The city lights blurred past the tinted windows as the car sped through the darkened streets of London's outskirts. Inside the plush interior, Victor Mallory sat slumped in the rear seat, his body wracked by uncontrollable tremors that surged through him in merciless waves of agony.
His left hand shook violently, spasms contorting his fingers into twisted claws as he groped blindly at the door panel. A strangled gasp tore from his throat as he managed to pull down the seat back, revealing a hidden compartment. With trembling urgency, Victor retrieved a sleek metal briefcase and hauled it onto his lap, the weight nearly dragging it from his convulsing grasp.
Sweat beaded on Victor's brow, mingling with the salty sting of tears as his fingers, seized by relentless spasms, struggled in vain to input the combination lock. Again and again, the tumblers refused to align, each mistaken entry punctuated by a guttural snarl of frustration that emerged from the depths of his clenched jaw.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the lock gave way with a decisive click. Victor flipped open the lid with a violent jerk, revealing an array of medical supplies meticulously arranged within. A sturdy vial and intravenous line sat nestled beside syringes, cotton swabs, and other paraphernalia – the tools of a silent war he waged with his own failing body.
Snatching the vial with a desperation bordering on frenzy, Victor attached it to the IV line with motions made clumsy by his body's ceaseless revolt. The first needle missed its mark, his trembling hand unable to pierce the vein. A bestial growl tore from Victor's throat as he tried again, finally managing to set the line on the third attempt.
As the potent medicine began its steady drip into his bloodstream, Victor sagged backwards against the plush leather upholstery. His eyes drifted shut, ragged gasps giving way to shallow, uneven breaths as a tenuous wave of calm washed over his suffering form. The tremors persisted, rolling spasms continuing to torment his battered body, but their intensity gradually ebbed like a storm's fury yielding to the implacable tides.
In the fragile serenity that followed, Victor's mind drifted, leaving the present behind as the ghosts of his past arose to haunt him once more...
The memory surfaced in flickering bursts, a disjointed collage of images and sensations assaulting him with merciless clarity.
Victor saw himself again – younger, leaner, his gaze still filled with pain, the faint tremors had begun to betray him, fingers twitching erratically as he strode down the antiseptic halls of St. Bartholomew's.
The doctor, a greying man with a stern but compassionate demeanour, appraised Victor sharply as he entered. "Young man, what seems to be the trouble?"
"I was...sitting at my desk," Victor grunted out between clenched teeth, his body rocked by the convulsions. "These tremors...came out of nowhere. I can't..."
With a nod, the doctor began issuing a battery of instructions to his nurses in clipped, efficient tones. Blood samples were taken from Victor's shuddering arm first, and vials were quickly whisked away to the lab for analysis.
Then, a series of scans and neurological tests to rule out potential causes - CT imaging of his head and spine, an EMG to assess nerve conductivity in his writhing limbs, and even a spinal tap to examine his cerebrospinal fluid.
Through it all, Victor fought to remain stoic and composed despite the torment assailing his form. He was in peak physical conditioning from the torture of physical training, and the most disciplined lifestyle. How could his own body turn so violently against him in this manner?
As the interminable tests continued into the evening hours, however, Victor couldn't deny the rapidly dawning sense of trepidation gripping him. Every scan, every result, only seemed to deepen the lines of concern etching the doctor's features.
At last, after what felt like an eternity of suffering indignities while his muscles revolted, Victor was transferred to a sterile hospital room , the soulless ambience of whitewashed walls and fluorescent lighting casting everything in a sickly pallor. An IV was established to pump muscle relaxants and sedatives into his system, finally granting him a modicum of relief from the convulsions.
It was there, lying in the twilit calm of the room's dimness and struggling not to betray his rising panic, that the doctor rejoined Victor. His entrance was heralded by the muffled crunch of shoe leather on the tile as he claimed the sole visitor's chair.
" Andrew, my child," the doctor began, his aged features tight with grim concern as he consulted the medical file in his hands. "Physically, you are the picture of exceptional health. None of the labs or imaging has revealed any abnormalities that could account for these distressing symptoms you're experiencing."
Victor frowned, his brow creasing. "Then what...?"
The doctor met his gaze steadily. "There's no easy way to put this, but all evidence suggests you are suffering from Functional Neurological Disorder or FND."
Victor's head swam, a void opening up beneath him as the doctor's words lanced through his consciousness like serrated blades.
"But I...this has to be a mistake." His voice sounded distant, distorted, swallowed by the roaring void that had opened up beneath his feet. "Neurological? How is that even possible? I'm in perfect shape, my mind uncompromised.
The doctor shook his head somberly. "I'm sorry, but there is no mistake. The data is quite clear.
"The origins of FND are poorly understood," the doctor interjected with maddening calm. "But the prevailing theory suggests it arises spontaneously in the aftermath of severe psychological trauma. Immense emotional stress, particularly during formative years, seems to make some individuals susceptible to later developing this grievous condition."
He leaned forward, his features tightening with empathy and concern. "Andrew. Abuse, neglect, economic hardship - the sort of environmental factors known to leave lasting psychic scars. It's believed that in susceptible individuals, those wounds can eventually resurface on a physiological level years or even decades later, triggering neurological misfirings."
The doctor's words sliced into the unhealed scars of Victor's childhood – a hellscape of deprivation and abuse seared into the deepest strata of his subconscious. Ghosts from those blighted years stirred, familiar wraiths of hunger and fear whispering foul recollections from the shadows of his memory.
Victor's jaw clenched until his molars ground together audibly. To think that his own body, the finely-tuned instrument he had cultivated through years of discipline and training for his sole purpose could turn so violently against him...it was a waking nightmare from which there seemed no escape.
"What are my options?" he forced out through numb lips, his piercing eyes searching the doctor's face for even a glimmer of hope. "There has to be a cure, a treatment regimen, something..."
But the doctor's answering expression was heavy with dread prognosis. "I won't lie to you, Mr. Mallory. This is a condition with no known cure as of yet. We can treat the symptoms, try to manage the neurological disruptions and muscle spasms with medication and physical therapy, but..."
He paused, seeming to weigh his next words with extraordinary care.
"But the reality is, this disorder is considered chronic, degenerative and progressive. Over time, if left unchecked, it will only grow more severe. More debilitating."
Victor felt his throat constrict, his mind rebelling against the cruel reality that was rapidly descending. This couldn't be...this simply couldn't be his fate.
Victor felt the weight of reality crashing down upon him as the pieces slotted into place. Even his mind - that single, inviolable bastion he had sworn never to surrender - was under siege from his own traitorous impulses.
The damning words echoed in the ensuing silence: Distressing, symptoms...trauma...progressive..degenerative.
So that's it, then?" he said with a hoarse voice, his fists clenched so tightly that his fingernails cut crimson arcs in his palms. "Am I just supposed to...surrender? What about my goal, my life purpose, what about... 'revenge'...
The doctor leaned forward, his expression mingling compassion and brutal pragmatism. "For now, the best course of action is to begin treatment immediately. We can start you on immunotherapy and muscle relaxants, put together a regimen of physical and occupational therapy to help you retain function for as long as possible..."
But his clinical words were a mere droning in Victor's ears, a dull roar of white noise drowning out all else. He was already retreating inward, entombing himself behind a mask of stoic composure as his mind whirled in panicked desperation.
How...how could he face this? So many plans, so many sacrifices – all of them now tainted by the spectre of inevitable decline. A future of infirmity and helplessness stretched out before him, his once indomitable will shackled by the frailties of his corporeal form.
No.
No, this was not the ending he would accept. Mere preservation, languishing within the softly-lit prison of his deteriorating form - it was anathema to every fibre of his being. Andrew Sherman did not simply endure, did not lay sobbing pleas for deliverance at the feet of an uncaring universe.
He remade reality to better suit his purposes.
The refusal blazed through Victor's shaken psyche like a beacon cutting through the darkest void. Not like this. Not ever.
'I have to move forward with all the plans. I have to be more brutal, I have to take more risks, I have to immerse myself early. The world will burn if it is required to reach my goal.'
The phantom memory faded, carrying Victor back to the present – back to the darkened interior of the town car as it slowed to a halt on a deserted side street. His eyes fluttered open, their piercing blue depths harbouring an impenetrable resolve.
With great effort, Victor hauled himself upright in the rear seat. His crisp white shirt clung to his torso, soaked through with a cold sweat. His limbs felt battered and leaden, every sinew screaming in protest.
But he was clearheaded once more. In command.
His gaze fell to the intravenous line still feeding into his vein, the vial dangling empty alongside it. With a grimace of disgust, Victor wrenched it free and tossed it aside. Retrieving his briefcase, he returned the medical kit to its compartment and slammed it shut.
As the car door opened to admit the evening's cool caress, Victor straightened his rumpled jacket. He would not be subjugated by his condition, and would not allow it to dictate the course of his life and ambitions.
No, he had a plan now. A stratagem that would make even the most unassailable conflicts bow before his indomitable will. The tremors would be managed, the weakness concealed – by whatever means necessary.
After all, he had calculated the stakes. And he would be damned before he surrendered to a life shackled by the cruelties of fate.
Stepping out onto the uneven pavement with a rigid jaw and smouldering determination, Victor Mallory accepted the reality that he was now engaged in the most high-stakes gamble of all.
A gamble with his very mortality, where every decision carried the weight of life and death. And he had no intention of folding before the first wager had even been placed.