Assimilation

"Of course. . .it might not be very safe for you, either."

Scalpel to the heart, quick and easy and she suffered, but not for long; she dropped to the ground, closing her eyes in an almost theatrical way before she hit.

He jumped off the table, landing lightly, then checked her neck to make sure. She was gone, far gone and never coming back. Yes, it was beautiful. She wasn't - she had been a plain woman in life and a plain woman in death - but her blood was the same, almost exactly the same as his, coming up to the surface and spilling over, warm, looking almost as though it was boiling.

There was some on her lips, tingeing her mouth with red as though she was back in the Matrix, wearing her lipstick, eyes closed as though ready to put on her eyeshadow. All to make a plain woman more beautiful, more socially acceptable. The banality of it all made him want tot.
t.

Instead he removed the blood from her lips, pressing his fingers against her mouth and swiping, bringing the blood up and up, slightly below his eye level. The stench of it was overwhelming, the smell of rusted-copper decay already seg ing in. It was disgusting, but at the same time there was something familiar about it, about the scent of blood. He didn't even know what color his blood ran in the Matrix anymore, what the scent, the taste of it was like. He had to remember, had to. . .

Before he could stop himself, his blood-coated fingers were in his mouth, pressing the sticky red substance against his tongue. He sucked harshly, then pulled his fingers away. It tasted of rot, of filth and decay, but he had known that it would. Why, then, had he done this?

To remember the taste of death, perhaps. There was a certain feel to it, to killing someone, something that always left a bitter, coppery taste in his mouth. But unlike that taste, the feeling in his mouth now was unpleasant, the harsh aftertaste of metal and something vaguely like plastic invading his senses.

He wrenched the scalpel out of her chest and brought it to his mouth, licking along the blade and cleaning it, careful not to cut his own tongue; then he put it against his palm and cut, a slow, deliberate cut that made him inhale in a sharp, shuddering gasp. It hurt, yes, but the blood was the same, almost exactly the same as hers, boiling over, bleeding out the pain and frustration at being in this world and looking through these dull cow eyes.

He pressed his bleeding hand to her chest, letting the blood mingle. Hers was cooling, less warm than his own, and the contrast made him feel slightly dizzy. Her blood was already turning black from mixing with the oxygen in the air, reminding him of the black, sticky substance that had made him whatever it was that he had become.

The blood was mixed now; he raised his hand to look and couldn't tell the difference between hers and his own. He may not be able to serve his purpose out here, to assimilate and to create others exactly like him, but in this way he could assimilate her, have her become a part of him and him a part of her.

There was another way, wasn't there. . .

He looked at her for a moment, decided to leave her shirt on, and started on her belt.