The Whitechapel Project

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Previously on Whitechapel

A man known only by the roman numeral six wakes up in a padded cell. He discovers he has strange abilities when he turns his guard into a bloody mess just by thinking about it. Six makes his way into the empty office of a Dr. Harold Tucci, who turns out to be part of something called the Whitechapel Project. Six also discovers a stack of currency from a number of countries, as well as a pistol. He’s about to leave when an alarm goes off, and someone is knocking at the door.

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… Cold. So cold. I can’t feel my hands. They’re a couple of twitching lumps of meat at the end of my arms, uncaring about my needs or desires. I push them closer to the fire sputtering in a rusted oil drum, but the heat is as unconcerned about me as my hands are.

Across from me, the man with the long, diamond-shaped scar covering his cheek smiles, his teeth as black and broken as the ancient blacktop around us. “It’s cold tonight,” he says. I nod and look away to avoid gagging on breath that smells like cigarettes stubbed out in used cat litter. The lumps twitch toward the illusion of warmth again.

“Name’s Claude,” he says. “You’re new.”

I nod again, still looking out into the empty street near the alley. It’s bad enough that I lost everything – my job, my home, my family. But now I’m going to be trapped in this alleyway, snow melting into my shoes, listening to a disfigured man with breath as stale as his conversation forever. This isn’t just another November night. It’s a pit of hell that I’m trapped in, a punishment for unknown crimes against the universe.

“Sometimes the innocent are put in jail, and the guilty go free.”

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