There would be no wake up, Michael Morgan did not require sleep. Something that came from his transformation into this person or being that he wasn't meant to be. Vampire-like but that was the best he could even begin to describe it. He was no supernatural creature, but a monster in his own right. More than one way about that too, given the feelings of blood lust that were constantly there for him. But here he was, without it. He felt it the moment it happened. The loss of his fangs, the claws, the speed that upheld him. He nearly ran into a wall because of that, in fact. The movements as he was in the process of continuing research. And then, all too suddenly, he was human.

He didn't know what to do or how to act, but the cry out, the yelling and jumping he did was a set reaction. He couldn't believe this was real or true. The excitement had to be let out, even though his next thoughts included his actual demise. The reverse meaning that he was actually dying. That this was the start of it all. His memories still intact, the merge still together. But both men, this was all they had ever dreamed of, being without this curse. A curse that wasn't magical or supernatural in any way, shape, or form. It was all scientific and flawed. All by his own creation.

He couldn't recall being hit by lightening. How did this happen? His mind went in all kinds of directions. His previous attention deficient being questioned. But he was fixed, changed, healed with everything else and not being reversed. His life was holding another meaning and suddenly he really, very seriously, did not know what to do with himself.

Two people, one body, one life. Not that either held much of any of this. Pinching himself, he stared in the mirror, playing with his teeth and poking and prodding himself until he finally opted to try blood work. It was a fear, how this could be some trick or his actual last request. That he was now in control of when he would die. For all the times that he had attempted to end it, how many times they both had. There weren't others out there like them. They were alone, no matter how hard they tried, this was how things would always be. This was his life, a singular monster in a world full of a different sort.

The level of self depreciation that came with how he had to live. The way he wanted to do more than feed on unwilling victims. That little bit of insanity that came with hunger, how he could be warped and used for others bidding for the sake of it. He needed to feed, it was part of his condition. The best description of it that he had over all else.

His eyes were that normal shade of blue without the need for a device. There was no red anywhere to be seen, until he continued to poke and play with his own eyes with the excitement and glee of a child opening presents on Christmas. The blood in his refrigerator left in his room, he took a sip, only to make a face and spit it out. This was beautiful, the most beautiful gift in the world. If he was dying, if his cells came back appearing strangely or different, he wouldn't do anything but accept it. One way of living beat out the other.

Turning on the radio, it was the one time he was willing to actually dance. Then to get himself some food, and to run out into the world. But this wouldn't do him any good. The excitement would drop to nil, as he found out what was in this world. Whatever this new world was, the one where he was allowed to be a person, a real human being and not someone that should look over his shoulder in fear of what being a monster called for here.

Going outside was when he realized that his senses were intact. In his excitement, that was the real difference. He lived alone on the top floor playing out the part of being Quasimodo with a stock pile of money he had procured from people that honestly didn't need it. Those that could fund his research and keep on with these good things he was attempting to do with his life. In between all of his outrageous attempts at having a life. If you couldn't die, why not go all out, even if it hurt? He hated pain too, but hadn't he went through that enough? Even before he held a life of wanting to do something good, he now felt the need to make up for all the wrong now. From both sides. This was the best he could do, for not living in an alley and sleeping next to a dumpster.

His hearing could pick up the struggles, the different people pulling things that shouldn't be done. People were getting attacked, and someone was coming his way. Enough someone's to tell him to get the hell out of dodge. This was something he still recalled happening, the way he was taken after Halloween last year. It was too close, too much the same. He worried about the way things were set up, the placement. Strategy. He couldn't be here for this and he didn't have a list of names this time to tell him who would be part of this too. The guilt that would overcome him over that. The list. The deeds. Acts that he never wanted to commit to.

Maybe he was human, but even now, he was barely it. This feeling, this hurt, the pain he recalled no matter how much he fought to help, to not allow that all to happen. He made choices he couldn't exactly regret, but he did. Stronger people may have done differently. Stronger people may have been able to find a way to die in that place instead of being allowed to be used in one shape or another. None of this was his fight. All he could do was save himself.