Philip Conway had been sitting in silence in the interrogation room for hours. His eyes were puffy, red, and bloodshot, and he was still in his boots and jeans. His Carhartt had been taken away as evidence, as well as his cowhide gloves. He wore a white cotton shirt they had provided, that fit just a tad too tight. He smelled like sweat and death, skin sticking together from the salty residue, and his hair was matted and stuck up in tufts. Before his arrival to the police station, he had first received medical attention to his injured arm, which had the barbwire wrapped around it when he was still the monster, and had heavy bandages wrapped around it. Even moving it was enough to send spikes of pain through him, though he could hardly care anymore. He was alive, and for it, he was miserable. Once they were done treating him they had brought him into an interrogation room where they had been questioning him for about solid minute, than would let him mellow in the room before starting the cycle all over again in an attempt to wear him down. The police had yet to figure out his identity on top of everything else, which was likely to become sensational on the news as the mystery of his murders only deepened. Sure, they had caught the killer, but they were no where near getting any answers.

He refused to answer a single question, he wouldn’t dare risk it and trigger the conditions of the blessing that would kill him if he shared any information, though how it would work, he wasn’t clear on. The masked beast’s power, he suspected, was not so clearly defined as that. The worst part was he knew the conditions without being told, from the first time his mind had risen from the haze, he had instantly understood the situation he was in. It weaved into his very being, and like instinct, as easy as breathing, he understood it. He had died. He could come back. But he had to take a life. A terrible decision no one should ever have placed before him, but he had done his best to maintain his own morality in the face of it. He had refused, but it didn’t end there. No, no, no! The blessing couldn’t just leave him alone, let him die, let him wallow in his misfortune. Death had granted him a blessing, and he had no right to refuse it.

He had decided he wouldn’t play its game, and for that stubbornness, for that refusal the blessing became a curse, a prison, a sick twisted perversion as he was toyed with and brought back to the brink of resurrection time and time again. If it had ended there, he may have been able to steel his mind, assured himself that he was of good moral standing, but it couldn’t. Why would it? He was just a man defying some demented god, and how dare he think that he had any control of any of it! And so, the memories surfaced, like water in a pot boiling and boiling, hissing and screaming, rising and frothing until they bubbled to the surface violently spilling into his consciousness! He had killed three men the first time in a kitchen. Then there had been the two women and man at the church. Three more dead, more fresh memories. Time and time again, with growing intensity as his own power seemed to grow in power and cruelty to force his hand to commit the last kill willingly. He had pinned them down, crushed their throats, directed his hogs, and they had been feasted upon with writhing agony, time and time again. Every time. Every memory. And they were as clear as if he was experiencing it in real time whenever he recalled them. It was his punishment, his foolishness, for defying Death, thinking that he knew what was best. He had faced the trolley problem, and his reward was the participation trophy that was the screams at night that would echo in his skull whenever he closed his eyes.

The door to the interrogation room opened again and in walked a new pair, the first a blonde, prude-looking woman with her hair in a tight bun, a white blouse, and a long, black business skirt. The second was a younger man who had a bald head shaved down to a shine who wore a suit and tie. It was not entirely clear if he had shaved to hide his receding hairline, or if he just looked good that way and knew it. The arrival of these newcomers, however, didn’t matter. Philip wasn’t going to answer them anymore than he had answered the detectives who had poked and prodded him with questions prior, after all, what would even be the point? They wouldn’t believe him, and he would die if he tried. No, all he could do was keep his mouth shut, and in some ways there was relief in that isolation, for who could judge him then?

“I brought you a water, the boys in blue tell me you haven’t had a single thing to drink since your resurrection.”

…

What did he just say?

Philip straightened up and his face contorted in concern and confusion as the gentlemen held out the bottle and gave it a little encouraging shake. Philip ignored the gesture and just stared at him waiting for him to continue, so the man shrugged and set the bottle on the table beside them. It would be there when Philip was ready, he figured.

“Don’t respond, we don’t need you breaking your conditions and dying, we understand that. We just want to work with you so that what has happened to you can never happen again,” the man explained while he and his partner sat down on the table opposite to him. She pulled out her phone and opened a notes application on it, while he placed his arms on the table, his hands flat on the table.

“Just so you know, the camera is off. No need for the local sheriff’s office to hear any of this. They wouldn’t understand, and it would just cause confusion. For your awareness, we are familiar with the blessing of the second chance, the creature in the mask, and probably some things even you don’t know, so there’s no need for you to explain yourself to us. For now, we just need to confirm some information, you are Philip Conway, correct?”

Philip opened his mouth and a croak emerged. He gave in, grabbed the water bottle, drank from it a couple times while swishing it around his mouth to rehydrate, before trying again, “Yes.”

“Good. According to our records, you should be… well actually, it might be easier if you tell us how old you think you are.”

“I am twenty-five. I turn twenty-six in October.”

The woman jotted something down on her phone, “That confirms it. No age since time of death. Victim still believes, and looks, the same age he was upon his initial death.” Philip stared at her silently, understanding what she was implying. He had no way of knowing how long he had been in limbo, but it sounded like it had been years.

“You don’t need to respond to her, we know that you can’t confirm or deny your death thanks to the conditions. I’ll continue.”

“-names?”

“What was that?”

Philip took another drink, then managed, “Your names? What are they?”

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“My apologies, how rude of me. I’m Agent Brookes, this is my partner, also Agent Brookes.”

Philip looked from one, then the other, and then asked miserably, “You guys related?”

“No, but we do work with a government agency that has been working with Lamb in order to try and better understand and prevent your tragedy again.”

“What agency?”

“… That’s classified information, though I may be able to share more with you on a later date.”

“What do you want from me?” Philip didn’t need much more than that, they had already proven they were well aware of the supernatural nature of his situation, and they seemed to have pieced together things well enough that he figured he might be able to trust them.

“We’re offering you a job, though on paper it will more look like a plea bargain,” The man explained, and he pulled a bundle of papers from the inside pocket of his suit’s jacket, placing it on the table. It had the logo of Lamb at the top of the paperwork, before proceeding into a pile of legalese that only a lawyer would be able to piece together.

“Plea bargain?”

“Right now, there’s overwhelming evidence of your DNA at all the crime scenes, and they have been carefully documenting every instance of it. They haven’t been able to figure out that it belongs to you, since they’ve never had access to your blood for samples, but once they do there is no stopping it, you are being held responsible for all the murders. Hell, your own jacket was covered in blood, so they probably already have that at a lab. It doesn’t help that, technically, it was you who killed them, which makes it worse considering you weren’t even in control at the time, apart from your final kill. But that isn’t justice since everything about your situation is quite frankly a mess. The courts won’t see that, and you don’t even have the means to speak up and defend yourself thanks to your conditions.”

Philip didn’t like that the man was implying he had killed the teenage girl in the hospital gown, but he couldn’t very well explain she had committed suicide in the end by way of supernatural hog. Instead, Philip considered the offer. They were right, he was going to prison. There was no getting out of it, and honestly, he deserved it. How many people had died at his hands at this point? And that girl, that final girl had placed herself on the ground. Had allowed herself to be-.

Philip put his head in his hands and said, “I’ll need time to think about it.”

The woman responded, “Philip, this isn’t really a ‘time to think’ moment. We need an answer now, otherwise it will be difficult for us to do anything. The prosecutor is going to move fast, and you are not being offered bail, even though you are human now, they don’t know that. The way law enforcement sees it, you were hard enough for them to catch the first time. We need to get you out of here before the media descend on this and turns this into a circus and a team of lawyers starts picking at your bleeding carcass for an easy win.”

Philip didn’t respond, nor was he going to. What was he to do? Rush a decision that would affect him for the rest of his life? There was also the fact that he felt he had to do something with his life. Ally’s words echoed in his mind. Make it meaningful. He needed time to decide if that meant he needed to face retribution for what had happened, or if he needed to dedicate his life to stopping whatever force it was that had tormented him. Hell, maybe he could just go back to college, and finally start getting his life together.

The bald man placed his hand on his partner’s shoulder, “Don’t press him to hard. Don’t forget he’s been through a lot, more than anyone should ever have to.” He turned back to Philip while removing his hand from her shoulder, “Tomorrow. We can give you until tomorrow to accept our deal, otherwise it will be too late. They are going to be transferring you to a more permanent holding facility. Please don’t waste this chance, Philip. There’s a lot of good someone with your experience can do if you work with us. Things that can save anyone else from going through the same hell you went through. We’ll see you first thing in the morning tomorrow. Please, think about it.”

The two rose from their chairs, turned around and left. Before the door shut behind them, in walked an officer who told him he was to be escorted to a cell and held overnight. Tomorrow, he iterated, not knowing that Philip had been told by the agents, if he didn’t take the deal, he would be transferred to a state holding facility while waiting for case proceedings. The officer didn’t bother hiding his disgust and contempt for Philip as he had him turn around so that he could be handcuffed. He made Philip walk in front of him as he escorted him.

Philip was brought to the cell, ordered to step inside and face the wall, and then had the door slammed shut on him. He was then told to return to the grate and put his hands through, so that they could uncuff him. Philip complied, and the officer left, leaving another one with a police dog to watch over him from his desk while the television was on. It was tuned into one of the news networks, and Philip sat down on the cot inside while he collected his thoughts, ignoring whatever meaningless story they were peddling.

Hours passed, and they eventually brought him a peanut butter and jelly sandwich for dinner. It was the best meal he had ever had in his life, and he legitimately cried tears of joy as he bit into it. How many actual years had passed since he had last tasted his mother’s shepherds pie? Did they even know he was alive, yet? What would his dad think? Probably be disappointed, like he always was. Mom’s heart would break when she heard what he had done. Philip hadn’t thought about what he would do if he could just walk away, but he was beginning to realize that his home wasn’t an option he wanted to explore. It would be too painful.

“Breaking news today,” began the reporter, and Philip wiped the crumbs from his mouth as he turned towards the television to see what was happening. He was starting to mentally recover from his despair and take interest in what was happening around him again.

“With the capture of the serial killer, known as the headless hog farmer of Hazelwood, a copycat murderer has already popped up. This time, it has occurred in New York, and police are urging citizens with any information to contact them. More on the story now, veteran reporter, Albert Welch, is on the scene.”

The news changed cameras, and there was the normal delay before the reporter responded, “Thank you Jessica. I’m here in rural New York outside the local residence of Robert Fox, who was having a dinner party with friends this evening when tragedy struck. Someone dressed in a hospital gown appeared, and according to the surviving witness, had no head except for a single glowing eye. She then assaulted them. Police believe the suspect was wearing a costume during the attack to try and frighten her victims. The worst part though was her choice of weapon, a pair of hogs she brought with her that she used to decapitate her victims alive, just like the hog farmer. After killing three victims, she approached the fourth and told them that he should survive, and quote, ‘Make it meaningful.’ The victim also asserted that she wasn’t wearing a costume, and police believe is delirious. He has been taken to the hospital and is expected to make a full recovery.”

Philip grabbed the bars and howled, scaring the cop to his feet, and causing his dog to bark as he expressed an expletive. “I’ll take it! I’ll take the plea deal!” Philip roared, his eyes hardening with resolve as he knew what he needed to do. Never again. He would dedicate his life so that never again anyone would have to face such horror. Make it meaningful? Make it meaningful!? He had felt awful for the girl, but now she was echoing such words after murdering! He would stop her if it was the last thing he did. He would stop Death if it was the last thing he did!

“Keep it down!” The guard yelled, pulling a baton out, walking over, and banging the bars so that Philip would back away. “They’ll be back in the morning, so keep it down until then, you murderer.” He snarled that last word, but Philip was too angry to care.

Neither was ready to hear the squeal of swine from where the police dog had once been barking. “Hm, hm, hm!”