Revival

[Kenpachi Zaraki]

Mister Valentine…

Mocking words flitted through the Prime’s mind, passing like water through a sieve. Once more he was encompassed by the darkness, overcoming and threatening to swallow him. The gunslinger found his arms and legs immobile, as if bound. His senses failed to function, their faculties stolen from him. As the weight bore down on him, he heard the call once more.

Oh, Mister Valentine…

The voice was foreign to the ex-Turk, though it stirred within him a familiar rage. There were but a few occasions on which Vincent had felt such ire; he could not readily recall the last time. Perhaps…?

Vincent Valentine…

The sourceless voice continued to invade his thoughts, stirring such contemptible emotions within his mind. As the pale Prime writhed in the encompassing umber, he felt renewed vigor taking control of his form. With it came nauseating vertigo, a dizziness as one might feel upon awaking from a vivid dream. As the rage bubbled up in his veins, Vincent felt his sense begin to perform, if begrudgingly.

You stir…

All at once, the raven-haired man’s eyelids sprang open, his brain exploding with sensory input. Bleary eyes took in nigh-blinding light from around him, his crimson irises struggling against the strain. Pain tore through his musculature as he struggled to move his limbs, his chest heaving heavy breaths. His body felt as if plunged in ice water, his nerves prickling as numbness gave way to white-hot burning. Agony wracked the ex-Turk’s brain as he struggled to grasp where he had awaken. Though his brain commanded a roar in response, his lungs could offer only a meek groan.

Hello again, Mister Valentine…

Vincent snapped to attention, ceasing his half-hearted thrashing and narrowing his light-scalded eyes on the ceiling above him. As the world slowly came into view, he allowed his heart and lungs to slow and the wracking pain to ebb. It would be nearly twenty minutes before the gunslinger could find meaningful thoughts and words to puzzle together where he found himself. As he took stock of his surrounds he awaited the intrusion of the voice, though it seemed silent for the moment.

The pale Prime lay supine on some sort of table, his limbs bound by what appeared to be soft bindings composed of a leather-like material. From his vantage point he surmised that he was in some sort of medical facility, taking note of the fluorescent lighting overhead and a few nondescript medical instruments on a nearby cart. A glance toward his feet told him that he was stark naked, covered only by thin medical dropcloth. Vincent could only presume that he was in an exam room, though the examiner was nowhere to be seen. The acrid smell of disinfectant seemed to confirm this assumption. The pale Prime’s sluggish mind struggled to work out how he had ended up where he now lay, attempting with great effort to recall what had happened to him. He felt blood-flow slowly returning to his skin as he thought back to that day, now so long ago.

As if in response to his query, the gunslinger felt a sudden surge of pain tear up the back of his neck and into the base of his skull. One thought instantly entered his mind as the pain began to subside: the Abyss. He had no sooner recovered from his apparent death in the Abyss, than he was incapacitated by one of the officials in the infirmary. He gritted his teeth as he recalled this memory, the electricity crackling from the stun baton. Gazing down at his chest beneath his dropcloth, he spied the large, jagged Lichtenberg scar he had been granted shortly before the encounter. The ex-Turk surmised his attacker had abused this previous injury to subdue him.

The question remained: just who had brought him here?