The Lightning that Jumps Between

Twenty Nine

Ethan's blatantly shocked, almost offended gaze between the other two made things awkwardly quiet; it was clear that they were serious. But it was also clear that this was not what he'd expected. Then again, what had he expected? Moreau's mutated form had been so inhuman that it was hard to imagine him with any body at all.

Still, Ethan had expected...well, a monster.

The blond's gaze softened from shock to studying; Salvatore drew back timidly as Ethan's piercing stare moved over his features. Something about the way the other flinched, deeply uncomfortable at being looked at, seemed to fit. So too did the rather greasy hair, Ethan decided; he'd remembered Moreau's sparse, long strands. Now he had a full head of hair that probably needed washing. Ethan's gaze traced over almost yellow skin–unhealthy. That fit too. There were dark ink across his wrist; the ends of a forearm tattoo. Ethan remembered that as well.

His posture was right; it was shrunken, small, with his hands full of flowers nervously twitching against each other. The eyes were wide, brimming with tears. His face was round, his lips strangely shaped. There was an unhealthiness about him, a desperation on his expression, an unsettling 'othered' brokenness in his tremble.

Yeah, given the right blend of whatever fucked up DNA Miranda had put in him...Ethan could see how this man might morph into the disgusting aquatic creature known as Moreau. He also, surprisingly, felt a pang of sympathy for the other man's foul luck. He'd looked this normal, and mutated to that level of grotesque?

Really, really shit luck. Worse than Ethan's, even.

Ethan only had hints of how Karl had looked as a human; his childhood photo, and perhaps, the catalogued version of him in the Mold consciousness–but mutant Karl was handsome, even with the fashion sense of a demented vagabond. Donna's beauty had struck Ethan when he first laid eyes on her painting, and then her crystallized face of death. Now that she was restored to her human form, she was angelic, unbelievably gorgeous. And though Ethan had never seen Dimitrescu's human form, she had also been elegant, beautiful.

So, Moreau's ugliness seemed like a very cruel joke, Ethan decided. He straightened, done with his invasive staring. He gripped the shotgun strap so tightly he thought he might break his own hands before exhaling, and nodded.

"Moreau, then," his voice was halting, cautious. If the other did remember Ethan, they might have some awkward conversing ahead. But as usual, Eva served as the lone socially-competent human, stepping in front of the other blond and extending a hand politely.

"I'm Eva," she said simply, as if testing his knowledge.

Moreau's wild, trapped stare softened, and then widened. He took the pale hand in his own, bringing the flowers with it. "E-Eva?" The timid head turned, and he blinked several times, staring from Ethan, and back to her. "Mother's...real child, then."

It wasn't what Ethan had expected. Moreau's obsession with Miranda was their main concern, after all. And yet these words were said with almost an objective despondence. Not the pining desperation with which he'd pleaded while fighting Ethan in the swamp.

"Yes," Eva said, her eyes lighting up. She grasped the fisherman's hands. "Well, I once was, yes. How do you know that?"

"Good question," Ethan echoed, ready to hear whatever explanation the other had to offer. Salvatore glanced back at him, and Ethan could swear the hint of a smile passed over his face. But he was so twitchy, so uncertain, that it was hard to tell. He really did resemble a frog, Ethan mused, but kept that thought to himself.