Eric, not Lana, opened his eyes, and found himself standing inside his 1950s L.A. apartment. He quickly narrowed them and looked around.
How odd. He was taking in familiar sights, but everything appeared different. After a moment, he realized why. He was taking them in with unfamiliar eyes.
Other than his first arrival, every other emergence occurred as Lana. It was from this vantage point that his brain grew accustomed to this reality. Now, his brain looked at the world from Eric Roberts' perspective, thereby altering reality's essence, and more than he anticipated.
His narrowed eyes normalized, then he smiled, the grin partly stemming from the unexpected occurrence, and partly from his neuropsychologist's brain wanting to analyze why it occurred. He decided against this. He arrived as Eric for a reason, and it took precedence over everything. It also slowly dissolved his cheery gesture.
Eric slowly walked towards his room, the apartment's warm air thickening with tension. The sensation was unfamiliar, as he mostly avoided conflict whenever possible, whereas tonight's goal was exactly that. Nonsensical though this was, the absurdity only applied to real space, and he wasn't in real space.
He entered his room, walked to his closet and opened it. There he found tonight's attire patiently waiting–black jeans, black hooded sweatshirt, black street shoes, black gloves, all of which would turn him into a night stalker.
Damn. Also unbecoming of me.
He pulled out the clothes, laid the items on the bed, and started undressing. Then as he donned the getup, he kept analyzing this situation, the effort proving troublesome. However, it wasn't so much gearing up to prowl the night or his violent aims, but questioning who he was.
Were these violent aims more indicative of the real Eric Roberts?
In real space, when he first met Chad, he wanted to strangle that kid, but he didn't. But had that same occurrence transpired in net space, might he have? Perhaps. And if so, which Eric Roberts version was more real, the one who suppressed his desires, or the one who let them flourish?
Eric's digital counterpart smirked while tying his shoelaces. And my biological self thinks that he's the true human.
Fully dressed, Eric stood and gabbed his gloves, then tucked them into his hooded sweatshirt's pocket. He started for the kitchen, and after entering, he continued to a maintenance closet.
Before emerging, he placed some home repair items in the closet, or at least that was their intended use. Tonight they would serve a different purpose–greeting gifts for the Crypt Keeper he planned to visit.
He opened the closet, and pulled out a length of black metal piping, a rod thick and heavy, with a one-inch diameter, and an eighteen-inch length. Undoubtedly, this piece of plumbing would fix the problem, only it wasn't quite ready yet.
Pipe in hand, he grabbed a roll of two-inch duct tape, and walked both items to a dinner table. He set down the pipe, peeled back a strip of tape, and bit off the cut. He then wrapped the tape around the pipe's base, and with the poor man's weapon ready, he donned his gloves to test the makeshift club.
He smiled. The weapon felt good, felt tightly locked inside his iron grip. He then recalled the last weapon he clutched–the knife that Lana toted in her purse. Remembering that she tested its sharpness against herself, he decided to follow suit.
Eric raised the pipe, then slapped it into his left palm. The club made a muffled snap, and likewise produced a light sting, but nothing to shed virtual tears over. So, he raised the club higher, and brought it down with additional force.
He grunted, then yanked his hand back and shook off the buzz.
That attempt produced different results, but while painful, it wouldn't stop a killer in his tracks. So, he grabbed one of the chairs by the dinner table, pulled it back, and lifted his foot atop the seat. With his knee raised and bent, he reared up and away, then banged the pipe against his bone.
"God fucking dammit!" he howled, letting the pipe clatter to the floor, as he doubled over and collapsed.
Down on his backside, he used both hands to massage the jarring throbs. He must've struck a nerve, as the blow wasn't overly powerful, but nonetheless sent white heat lancing through his leg.
With his hands still massaging, he knew such a strike would slow a murderer and then some. Then his hands stopped altogether. He didn't even strike with full force.
While the pain mostly passed, Eric continued sitting there, hands still on his knee, eyes losing focus. What if on the Keeper, he did use full force, and not against his knee, but by slamming the pipe against his head? Hell. That's why he entered with his original body, to make use of its five-foot ten-inch frame, and one-hundred-and-sixty pounds of lean thirty-four-year old muscle. But could he?
Virtual reality or not, doubt crept into his digital mind about his ability do this. After all, what would whipping that pipe into someone's head feel like? Hell, what would it sound like?
Wet thumps he assumed, like striking a soggy sandbag, at least initially. The follow-up strikes would likely produce wet cracks, doing so as the Keeper's skull fractured, breaking further with every blow. And when considering all the blood vessels running through the cranial cavity, he next envisioned slipping on dark red fluids while trying to escape.
So could he actually do this?
He didn't think so. Then he recalled Victor Vane's murder video, including the ruby-red torrents that it showed.
He weakly shook his head.
It would've been nice if people could simply forgo sanguine showers in the first place, but tonight, that wouldn't happen. Tonight, somebody's blood would spill, and he needed to decide whose. With that, he got up off the ground, and picked up his pipe.
As Eric walked through 1950s L.A.'s nighttime streets, he likewise noticed them appearing different. However, the variation felt more pronounced than his apartment. He figured the difference lied in his altered vantage point and his purpose. After all, Lana never entered this world to inflict harm. Because Eric had, the world's normally glowing sense of comfort transformed into something dark and haunting, the eerie sense deepening as the Paradise Apartments came into view.
Eric stayed in the park across the street, about ten feet inside, cloaked underneath the shadowy trees. He kept his gloved hands inside his sweatshirt's pocket, his right feeling the pipe as it protruded from his jeans pocket. His nervous fingers massage the metal for comfort, which helped, until Victor emerged from his lair.
Eric inhaled the park's earthy air, then waited, seeing which direction Victor would travel. He turned right, and Eric followed suit, though at a much slower pace.
He only matched Victor's speed after falling some fifty-feet behind, doing so to decrease chances of detection. To decrease chances further, he slowed while entering the street's many darkened pockets, and walked fast while out in the hazy strips of light.
Eric kept on this way as the wolf stalked up Bishop Street. Then some fifteen minutes later, and after having turned down numerous side streets, Victor came across another series of apartments. They weren't different from the five or so complexes they passed earlier, only after reaching these, he cast cautious looks about, then started up the stairs.
Eric darted across the street, his body low, his eyes on Victor. When he neared the same side of the divide, he looked around for hiding places, and quickly found one.
He pressed into the entryway of a closed novelty store, slipping into the blackened void the depression offered. From here, he glanced out towards Victor, watching the wolf crest the stairs, then start down a street-facing walkway.
The wolf eased to a halt about four doors down, gave some more cautious looks around, and knocked. Seconds later, the door opened.
Eric couldn't make out much, not from where he stood, only weak light emanating from the apartment's open door. He did see a thin figure silhouetted therein, but he didn't recognize the person, not that he expected to. He only expected a warm greeting between the villains, which is exactly what occurred before the wolf walked inside.
Eric stood upright, then likewise glanced about his surroundings. The area sat deserted. Visually, was dark and motionless. Audibly, the streetlights hummed their ceaseless buzz, while cars rumbled in the distance. Then a small click made him snap back.
Fuck. That was fast.
The wolf wasted no time reemerging, nor starting back the way he came. Eric mouthed curses at this, then slunk deeper into his pocket.
He should've anticipated Victor backtracking his path. That he didn't again highlighted his woeful operative skills. But worse than this, he couldn't amend the error, as fleeing would result in detection. So with hot blood rushing through his ears, he pressed back further, shoulders now butted against the cold glass, then he pulled the pipe.
Use it or no? If he didn't, and Victor spotted him, game over, and not just tonight, but completely. But if he jumped out, then blasted Victor before he could recognize him, this would jeopardize the mission, but at least prevent total failure.
As Victor's tapping shoes grew louder, Eric concluded to stay put. But if Victor's neck so much as twitched, he would spring out, then split apart the wolf's snout.
Fortunately, the animal didn't have a nose for fear. He kept on walking, never once looking over, despite passing by mere feet. Soon after, the beast disappeared into the chilly night.
Eric urged to breathe enormous relief, but he didn't. He decided to use his coursing adrenaline to pump his legs towards the target building. So with the pipe in his right hand, his left threw over the sweater's hood, then he trotted towards the apartment complex, body low like before.
He hurried up the stairway, then just as quickly started down the 2nd floor corridor. After stopping at the target door, he knocked, then huffed a huge breath as footsteps approached.
Another surge of stress hormones cascaded through, and Eric planned to use them as energy to bust open this human piñata. In preparation, he moved the metal bar behind his right leg, which concealed the weapon and gave him swinging space. He did so just in time, as the door unlocked then opened.
Eric stepped forward with his left foot, while his right shoulder started its rotation. Then he froze, his hand white-knuckling the weapon.
In the doorway stood a barely post-pubescent teenager, something he didn't expect.
The kid was short, pale with a few pimples, and sported a shaggy mop of messy brown hair. He was a wolf pup in every sense, and his youthful appearance locked Eric in place. As for the pup, he stood just as still, staring at the stranger, eyes narrowed.
"Can I help you?" the kid asked with boyish squeakiness.
Eric parted his lips, but no words emerged. He didn't know what to say, let alone do. He only possessed one certainty. He couldn't break this teenager's skull open, wolf or not. Perhaps if an ill-smelling middle-aged man opened the door, sure, but not Eric Roberts at age sixteen. "I'm sorry. I got the wrong apartment."
The wolf pup shrugged. "It's cool, man. Don't sweat it."
Eric nodded, then the kid eased the door closed. With that, Eric turned and slowly started off, putting away the pipe as he went, only to stop once more.
Was this a mistake?
Lost in virtual realism again, he recalled that a person's appearance meant nothing, meaning the wolf pup could have been an ill-smelling middle-aged man. If so, he had every reason to project boyish innocence, as that would ward off others, like now.
Eric turned back towards the apartment and bit his lip. Should he go back? Then he snapped back towards the stairs.
Footsteps started up them, and thinking they belonged to Victor, Eric spun back and prepared to flee. Unfortunately, the walkway lead to a dead-end, so his only options were jumping over the railing, or heading down the stairs.
He wasn't keen on breaking his virtual ankle, so he considered blasting past Victor, hoping speed would keep him concealed. Then to his immense relief, a young woman crested the stairs.
Eric did what he could to restore some calm, but this proved difficult, especially after coming across another young person, a person who didn't see him.
Kid number two ambled along with her head down, her long brown hair swaying side-to-side. Then she spotted black shoes and snapped up, her skinny frame startling into paralysis.
"Hi," Eric said awkwardly, not sure what else to offer.
The girl quickly looked around, then refocused, her right foot shifting back. "Hi."
Eric saw her checked shoe scoot back. Then while likewise refocusing, he saw her jeans and purple sweater ready to run. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah. I just..."
Eric realized that he looked like a deranged lunatic, so reached up and lowered his reaper cowl. That calmed the girl, but not by much, so he smiled and went on. "I'm sorry if I look a little off. I didn't mean to scare you. I just had a weird night is all."
The girl grinned uneasily. "It's no problem, mister. I kinda had a weird night too, at work that is."
"Where do you work?"
"A diner up the street."
Eric smiled once more. A diner. How charming. "A restaurant doesn't seem overly exciting. Did someone go in there and rob the joint?"
The girl returned his gesture, her tension ebbing. "Luckily, that didn't happen. But some rowdy motorcycle club came though. They made things interesting."
"I can imagine. So now you're going home?"
The girl looked down, reddened, and then glanced up. "I am in a few hours... after I spend some time with my boyfriend."
Eric chuckled. In this era, teenage girls didn't visit their teenage boyfriends past dark. That must've accounted for her flushed face. Even more charming. "Now that sounds more exciting than anything. And don't worry. If anyone asks, I'll pretend I never saw you."
The girl curled her makeup-free lips. "So you won't tattletale?"
Eric bit his lip. Tattletale. This girl couldn't be more precious. "No. I won't tattletale. I swear."
The girl considered this. "Pinky swear?"
Eric tilted his head. He didn't know about that one.
The girl stepped forward and extended her small finger. "Here. Hook your pinky into mine and shake. That means you super-duper promise."
Eric chuckled some more, then followed her instructions. With small fingers entangled, the two strangers shimmied their palms, then let go.
"Well," Eric continued, "I guess that makes it official. And with our business complete, I won't keep your boyfriend waiting any longer."
"Thanks, mister. And I mean it. Because Ed Sullivan will be on any second now."
Eric outright laughed at this, and he kept on laughing as the girl bounced by, her brown hair bobbing like before. Then he started for the stairs, only to freeze once more, his face coming unglued.
Eric spun back, and his digital heart flailed. The bouncing girl had stopped at the Crypt Keeper's door. This his heart sank when the door opened, and she promptly bounced inside.
Eric took two steps towards the Keeper's door, then stopped. Now wanting to intervene more than ever, he realized he couldn't. The wolf pup saw his face clear as digital day, and he could easily report it to Chad. Then Eric's heart dropped into his watery innards.
From inside the apartment, the bouncing girl grunted, an awful moan that Eric recalled. Now he envisioned the wolf pup grabbing her long brown hair, violently turning her towards the camera, then lifting his blade, poising it for a plunge into her purple sweater.
Eric whipped out his pipe, took two more steps, but again froze. Should he or shouldn't he? Why not pull over his hood, then rush in fast, rush in like a blur, the pipe swinging? That would work if...
He shot a hand over his mouth. Screams started belting from the apartment, screams intermixed with deep thumps, giving his previous envisioning some color, dark red color.
With his jaw clenched, and his mouth still covered, he shut his eyes. That didn't stop the girl from wailing, from begging for mercy. Then when her pleas turned into wet gurgles, he wanted to lift his hands and rip off his ears. Luckily, the noises died down soon after, followed by a deathly silence.
Eric lowered his hand, then looked up and around, head shaking while breathing deep. He cast the reproachful look at what just occurred, and at himself. But when considering what just occurred, he couldn't do much else. As for himself, well, he decided to walk blank-faced into traffic, so a heavy classic car could put him out of his misery.
He turned, then for the untold time, locked in place. This time, however, he froze after finding Mike standing there, pistol by his side.