"Bleed, please."

   Chapter 1: Bleed, please.



         A brief moment passed before either of them dare speak; instead, Eli Moncrief gladly let the foreign sensation temporarily stew. He had always felt an intense appeal when it came to Monunette, and after years of separation, his infatuation only magnified. Perhaps it was her newfound maturity that attracted him, the only version he knew of her was a young adult fond of foolish mistakes. The grown woman in front of him produced a form of allure that was novel to him. He only pondered this for a moment, however. Although he was a man of description, he decided the enigma of his heart was best left unsolved.
         Her eyes were as captivating as they were in his memory. They were greener than the sea and more mysterious than any menacing desire. At first, her eyes contained a mild dose of surprise, perhaps she experienced the same burst of emotions as he. But in a few harmless seconds, the widened eyes condescended to the joyful result of a smile, and the pupils that floated behind her lenses inflated with admiration.
         Monunette stood austerely initially, her torso was twisted (as she was facing the opposite direction from which he approached) and her delicate hands interlocked peacefully on her lean stomach. Behind her, the sunset was at her back, illuminating her figure heavenly, and the vast green hills rolled endlessly beyond eyesight. It would be this solidified image that Eli would latch onto longer than any memory. No matter how many moments would disintegrate from his mind, this one would remain forever.
She only held it for an instant, however, as she fluidly transitioned from her statue state to a pouncing embrace. He hadn't felt her touch in over a decade, he held tighter than he expected.
         "Elias," she said as her head rested on his shoulder, "It's been ages." Her aged voice took him off guard, the high pitch of adolescence had dissipated completely. The soft French accent he had known had multiplied to a voice firm with nationality.
         "Monunette," he answered, still holding her, "You're more French than I remember."
         "And you're as Yankee as ever," she dropped gracefully to the grass, Eli noticed she was absent of footwear.
         He smiled, but only briefly. Monunette looked into his eyes for a worshipped second longer, then pulled away to admire the setting.
         "It's beautiful, is it not, Elias?" she softly spoke. His family, friends, and the media all called him by the nickname derived from his birth name, 'Eli', but she insisted on the full title.
         While she admired the sunset and nature, he admired her. Monunette was far from physically perfect. She left her eyebrows unkempt, bags hung beneath her eyes, and she had a slight scar across her trachea (one she used to vehemently disguise in make-up). Her physical beauty was far from the key component to Monunette's enticing nature. She was gorgeous in the most complex way one can be. Her beliefs and intellectual prowess echoed as she walked, and her vivacious spirit could inject life into the deadest of hearts. She was spiritually irresistible. It was incredible to him that his potent passion had survived after all the lost years. They met at Oxford, and were nobody, then. Eli now felt nostalgic for what they once had. They spent days skipping classes and exploring the ends of England, appreciating the wonder in blind expedition. And for every day like that, there were the days in which they sat in silence, perfecting their craft. He would write while she painted, he smirked as he remembered describing her beauty in paragraphs when his own story turned dull. Eli now wondered why he didn't follow her to the ends of the earth, he contemplated why he let them separate.
         "Yes," he concluded, "It is."
         They let the breeze sooth them, before they spoke again.
         "Are you ready to do this?" She asked with a deflated voice.
         Eli was not. Initially, when he was first asked, the idea terrified him. After hours of consideration, he was sure he would decline the offer. But it was Monunette who was the deciding factor. Every thought-out reason and passionate belief that went against the choice was instantly squashed by the thought of her going on without him. He constantly reminded himself that this was foolish, which may have been true, but the undying love for her restricted him from denying. The presence of her gave him comfort, even in the unease of the coming moments.
         His mind had trailed elsewhere, when he came back to reality, he found her studying him, undoubtedly sensing his distress. She then looked past him. While her background consisted of a marvelous hillside and sunset, his differed greatly. The terrain was consistent for miles, a never-ending ocean of tranquil green, pardoning the one building behind Eli. It was the width of an apartment building and half as tall, the dense grey stained the scenic environment with unwanted industry. Each window was perfectly symmetrical with its neighbors, and were blacked out beyond transparency. The rectangle structure was immovably planted in the pocket of the surrounding hills, and it had a concrete foundation that spread like a sickness beyond the reach of its walls. Past this, the hills continued to roll infinitely.
         "Is this wrong?" she followed. Monunette did not believe in organized religion, but was ardent with spirituality. While she didn't know who it was precisely, she thought it safe to assume whomever loomed above humanity would strongly disapprove of their coming actions.
         "You know I don't have the answer," he stated bluntly, unable to help.
         Eli outstretched his hand and placed it on her jaw, gently redirecting her disgruntled gaze to him. He considered providing her a sentence of reassurance, but he decided that his touch would easily suffice. Instead, he stated what they were ignoring, "Were awfully late, Monunette."
         Her cheeks flexed in his palm as they formed a grin, "I can't imagine we're in danger of being replaced."
         "We've never been fond of following rules, have we?" Eli noted, "How many times were we scolded in college?"
         Monunette reached to her face and cupped his hand, slyly interlocking her fingers with his as she brought them to their waists, "How many times do you regret it?"
         "Only when it was devoid of you," he added as she began to walk down the knoll. Eli followed as if their connected arms were a leash.
         "Do you wish to catch up while we walk?" She inquired.
         Eli took in a breath of fresh air and let it inflate his spirits. "No," he said, "We'll have plenty of time for that later."
         Monunette agreed, this should be as spiritual an experience as one could have, after all. Eli tried to treat it as such. He reverted to deep thought as they walked, attempting to disconnect himself from the situation at hand. Uncertainty prevailed as they entered the building, unfortunately, and his anxiety rose to an inordinately high level. Monunette became his only source of stability. Her hand was sweating and frail, but he gripped harder anyways, using her as a comfortable anchor of sanity as they proceeded.
         The purity was yanked from the air when they first stepped into the building.
         The room was a massive open concept, the vacancy of any furniture, desks, or accessories were conspicuous in the vast metallic area. As they walked, the artificial echo was so powerful that each of their steps ricocheted off the walls and assaulted their conscious. A black, reflective metal was the choice that made up the building, it was awfully unsettling to Eli. This building once bustled with employees who endlessly worked towards a single goal, that period has passed, and since then all have been abandoned.
         There was another presence, however. A large man stood in front of the absent reception desk that connected to the wall, and adjacent to an elevator door. The man was not so much a man, but more of a force. He stood tall and unmoving, his powerful hands grasped the tops of one another and his face rigidly looked forward. Eli assumed he was staring, but he had no way of knowing, for the man sported thick, silver sunglasses that reflected the world back at any spectator. The lenses were sturdier than any wall that has ever been built, shielding the man from the outside populous.
         Eli and Monunette approached the Man Behind the Impenetrable Lenses and stopped, silence followed.
         The silence emitted an ever-constant hum that radiated upon Eli's skull, leaving it fragile with ache. The man, then, reached into his jacket, and after a moment of suppressed panic, The Man Behind the Impenetrable Lenses revealed a sheet of folded paper, and continued to study it. This is when Eli noticed the clock, which was hanging above the elevator door, making it the sole object in the lonely universe of a room. It ticked terribly. The sharp noise shot into his brain like a pointblank bullet of a murderous pistol. He wished the ticking to cease, the steadiness of each tick violated the stillness of the room. The anxious writer couldn't decide which he hated more: the nothingness or the ticking.
         Eli now had the opportunity to study this familiar stranger up close. The Man Behind the Impenetrable Lenses wore an unoriginal black suit that, surely, was a requirement of his line of work. He was white and aging, his formally dark hair was now dense with grey. Despite this, he was in terrific shape, and his stern expression was accented by the wrinkles of time.
         Eli peered to his left. Monunette looked no better than himself. Her face displayed perplexity with a dash of illness. She appeared as though she was going to vomit on account of terror. A tremble was physically evident in her body, a fact he could see her fighting with failing results. He wanted to hold the tortured artist, he wanted to take her in his arms and squeeze until all the disquietude was ridden from her. He couldn't, he knew, as he was worse off than her. Although he had just been enjoying the spring day, the sunlight that poured in from the windowed ceiling was now unwanted, as it enveloped him completely. The heat reflected off the floor and walls, leaving his skin moist and uncomfortable. The damp cloth of his button-up shirt now latched to him like the grip of a strangling anaconda. His strained eyes burnt from lack of sleep, and drops of sweat beaded on his neck. The concentrated sun molested him in his place, kidnapping his few ounces of courage and suffocating them before his eyes. After a couple unbearable moments of nothing, Eli considered speaking, but his saliva fought his throat as he swallowed, disallowing the action.
         Then, while hiding beneath the glasses, the man folded the document and placed it back in his jacket, and continued to retrieve a separate device from his back pocket. In Eli's discombobulated state, he had thought it to be a gun, but after a brief, frantic inspection, he discovered that to be false.
         The Man Behind the Impenetrable Lenses held out his device with a sudden and crisp movement. It was a thick piece of black plastic, a screen made up a majority of the device on one end, and at the other was a small silver panel. Coupled, but separate, with the object was a scalpel.
         "Bleed, please," he menacingly spoke, his voice as powerful as his figure.
         Eli hesitated, attempting to decipher what action should follow. Monunette acted before Eli even considered, she reached out and gingerly grabbed the scalpel. He watched as the artist sliced the palm of her hand, and let the blood gracefully drip onto the silver panel.
         The Man Behind the Impenetrable Lenses turned his focus to the machine, after a few moments, there was a soft sound of robotic elevation. The intimidating man studied the screen, then, without emotion, held out the device to Eli. The author did the same as his companion, with identical results.
         After this, the Man Behind the Impenetrable Lenses manufactured a smile so artificial it might as well had been produced in a factory. "Ms. Parker and Mr. Moncrief, please, the elevator will show you to your destination," the robot of a man spoke with the same gritty voice, except with a different tone.
         On cue, the two doors behind the man glided open, revealing the blue interior of the elevator. Without speaking, Monunette led the way past the figure. Eli may have murmured an obligation, but he forgot if he did or not.
         Once the doors closed in front of them, Monunette graduated from holding his hand to wrapping her arms around his forearm and elbow. Eli found it comical, considering he was the weak one, he's the one who is in need of being held. He smirked to himself. Nonetheless, the descent began, and it was a lengthy one. They found themselves pondering how long they've dropped, as well as how far they have to go.
         When the doors finally opened, the two visionaries were in a different world.
         Where they were now was beautiful and pure. The walls, floor, and ceiling was a pristine white, bold and enlightening. Before Elis could analyze the setting, his attention immediately became concentrated on the individuals before them. There were seven of them, all in formation, clearly awaiting their arrival. Each had on a lab coat that matched the color of the walls, and glowed with excited smiles. There were four men and three women, all different races. Eli was taken off-guard by this welcome, but not threatened.
         "Greeting!" Bellowed an Indian man with a mild accent, extending his arms endearingly, "Welcome to the beginning of a new."
         There was a slight pause. "Monunette Parker," she stepped forwards to greet them, "the artist."
         "Please," the man laughed, he was eccentric, that characteristic was immediately apparent, "I know who you are. And the great Eli Moncrief, the modern-day Shakespeare. Please, please, please. Let me shake your hands."
         Eli stepped forward and began the prolonged process of shaking each hand. "I am Dr. Aryan Grover, as you may have already guessed," the world-renowned scientist boasted, "And these are the remnants of my expansive team, the best of the best, to assist, of course."
         "Ah," Eli observed, "So you're the man who made the discovery. I've been looking forward to meeting you, truly an honor."
         "Indeed, I am, my friend," Dr. Grover responded through a smile, "me and my team made the breakthrough only recently, it seems."
         "I'm curious to see if you truly have," Monunette ventured skeptically.
         "Ha!" The scientist seemed to relish in the challenge, "Well, darling, I've astounded nine others today, two more will surely not hurt."
         "Nine?" Eli said quickly, attempting to stop Monunette from confronting their host on his choice word, "Darling". She must have taken offense to the degrading nickname, although Dr. Grover intended nothing of the sort.
         "So we're the last two," Monunette instead finished his thought.
         "The mathematician left only a half hour ago," Dr. Grover confirmed, "there are currently nine of my disciples roaming the world."
         Eli mentally cringed at the word, "Disciples". They're not his followers in any form, therefore, they are far from disciples. He decided to let it slide, a bloated ego should be expected from such an accomplished man.
         "Come, my friends," Monunette and Eli walked on either side of the scientist, with the others following behind.
         The floor was a labyrinth of hallways, each with labs and offices stemming from it.
         "We are pioneers," he spoke passionately as they walked, making full use of his hands to accentuate his words, "The species of humanity shall write about us until the end of time. We shall be taught about until the gods themselves come down to collect."
         "Well," Dr. Grover chuckled snidely, "They'll have trouble collecting us, now wont they."
         Eli was an atheist, so he thought nothing of the comment. But he wondered what Monunette thought of it, was she at ease now, like him? He hoped she wouldn't back out, for he could see that as a possibility, she could be awfully indecisive.
         In a few elongated strides the party reached their destination.
         The tone of the room was congruous with the rest of the level, but it was noticeably unique. The white walls didn't form the rigid corners of a square, they instead curved into a smooth oval. The far left of the oversized room (adjacent to the door) sat cabinets, almond counters, and equipment. To the right, the majority of the room entailed twelve large objects that were vaguely reminiscent to chairs. The white objects were reclined on a diagonal, they were padded heavily and had leather straps where the wrists and ankles should presumably lay. From behind the chair sprouted a robotic arm that twisted around to face where the person should sit. Each chair symmetrically rested in the curvature of the walls, making a truly magnificent scene.
         "Originally," the scientist began to rummage through his equipment, the others began to assume jobs as well, "I wanted to have all of us undergo the transition simultaneously, what a moment for the ages, right? But, that proved to be much too complicated. I'd have to keep quadruple the staff and well, without my oversight, we could have some underling go rogue and run off with the serum. It is much easier to handle one or two at a time, this way I can keep only my most trust colleagues as company."
         That sprung a thought into Eli's mind. Are the other six okay with this? To put so much work into such an accomplishment and not be allowed from receiving any of the benefits? Can they be trusted?
         "I asked the historian to document that we all went through the process together. I trust that you two will be okay with that small tweak. Much more poetic. I hope when you write and paint of this event, you include that fact. Please, have a seat and let's begin."
         Monunette painfully left Eli's side to greet the scientist awaiting her next to her chair, which seemed to be assigned as the woman waiting for him was strategically waiting near a chair a few down. He hesitantly did the same.
         A middle-eastern woman of about sixty guided him into the chair with a comforting smile. She made a sarcastic joke as she strapped Eli's wrists to the arm rest, to which he gave a half-hearted smile.
         "Initially, when I was first tasked with this," the scientist revealed a horrific needle that was half a foot in length, "I told them that the job was impossible. If such a thing was going to be done, it would entail a monumental operation with a doctor. A chemical formula could not be where the secret lie. Well, I was wrong, of course. What I'm saying is, instead of being threatened by the needle, feel lucky! For I originally expected it to be a much more difficult procedure."
         He was right, Eli concluded. It was miraculous that a serum was the key, and nothing else.
         Dr. Grover's assistants began strapping the monstrous syringes to the mechanical arms attached to the chairs, leaving the needle pointed directly at their chests. "Now, when the needles come down," the scientist was fixated on his computer, now, all jovialness in his voice was replaced by concentration, "be sure to not move a muscle, we could be looking at major complications (death) if you do."
         He hit one final key and the machines awoke, Eli stifled his panic and looked to Monunette, who was across the room. She was focused completely on the needle.
         Dr. Grover stood in between the two, "Any questions before we begin?"
         "Yes," Monunette said, still staring at the needle. "Will it hurt?"
         "Actually," Dr. Grover answered quickly, "Quite the contrary."
         With that, the procedure began. Before the needles came down, the two met eyes, Eli absorbed himself in her beauty as the needle pierced his chest.
         Dr. Grover lied, partially, about the pain. When the needle punctured his pectoral muscles and then his rib cage, he experienced the truest pain that ever was. He screamed a shout of terror, and heard Monunette echo him. But when the needle entered his heart, which he felt definitively, all the pain washed from his memory, as if it never occurred.
         When Eli was a teenager, tormented and depressed in his low-income home of Seattle, he was addicted to heroin. He would inject himself with the poison almost every night, increasing the amount each time, awaiting overdose. But when the serum from the needle that was in him now injected into his soul, the high was more euphoric than a thousand heroin trips. He was disconnected from his body, and in that state, he lived a lifetime of happiness and triumph, as well as anguish and pain. In that high, he could have written dozens of novels documenting the experiences. He lived within his past moments, and then lived within those he created, at a certain point, he didn't think he'd ever come down.
         It was ultimately Monunette that caused him to return. He missed her, and while he could feel her only a few feet from him, he wished to communicate with her once again. When he came down, suddenly and violently, it was as if all he had just underwent never happened. All the years of experiences were left in the high, and he couldn't remember any of them.
         Fifteen minutes is all that had passed since Eli was injected, a mild sore could be felt in his chest. He was panicked when he first returned. Dr. Grover's face was a mere meter from his own, the author ignored him and desperately analyzed the room. Monunette was not in the chair she had previously been in, and instead was standing a few feet from it.
         Eli was about to speak, to ask her to come to him, but froze. Something was different about her. Her scar, he discovered, the one on her neck that she's had since birth, had vanished. Eli strained his eyes in confusion.
         "Elias," she said in a mystified voice, "Look."
         Eli slowly turned his attention to Dr. Grover, who stared back at him with a serious frown. The scientist held Eli's arm, which was still securely strapped to the arm rest, tightly down onto the padding. Then, as Eli watched in quizzical horror, took a scalpel and dragged it down the interior of his forearm, gashing a wound large enough to ensure death if not tended to immediately.
         Eli said nothing as the scientist did this, he only gaped at the wound silently, and awaited gore. None came. The author stared in awe as he watched his flesh fuse together, healing the gash before him.
         "Congratulations, Mr. Moncrief," Dr. Grover began to smile, "You have been cured of the burden of death."