The wind howled across the desolate moor, whipping the bare branches of the lightning-scarred oak. Inside the crumbling tower laboratory, the air smelled of ozone, hot metal, and grave dust. The "-www.scenetime.com-" log flashed on a flickering cathode tube—a ghost in the machine, a timestamp from a world that no longer existed.
Her form lay on a slab, swathed in linen, wires trailing from her porcelain fingers. She was a jigsaw of the dead, but Henry, corrupted by the sinister Pretorius, had given her the face of an angel. Alabaster skin. Lips the color of a dying rose. A streak of white lightning seared into her raven hair. -www.scenetime.com-The.Bride.Of.Frankenstein.1935
The Monster lumbered closer, his scarred face twisting into something that was almost a smile. He reached out a massive, trembling hand. "Friend," he grunted, his voice a gravelly plea. "Woman… friend." The wind howled across the desolate moor, whipping
The Monster shuffled forward, his shackled hands reaching out. He had bargained for this. He had demanded a companion "made for me… as I am made for her." He saw the Bride not as a horror, but as a salvation. A quiet end to his eternal loneliness. Her form lay on a slab, swathed in
Her eyes opened. They were not the wild, yellowed eyes of the Monster. They were sharp. Intelligent. And utterly terrified.