Scream: Lethal Lament by Jade Gretz

https://www.deviantart.com/jadegretzai/art/Scream-Lethal-Lament-1303251021

Scream: Lethal Lament ANIMATION

Symphony of Golden Thorns

High above the neon-soaked labyrinth of Manhattan, a cascade of molten gold and blood-red sinew wove through the limestone gargoyles. She was a phantom of living tapestry, a creature of horrific majesty born of alien biology and human rage. They called her Scream. Her tendrils, a mesmerizing crown of hyper-sensory hair, writhed with a serpentine grace against the icy gusts of the midnight storm. She did not walk; she poured herself over the gothic architecture, an apex predator painted in the vibrant warning colors of a venomous blossom.

She tasted the metallic tang of the city's fear, drawing the damp wind across her porous surface to analyze the chemical makeup of the night. Beneath the heavy scent of smog, rain, and ozone, lay a sharper, older fragrance. Dry earth, old leather, and the coppery, tragic sweetness of stolen blood. Morbius.

The Living Vampire was hunting tonight, but he was not seeking the fragile veins of mortal prey. He was seeking her kin. He was tracking the black, iridescent slime left behind in the hidden alleyways—the shed skin and residue of the symbiote hive following a recent, violent territorial skirmish. To him, it was a biological miracle, a potential genetic cure for the cursed pseudo-vampirism that gnawed relentlessly at his cellular structure. To her, it was an unforgivable desecration. It was grave-robbing, a violation of the hive’s sacred remnants.

Scream flowed down the jagged spine of a derelict cathedral, her crimson and yellow form blending seamlessly with the refracted glare of a distant electronic billboard. She moved with a hypnotic fluidity, every motion a calculated tease of impossible anatomy. She was beautiful in the way a hurricane is beautiful—devastating, untamable, and demanding absolute, breathless awe from any who bore witness to her descent.

Below her, in the sunken amphitheater of a forgotten rooftop garden, Dr. Michael Morbius worked in desperate silence. His pallid skin was a stark contrast to his dark, ragged coat, which flapped around his gaunt frame like broken wings. He knelt beside an industrial ventilation shaft, holding a sterile, heavy-duty glass vial. With a silver scalpel, he carefully, meticulously scraped a patch of trembling, pitch-black biomass from the rusted metal grating.

"Fascinating," Morbius whispered, his voice a raspy echo caught in the swirling wind. "Cellular regeneration operating completely independent of a host's cardiovascular system. The mitochondria are adapting to the rusted iron. A beautiful, perfect anomaly."

"Beautiful?" The word slid through the damp air, layered with a resonant, dual-toned purr that vibrated in the marrow of his hollow bones. "I assure you, Doctor, the dead flesh of my cousins is the least beautiful thing on this roof."

Morbius spun, his crimson eyes flaring in the sudden darkness. He bared his elongated fangs, his feral instincts instantly warring with his highly trained scientific intellect. He scanned the shadowy perimeter, but there was only the driving rain and the erratic rustling of dead rooftop flora.

"Who is there?" Morbius demanded, his grip tightening protectively around the glass vial. "Show yourself. I have no quarrel with you, whoever you are."

A low, melodic laugh cascaded from the dense shadows above. It was a sound that wrapped around him, soft and seductively warm, yet laced with the undeniable, icy promise of absolute violence. It was the sound of a spider admiring a particularly stubborn fly.

"You scrape the scabs of my family from the gutters, Michael," Scream murmured, her voice drifting from a stone gargoyle directly behind his left shoulder. "And you claim no quarrel. How utterly charming in its breathtaking arrogance."

Morbius turned slowly to see her uncoil. She descended from the stone perch in a deliberate, gravity-defying spiral. Her host, possessing a silhouette of feminine perfection, was enveloped entirely in the shifting, living armor of the symbiote. Tendrils of golden hair floated around her head like the aureole of a dark, vengeful saint, tasting the air, mapping his accelerated heartbeat. Her eyes were massive, milky-white voids that seemed to pull the surrounding ambient light into their endless depths.

"Scream," Morbius stated, his tone a complex mixture of primal dread and intense scientific awe. "I should have known the pheromone signature was active. I am not here to fight you. I am merely collecting detritus. Discarded matter. It is a scientific necessity.
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