You pace by the infirmary once again.
The door remains closed. No sounds come from within.
You've been on edge since the end of last meeting. This election business… it was a close call. Too close. Everything you've worked for and strived towards, almost gone within the blink of an eye.
You're still here. Still in control. But how fragile of a control it has proven to be.
Your eyes drift once more to the closed door of the infirmary. Nothing has changed. But you see what's inside: a threat to the Bastion. A threat to you. Chris was a leader, the Captain of the Bastion, and a blaring reminder of how quickly one can fall from grace. You can't let that happen to you.
You can't let your secret get out.
You half-walk, half-run over to the materials storage, grabbing whatever you can get your hands on: scraps of rusted metal plate, planks of wood, nails and screws. All pretence of class or refinement is gone from your mind right now. You rush back, holding your allies of convenience in a pile as you shoulder your way through the infirmary door.
But they won't help you now. Not when Chris is sitting right there, in the infirmary proper.
The materials clatter to the ground, dropped from your grasp in shock. How is he here? He should be in quarantine. He should be dead. Thoughts race through your head as fear moves your legs for you, taking a step back towards the door.
'Stop. I'm not going to kill you. Close the door.'
As your eyes adjust to the light, you see him more clearly. He looks awful. His eyes are bloodshot and bleary, his hair clearly greying and his skin covered in awful discoloured blotches. But he's still speaking. You stop moving, standing in front of the door. But you do not close it.
He sighs, but says nothing about it.
'Where's Guneir.' you all but demand.
'Dead. Tried to kill me, too, to prevent the infection from progressing. I wasn't having it. Wrestled the gun from his hand and shot him.'
You glance down at his hands, his holster. No gun to be found.
'It wouldn't have been much use if I brought it with me. Clever bastard only put two bullets in the magazine. And besides, what use would it be? I'm as good as dead too.' he remarks. There's no humour in his voice. It's just… hollow. And tired. 'Must be nice for you, hm? Two rivals, two potential threats, gone in a flash. Just like that, with nobody the wiser.'
You furrow your brow. 'I have no idea what you're talking about.' you retort, standing firm as you straighten your posture against this shell of a man.
'Sure you do. It was you, wasn't it? You snuck in the infected water to us. I thought it was suspicious, how we and only we fell ill.'
You're left speechless, not out of offense or the like, but sheer confusion. 'I actually have no idea what you're talking about. Me? Poison you? Come on, Chris, the infection must have hit your brain already if you're making accusations like that.' You deflect as best you can. Part of you does admit, it would have been a good idea. Now you're just mad you didn't come up with it sooner.
HeIt scoffs, a voice dull and dead. 'I suppose it doesn't matter now. Whoever did it succeeded.' He pulls himself up on the chair, and you flinch backwards. 'I should have seen it sooner. Seen what you were doing. Sneaking your little tendrils here and there to get what you want. Turning people against each other while nobody remained the wiser. It's almost funny. You're not so different from the contagion. Silent, unseen as you take control and transform your host into something unrecognisable.'
HisIts comparison sickens you. To reduce your work to something so lowly as a parasitic action. You grip one of the planks of wood, staring himit down. 'You're one to talk.'
'At least death can save me from what I'm going to become. Can you say the same?'
Funny. You wouldn't have thought someonething like himit could be so religious. It stands up, and you grip the plank of wood tighter as it opens its mouth to make another wretched noise as your muscles tense and-
BANG
Your head is ringing so loudly. Your hands rush to your ears just a second too late. You're pretty sure you feel the warm, wet slick of blood dripping from your right ear. You turn and you see first the smoking barrel of a pistol, and then Devo holding it. It looks frantic. Hair normally neatly tousled is instead frazzled, strands stuck to its skin with sweat. Its eyes dart around the room, before settling on you. You move to thank it for saving you, thank it for how loyal and useful it has been, but it takes a step back, pointing the gun at you. You're forced into the infirmary as it says words you don't process. Your eyes and your focus remain right on the gun. It grows more frantic, saying more things you don't care about as it starts gesturing. The gun lowers for a second. You seize your chance. The next few moments pass by in a blur. You tackle it to the ground, taking it by surprise. It pushes you. You push back. It swings to scratch, kick you. You're forced to take the blows, but retaliate. It scrambles for the gun. You bat it away. It doesn't really matter. What matters is neutralising the threat. But you cannot. You're a schemer, not a fighter. It has no such drawback. Whatever is hidden forever underneath that jacket overpowers you. It's too little. It pushes you away. It pins you to the ground. It grabs the gun. An impact to the back of the head sends shockwaves through your body in the split second you feel it.
And your world goes black.
{[]}