates the device on the clone's chest. "Your pain will be over, soon," he tells it, while he does. "I can do nothing for you, but you will die free."

The truck has absolutely been reinforced in a number of ways to be suitable for these gargantuan frames of, well, Adam. It screams in protest, but holds up for now. The light remains poised on the captured clone, but Morbius remains on the outside. Allowing Adam a moment with himself while the pale man stands guard.

The oddness strapped to the clone's chest does indeed seem electrical of some sort. A battery for power lines the thick straps crossing his shoulders and chest but the nodes seem embedded into the stitched skin, permanently. They've fit him with a taser. A remote agitation agent to prompt aggression, or perhaps even a kill switch, depending on what those nodes are wired to. It's all speculation. Should Adam touch him or the odd harness, there's a nervous thrash and blind swing of his four bound together limbs, making him fall into the wall.

Adam hates everything about this. Hates the men who cloned him for this purpose. Hates the man who invented him. Hates the pitiful creature in front of him. Hates himself most of all. He takes the creature's hood off. Although the sight of him may not be the kindest for any living being's last moments, at least the clone need not die in darkness. The harness, he does not know what can be done with. He's not familiar with the workings of modern machines that run on mysterious energies trapped in copper bottles. It's clear what the electrodes do, however. His fists clench in rage. Then, gentle almost despite himself, he puts his hand on the creature's shoulder, holding it steady.

The hood is taken off and the clone flinches back from the light it's suddenly faced with. Growling, those grotesque features twist as he cranes his attention in the yolk to look at the man in front of him. Seething with agitation through his teeth, ready to bite and snap at fingers. His stolen eyes focus on the massive man in front of him and, actually, seems to recognize Adam. Or, at least, he recognizes 'oh, it's one of me' and visibly relaxes. Still agitated, still irritated and chafing under his restraints, his aggression turns toward the open door and whoever is holding the light. There's a bark of wordless sound and low, sonorous groaning pushed up against his closed lips.

The steadying on those broad shoulders makes the clone bristle and growl a warning, but he is remarkably placid for the moment. An irritated smack of his bound together limbs on the floor is his reply, having noticed likely that Adam is free, but whatever intelligence lays in his eyes is very, very limited.

"If a man treated an animal like this, he would be committing a crime," Adam murmurs, voice filling the truck. "I alone, and you, he has the privilege of abusing with impunity. I rob him of your usefulness, and grant you peace. Whatever peace may await us. If there is a God, I return you to Him, and hope for your acceptance into His presence."

With that, he draws back his arm and sends his fist directly through the clone's head.

There is no sign of actual understanding of Adam's words from the clone while he glances anxiously toward the open door again. He doesn't even seen terribly anxious to leave so much as he is nervous about who stands out there, waiting. Eyes swish back and forth between there and Adam, finally settling on the unbound copy of himself, there is a low groan, taping off into a huff of impatience. Ignorant of that sentiment. God, whatever that is. The concept of freedom to a creature made enslaved. It's remarkably…sad, how easily Adam is able to dispatch the captured clone.

The hollow sound of his fist moving through a skull, the resulting wet splash of gore hitting the wall and floor and the lifeless thud of his bound limbs dropping and scraping against the truck's floor. As soon as he's released, he falls. Just a collection of lifeless meat and stolen identity.

The light does not waver over the violent murder. Not until just after, there's a politely sympathetic murmur from Morbius. "I'll give you a moment." The flashlight is set down just inside the door and the sound of footsteps leaving the area follows.

Adam cleans his knuckles at least mostly free of gore, with one of the rags that served his clone as clothing. Kneeling there in the truck with a dead version of himself, he bows his head. He cannot take the idea of God seriously, not being what he is, but habits learned from a time when God was much realer than current days have stuck with him.

Emerging and stepping down from the struck, he straightens, lifts his head to the wind, weird pale eyes closed. "It's done." Opening his eyes, he looks down at Morbius, his expression closed off, hiding many things. "We both of us are quite the mess."

Morbius waits patiently some feet away, giving Adam his moments to mourn or prey or be angry at the world. Whatever he needs. As well as serving as look out just in case someone is coming to meet this little party. The truck groans again as Adam steps out of it, drawing a twist from the figure to look backward. He does not break the silence immediately, but accepts Adam's presence silently, facing forward as well, into the wind—of course he chose to stand upwind from the mess they've made.

Michael nods mutely, a veil of solemnity hanging heavy on him, allowing Adam his privacy rather than immediately probing. The sanguine glow emanating from his eyes has dimmed again to nearly nothing while he looks over the wind-swept plane on the very edges of the village. "Yes. This wasn't exactly what I expected, coming here." He inhales deeply, blowing out in an arched sound of lisping resignation. "Few things are as I expect these days, however."

Morbius pivots, considering the nearest body sans a throat. "I'm not accustomed to these odd schemes, but should we get rid of the bodies? I suppose it doesn't matter. Whoever is doing this will know they're gone."

"Let them lie. Let their masters see what I've done," Adam growls. Amends, "What we have done." He tips his head to Michael. "You have helped me when you had no reason to do so. My thanks."

Morbius nods and looks back out toward the first signs of scattered street lights in the distance. "Not no reason, I don't think." He accepts the gratitude gracefully. "It's natural to wish to help others when confronted with adversity. You are still welcome to come with me, of course. Though, perhaps we should go back to that house and, ah, clean up a little before the long drive." Michael ignores a clumped together portion of his long hair. Stuck together from the suicide earlier.

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