turnsheet_bureau:4:inoculation [Contagion]

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=====Inoculation Loops=====

[CW: Extreme violence to animals; blades and cuts]

The wildlife are running scared. The area of the woods where you normally catch squirrels is silent, except for the sharp, occasional //snap// of death. This time none are going to Salithra, not that you can find her when you chance a look to make sure she's not watching.

The world continues to spin outside your tent and you do not notice it. Creatures skitter, scared, back and forth under the weight of your quadrat while you tear into the flesh of the first specimen. You extract its blood; it glistens, wet and cold upon contact with the air. You inject it into a live squirrel -- it goes from creature to specimen in your hands, you //feel// it, that transfer of energy, the beating of heart growing rapid, frenetic, threatening to burst from its tiny chest -- and wait breathlessly for it to snarl at you before cutting its head free with your knife. You drain it for blood and then discard it, dropping it to roll uselessly along the floor.

A fire is sure to attract attention, this late at night, if anyone is there to spot it. Thankfully, many have died. You go unnoticed, searing the loop of your tool till it is white hot and purified, then switching its position for the tube filled with blood. You let the brain dry out, by contrast, walnutlike, maybe sweetening with age, maybe delicious. Your mouth waters. You do nothing.

Having purified the drink and sweetened the fruit, you acquire your two targets. They squeal as they are pinned to the table and again as they are inoculated. You watch impassively and wait less so. Hours pass slowly as though dripping adrenaline slowly into your veins. Your nervous system is on fire with impatience. It only takes hours, and not days, for both squirrels to display symptoms; raging, severe, advanced symptoms. You are left with no choice but to put your delicious experiment down.

You lean in as close as possible without touching the bridge of your nose to the site of the infection. Amidst the mat of fur that seems to coat the squirrel like a thick, unnatural growth rather than its own skin, you notice how localised the symptoms are, how dense the irritated scabs of skin, how starkly discoloured the rash site is.

The Contagion is a fungal disease. The experiment has been a failure.

You scrape at the dirt and bury the dead. There is soil underneath your fingernails that, in absence of clean enough water for washing, will simply have to remain there as a testament.

As you return from the burial site, you notice a sting between your knuckles. A cut. It bleeds.

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