1.05 | john doe
Speaking of elaborate headcanons, I have this other one, in which Victor Henriksen survived Lilith’s blast in Monument, Colorado.
Weeks, months later, he wakes up.
Lying in that hospital bed, he realizes that there must have been a reason he alone survived, that there could be no closing his eyes to the things he’d seen. And it makes him angry. So angry.
God works in mysterious ways, the nurse tells him.
But if God’s mysterious ways meant saving him—a failure of an FBI agent, no, a failure of a man—over innocent, more deserving people, well, then God can fuck off, because Victor wants no part of Him or His plans.
If you want Victor, he whispers in his hospital bed, hands shaking, then you’re too late, ‘cause Victor’s dead.
So as soon as he’s able he leaves the hospital and the FBI and everything he’s learned and crawls inside a bottle of whisky.
For three years he stays there, drinking himself to death; working odd jobs, working odd women, working enough just to get by, to stay drowned here in his watery grave.
How he finds his way out again, well, it isn’t some tragic, rock-bottom story. He’s not sure he can really explain it, anyway.
One day out of curiosity, and because it’s all he can really afford, he picks up a Turducken Slammer to chase his usual dinner of a whisky bottle. The sandwich makes him stupid—like, really stupid, stupider than the liquor ever made him. It makes him feel like a cow. Like food. Like he doesn’t know where the sandwich stops and he begins.
And that’s odd, because he can’t remember a burger ever making him feel that way before. Heartburn, yes. Stupid, not so much. You’d think he would’ve noticed, since he lived on the stuff as an FBI agent. But it’s been a long time since he lived on anything. Maybe he’s forgotten how.
He doesn’t know it yet, but that’s where it starts.
He can’t let this go. He won’t let this go. He can shut his eyes to demons and apocalypses and virgin sacrifices but not a sandwich that makes him stupid. So instead he falls back into old habits. He investigates.
Over time he realizes that there’s something in the food, something that’s making everybody sick. And the top brass at the fast food companies don’t know—or maybe they know, but they don’t seem to care. But oddly the media’s not reporting on it, save just a few crackpot bloggers nobody listens to. And the health agencies don’t seem to care either.
Nobody seems to care. It’s like everybody’s drunk—no, worse than drunk. Because when you’re drunk, it only means you care too much.
Then there’s the terrorist attack at the SucroCorp plant, in which a group of domestic terrorists blow up an R&D lab, take out most of the building. Nobody knows how many terrorists there were. Their bodies are never found. The cops think it’s some kind of ritual cult thing, because they find a lab spackled in black goo, and a lot of headless bodies.
And a very familiar classic car smashed into the SucroCorp sign.
Things start to move quickly after that.
He pulls some strings at his old job. Drops some names. Makes some calls. They can’t hire him back to the force, not after what happened, but wouldn’t you know it, other government agencies are hiring, places that could really use his investigative skills, his obsession to detail.
Somewhere in between being hired to the CDC and changing his name, Victor drops the bottle.
Two years later and he’s a shadow of his former self. They say he’s turned his life around, but that doesn’t make any sense because it implies he had some sort of direction to turn it around from. He’s got some new suits, added a few pounds. He’s even dating again.
Then one day Henriksen—no, it’s Parsons now, gotta remember what it says on the badge—is called up to a small township on the outskirts of New York City. The reports suggest possible outbreak. A new Black Plague. And Patient Zero is a little boy who speaks in tongues.
He’s up there for long enough for it all to come back to him: the police station, the salt guns, the little girl with the white eyes. And he starts to get angry and scared all over again.
Until for no apparent reason the black goo vanishes from the patients’ veins, right before his very eyes, and he’s not sure, but he thinks he almost hears the pounding of horse hooves in the distance.
“What the hell happened?” he asks the precinct captain, a tall reedy man named Irving.
“God works in mysterious ways,” he replies.
Victor looks at the boy, then down at his own hands, steady now for the first time in five years, and he mutters, “Bullshit.”