Analysis

D didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow at that bizarre occurrence, but
instead put this hand under the spigot in the sink, palm up now. A few
minutes later, the voice sputtered, “That’s enough,” and as it did, D twisted
the faucet to shut it off.
“How are you feeling?” D asked. His eyes remained trained on the
corpse.

“Well, I’ll get by. I suppose I’m a hell of a lot better than I was last
night.” Along with the words, a gout of flame roared from the palm of the
Hunter’s hand. In a mouth left pale blue by a few thousand degrees of heat,
a red tongue flicked impassively, saying sharply, “So, what the heck do you
want analyzed?”

Devoid of pity or any other deeper emotion, D brought his left hand over
to the man on the operating table—and put it against his forehead. At that
instant, the whole corpse stiffened and bent backward from the waist, like a
bow. It snapped into the shape so fiercely that it wouldn’t have been strange
to hear his hipbones shattering.

Countless red points began to form all over
his body, along with specks of blood. Had this body, which had supposedly
long since ceased to function, begun to have metabolic activity once again?
The vivid red spots grew larger and larger, and in no time their surface
tension broke and they began to course down the sides of the body, leaving
disturbing trails on his flesh. When the first drop hit the operating table, a
faint moan escaped from the corpse.

D had his eyes half-closed. What was his hand trying to do? What kind of
analysis? What did he hope to learn from this corpse?

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