Henry’s notes from “Better Fly”
Notes by Dorian
Feb . 12, 1989 —
For the first time in the past few days, Henry had a moment to himself. He was about as alone as he ever could be; even in the solitude of his room, he was accompanied by the constant hum of his hive, the wet writhing of maggots, and the scuttling of his beloved pets in their enclosures beside him. The constant symphony of the creatures within him had grown familiar in these past years, a background hum that brought him an odd degree of comfort. Companionship.
He supposed that in these past years he’d grown accustomed to many things that might once have been unnerving. The caterpillar that he once was would have been terrified by his putrid surroundings, the mangled faces, the stinking rot that pervaded this place, the wriggling forms that slithered in and out of the crevices in his cold flesh.
Henry had become numb to all of that, and in his strange, new reality he saw beauty: the joyous laughter of his friends, the nights spent in the twisted arms of his lover, the dazzling sight of the fungal forests. He attended his dear friend’s gallery openings, spent long nights tending to the beautiful creatures one would never see roaming the earth above, and admired the eerie music of the symphony. He was no longer restrained; in his metamorphosis, he’d escaped the shackles of a life dulled down by that dreadful normalcy.
Through it all, he’d nearly forgotten his desire to return to the streets above. A thin thread of memory connected him to his former life, frayed and weathered by the passing of time. Why would he leave this life of comfort and community, his every need provided for?
It was only when Caius offered him a chance to return to the skinlands that he realized he still longed to return, a great primal need that he’d buried and dismissed as a false hope, a wish that would never be granted. That thin thread still tied him to who he once was, and as long as he held it tightly, he’d never forget the crispness of the air, the cacophony of chatter on the metro, the beauty of humanity.
The stars — that sight had nearly brought him to tears. Brought away from his small, alien world to see with new eyes the vast enormity of space, glittering and wonderful even through the pollution of the city lights.
His first foray into the world above had brought him a stark realization, one he hadn’t truly confronted since his embrace. It had been years surrounded by the myriad faces of the Undercity, each uniquely changed by the Embrace. He’d never once been made to feel out of place for his form; he had neither been gawked at nor met with the abject horror of the Toreador. It was alien to him, irksome and puzzling in equal measure. Dealing with such a reaction from everyone to whom he showed himself would grow tiresome quickly.
His presentation to the Tremere of Alexandria had gone more smoothly. Their Prince was intimidating, but respectful. Certainly her offer to listen to his stories was utilitarian, but utilitarianism was preferable to a bumbling fool. He didn’t expect goodwill from an undead ruler; he expected behavior that was less than utterly embarrassing, and she at least delivered.
It had gone so smoothly, in fact, that he’d been baffled to overhear the botched presentation of the young Brujah he’d met. Raleigh. He’d tried to help the poor kid by giving fairly simple advice: “Don’t disrespect the old-ass superpowered monsters who can kill you at any time.” Apparently, that was too much. Unsurprising from someone whose first reaction to him was so utterly impolite. Good luck to that kid, he supposed.
His first mission had been less than ideal, but hey, it was practice. Sure, it’d been frustrating as all hell to be thrown into the fray alongside G, who must have thought he was hilarious with all his witty jabs, but they’d pulled through. The rats responded to his call and enough had obeyed for his distraction to be effective - a trick he imagined he’d be using plenty in the future. There was a sort of adrenaline-fueled amusement in it, the act of commanding all the critters around him to aid his invisible companion in stealing from that poor, clueless security guard. Immature fun, perhaps, but good practice.
His real mission, though, was much more in his wheelhouse — sure, he was hardly an athlete, but making friends? Much more in his wheelhouse. He’d always had some skill in making superficial friendships, learning plenty about others without showing anything of himself. Before, it was survival. Now, it could at least be turned to use.
Loathe as he was to admit it, the only major roadblock in all of this was his beloved husband. He hated to see Bottleneck so vulnerable, so jealous, and more than that he loathed to know his sweetheart didn’t trust him. He had eyes only for Bottleneck, he’d been nothing short of devout in his affections – why now was he so insecure in their bond? How would he react to his new friendships, his new connections? Was there any way to win his love’s trust back, to convince him to relax in all of this?
He hoped so. More than anything, he hoped.