Morgan Whitlock lies strapped to the gurney at the center, leather restraints firm around his wrists, ankles, and chest. The technicians move with practiced efficiency, checking lines, confirming labels without looking at him for a second. Well, he understands them… helping kill people while also removing what they think are the worst of humankind from Earth. You need a special type of indifference for those dual thougts not to affect you. Or maybe just a caffeine addiction and bad taste in music.
Behind the glass panel, witnesses sit in ordered rows. Morgan can see some familiar and unfamiliar faces from the gallery in front of him. One is the attorney general. That is a face that you can't forget, even if you try. Morgan likes Thomas, to be honest. Although they are on opposite sides of the game, tommy is one of the good ones. But that guy will one day blow a vein from the strain look he has on his face. The obvious military background doesn't help his case either. He looks like he has a gun to his head and is being told to eat broccoli. Morgan some how would under that was the case cause he hates broccoli. He doubts if anybody hates broccoli more than him. It's a devil's reincarnat as a plant. Its smug little green self-importance—it's a psychological attack mascaraed as veggie. Wolf in sheep's clothing, really. And people say he's a psychopath. Absurd.
Moving his eyes again, Morgan spots some new straight shooters off to the side, no doubt the newest favorite sons and daughters of the free world. And the cream on top—the media, of course. Everyone here looks excited to see him. It's charming in a tragic sort of way.
"This is the execution of Morgan Whitlock, born February 3rd, 1987, of the State of New York, for the crime of first-degree murder as adjudicated in the Supreme Court of New York, case number 19-CR-1145."
Morgan's gaze passes over the small room across the the mirror again without interest until it settles on a figure sitting slightly apart from the rest.
Doctor Vance?
But why? He shouldn't have any reason to be here, as far as Morgan knows. Personal doctors—especially someone like Vance—aren't supposed to be the medical examiners involved in this kind of procedure. The state employs examiners trained in death certification to verify procedural ethics and legitimacy. So why is he here? And why is he so… comfortable? Like he owns the place and is just checking on the contractors fixing his kitchen.
The doctor hasn't sat right with Morgan since the first time they met. It was for his kid's sake that he didn't kill the man purely on instinct. Morgan tried to dig into his background and found nothing. And that says something. But there's nothing to be done about it now. The doctor had been a last recommendation from the underworld—cutting-edge, borderline unethical treatment that was supposed to have a sliver of a chance of slowing Elliot's deteriorating health.
Morgan isn't betrayed. He knows that. This is his choice. He will die because it's what he wants. He wanted this. So what is this feeling? It's like forgetting if you locked the front door of the house or not while driving. But it matters not now. Not when what he wants is to see Elliot again even for once, even if they don't end up in the same place— or be taken by the silence of death. Either is fine.
But still.... that sick smile. Morgan knows the mystery will haunt him even in death. He's never been good at leaving knots untangled.
But Morgan won't react outwardly. Even on his last breath, giving satisfaction to strange people has never been his forte.
"The sentence of death has been imposed and all appeals exhausted. Do you have any final words?"
"You should chill, Thomas. You'd live longer for little Elijah that way," Morgan says, offering a wink and a genuine smile.
The warden pauses, then continues. "Very well. We will now carry out the sentence."
He always wanted to go out like this—quiet, official, a name on a piece of paper. There's a strange symmetry to it, a clean erasure that appeals to him more than any escape ever could. After all the chaos he's spun, after every system bent to his will, this is the world's idea of accounting: neat, inevitable and unremarkable. Just a body officially closed.
He inhales as the first injection enters his vein, cool and gradual. His sensation dulls at the edges, the room softening as if viewed through thick glass. Sounds stretch, then flatten. His body grows heavy against the restraints, though his thoughts remain clear.
Well. It was one hell of a life. Until it isn't.
His mind drifts in flashes to the weeks before the arrest with unsettling clarity. But one memory rises above the rest.
Elliot.
The illness hadn't announced itself. There were no dramatic symptoms or sudden emergencies. Elliot had simply grown tired. His skin paled and his fevers came and went without pattern. Tests returned inconclusive, each contradicting the last. With all the money and power Morgan possessed, he still couldn't hold on to the one thing that mattered most to him.
FLASH
Elliot never complains. Even as his hands trembls and his breathing shortens, he smiles, asking questions about things that are so unique and complex. Too curious for a twelve year old. Buts that's Elliot for you. Everyone thinks their kids are special. And that's true in a way. But Elliot... He is truly something else.
FLASH
Morgan had stood there long after the doctors stopped speaking, staring at his son's cold face. And That was where everything collapsed.
After that, nothing held. And nothing should. What is power worth if it can't protect what's yours?
FLASH
FLASH
FLASH
The second injection follows. His limbs grow distant, unresponsive. His thoughts muddling in past, present and everything in between. The technician calls out confirmations. His body disconnects piece by piece, the shutdown oddly precise—almost elegant.
His breathing becomes difficult. Then impossible as the final compound enters his bloodstream. His heart starts to falters as It strains to pump blood to his oxygen depleting body and fails.
And at last, te long awaited darkness closes in—but not cleanly. There is no peaceful slide into nothing. Instead, the world fractures. His weight vanishes in a rush he can't explain. Then Silence.
At least that part is familiar.
Wait. Why am I still thinking?
Then sensation slams back in to him all at once with soul-rending violence.
And Morgan inhales.