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Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2443
   |
Posted - 2014.09.22 12:40:00 -
[1] - Quote
Vyzion felt a little grim about the tournament. It sounded like a needless brawl to him, but he shrugged. Something might turn up and he wouldn't have to subject himself to mindless fighting.
He shifts his weight from foot to foot as Galm speaks, feeling exposed in his civilian clothing: light green long sleeves was all that could be seen of the thermal overall he wore under a grey T-shirt and loose, baggy black pants ending in some tattered sneakers.
Vyzion also felt a little unnerved by the explosives that had been inserted into his body through what he would only think of as 'magic', because he feared the truth was probably too intrusive to consider. Simply thinking about it made goosebumps crawl over his arms.
He nodded as Galm finished his briefing. Fighting evil with evil. No purpose... except the ISK. Even I can't resist it. The pilot sighed as he envisaged the dropships he'd be flying after this mission.
I feel like a boy doing chores for pocket money.
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
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Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2469
|
Posted - 2014.09.25 14:26:00 -
[2] - Quote
"Roger that."
Vyzion turned and looked around at the other squad members. He grinned.
"I think I have a partner." He nods at Junko. Then he walks over and mutters in her ear: "I'd rather not have one of those spooky Templars with me, at any rate."
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
|
Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2472
|
Posted - 2014.09.28 12:59:00 -
[3] - Quote
Vyzion flashes a sheepish grin at Thal. "Actually, Templar Vadam, we may have to get chummy after all."
Vyzion takes a step back and forms a triangle with Junko and Thal, and addresses both.
"So here's my plan. Both of you get into this gladiator deathmatch thing and crush the other competitors until you're up against each other. The boss wants me in the drug labs and I have a way to get in there without arousing too much suspicion. Thal, you'll end up beating Junko -make it look real but please don't tear her arms off because that'll be too much work for me-, I'll appear as the arena medical team leader, take her to the clinic and we'll work together to get the the drug lab from there.
After that Thal, it's really up to you how you continue through the tournament. Personally though I don't want to get involved in the fighting at all. I have better things to do, and besides, getting punched in the stomach could accidentally set off the explosives in my body."
Vyzion shivers again as he waits for the bay doors to open. His thoughts drift to the station itself. Rev had told him about pirate stations, and the stories were far from comforting. Many think the outlaws, as their name suggests, live outside of law. But no society can be completely lawless. It came down to power. Because whilst the empires regulated their own powers through religion, corporations, democracy and tradition, there is no such regulation with the pirate factions. They let their power feed on itself, growing exponentially and consuming everything around them.
The medic-pilot only hoped he was not also consumed.
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
|
Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2474
|
Posted - 2014.09.29 10:18:00 -
[4] - Quote
Vyzion gulped as the Crow's bay opened, revealing to those inside that they were already inside the stomach of a much, much larger predator.
His eyes were met with cold grey steel and concrete that appeared slick and icy under the orange glow. His ears were instantly assaulted by the general cacophony of noise, pierced by the yelps of slaver hounds and, more horrific, desperate cries of people who could not find a way through what appeared to be a maze of an entrance, guarded by corrupt customs.
As a medic, Vyzion strongly believed in reading another being's pulse to assess its condition. He hated the readout his dropsuit gave him, preferring even in the middle of combat to kneel by an injured comrade, bare both his and their hands (within a protective repairhive bubble if the atmosphere was unsafe for bare skin) and find the pulse in the wrist. As he became more experienced, interaction as simple as eye contact revealed that pulse to him.
And after two years as a clone soldier witnessing countless deaths, his own or otherwise, and attempting to salvage life in innumerable situations, he had come to realise that anything that was alive, had a pulse.
And Snowfall was alive. The medic closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Augmented nostrils accepted the stench of human sweat and waste, salivating slaver hounds, oily hair, cheap synthetic perfumes barely hiding residual wafts of smoke from cheaper cigarettes, and underneath all of it the metallic tang of the station itself.
There it was. Faint, but perceptible: the station's pulse. Violent and inconsistent, but unceasing. A place where you could get lost as soon as you step off your ship if you did not have the will to resist being swept away by the tide of progress that only encroached and never receded.
Galm Fae wrote:Figuring it would be poor form to allow the Templar to continue on Galm disembarked
As he analysed the scene before him, the contractor leapt off of the Interceptor, following a hooded mercenary who slipped through the cargo doors as they had just cracked open.
Vyzion smiled weakly and spoke over his shoulder at Junko and Thal. "Anyway, if you didn't like that plan, it's all good. We can come up with something later; let us see if we can actually get into Snowfall first."
With that he hops down and lands crouched, slowing getting up and putting his hands in his pockets. A small sigh emitted a wisp of steam between his lips, and Vyzion watched as it curled up slowly and was absorbed instantly by a belch of steam from a nearby grate to join the hazy cloud above all their heads.
Here we go.
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
|
Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2477
|
Posted - 2014.09.30 01:52:00 -
[5] - Quote
Vyzion had not taken a step when Steady, as he had introduced himself on-board the interceptor, leapt into the fray and attracted the attention of numerous guards with his colourful garb. Like moths to a flame...
He continued to observe as Steady worked his way through them, dispatching lives with ruthless efficiency. Vyzion sighed. Most would have assumed he sighed for the lost lives. However he had long ago learned to put the past where it belonged: behind him. He sighed because he knew that he himself could have taken those lives with the same speed, brutality and precision.
Thal Vadam wrote:"I like the plan. Junko, meet me outside the arena entrance. We'll finalize the details there."
Another Templar left the safe bubble of their ship and dove into the seething mass before them. Thal also let the madness sway him and a Brutor, noticing Thal's Amarrian clothing also, paid the price for stirring the pot, as it were.
The medic didn't blame the Amarrians. Their faith and religion gave them immense strength and (funnily enough) an almost unholy fervour on the battlefield. When you fight alongside them on one side of a contract, mere phrases they mutter from the Scriptures seem to empower them with godlike attributes.
It also, however, blinded them partially to the complexities of the universe. Vyzion was unsurprised that Shoashu Saasanko's vitality would prove too much for their pure hearts to handle. How could they see these godless, dirty non-believers living a miserable subsistence without resorting to faith to save them, as humans? It was this same logic that allowed them to be so powerful on the battlefields. All that were opposed to their religion had to be converted or killed, and when you're immortal the best way to convert you was to kill you so many times you joined the other side.
They were simply doing what they were programmed to do by their own beliefs. Which meant that Vyzion could deduce there was a high chance that the hooded mercenary that ran off before anyone else was most likely Amarrian, with a little more constraint, attempting to pierce through customs before he let the duality of faith and reality tear his mind apart. Not to mention the hood was really a dead giveaway.
Religion, as Vyzion saw it, eliminated the grey. It was black and white, or in this case, GOLD and every other colour. He chuckles at that image as he walks slowly over to Steady as Fae defuses the situation with a vicious beating. When he finishes the Intaki-Civire starts to chat with the guard who had stopped him before. Fae points towards the Crow and identifies the rest of the squad already around the docks. The guard nods and jabs him before heading off.
He slices through the stinking, chattering throng with ease, slipping between the natural gaps that could be found in a crowd where pace was mismatched and personal space was enforced. He stepped out into the area where the five corpses lay strewn around Steady and Fae. He nods towards Galm.
Steady was already on his knees, trying to get up. The medic calmly pushed him onto his back, sat on his chest and planted both his feet on either of the Templar's forearms, pinning him down. He then unclipped the first aid kit from a compartment on his thigh and got to work.
Wash away blood, reveal extent of wounded area. Blink, exhale, analyze. Most severe first.
Fractured orbit. Eye appears intact. Remove skin and bone fragments. Bandage affected side of head.
Blows to the temple. Disorientation, possible headache. Administer weak painkillers.
Serious ruptures across the skin. Apply stitches, bandage.
Pre-empt bruising around cuts. Apply lilicae paste and ice pack.
His hands moved almost as fast as his thoughts, and when he was done Steady's face was nearly all covered. He sat on the Templar's chest for a while, arms on his own knees, as the crowds dissipated. They had apparently arrived at rush hour; most of the crowd had filtered through to the station proper, or else were rejected and/or dead. After a few minutes he got up and spoke at Steady.
"Recite the Scriptures in your head, then remove the bandaging."
The medic walked towards the entry gates. The guards seemed to just ignore him and he walked right on through. It seems Mr. Fae is quite the celebrity around here, he thought, a wry smile on his face.
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
|
Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2481
|
Posted - 2014.09.30 12:25:00 -
[6] - Quote
Vyzion considered his options walking along the narrow corridors. He never had true claustrophobia but he never enjoyed tight spaces. Which was why he firmly declined Rev's insistence to become a capsuleer with him; the capsules were suffocating, and the possibility of wetgraving... Vyzion grimaced.
To take his mind off things, he strolled into a shop that looked like something had torn a hole in the wall and dug a space with claws, then set up inside what was more or less a cave. The flickering light panels from the corridor were all that lit the place up. A wizened old lady sat behind a counter that also had an in-built hot plate. Something oily and brown was frying on it, and despite his fairly extensive culinary knowledge and augmented senses, Vyzion could not identify it.
"How much for a bit of that?" asked the medic curiously.
She did not reply, but instead took out a paper cone and shoveled the greasy mess into it with a spoon. Then she proffered it to Vyzion, still silent.
The medic stammered a thanks as he accepted the food. He rummaged around for some kredits and threw a wad of notes on the counter, surely three or four times what the gently steaming heap of brown stuff in his hands could be worth. He walked out, slightly perturbed; the old lady still had not said a word.
He looks down at the food as he walks. There was no discernable odour or smell at all. It looked like hunks of meat in the dim lighting of the shop, but up close they were small, sticky balls. He reached inside a-
A flash of red to his left made him flinch backwards. Something smashed into his stomach and smashed him against the wall, winding him. He wheezed as he got up, barely catching sight of a pair of thin ankles dash out of sight around a corner ahead.
"Hey, I paid good money for that!" He yelled as he ran after the thief, thinking: 8 years ago I was the one being chased for stealing...
He turned the corner. A dead-end. He looked down. There was the thief. A little girl, surely no older than nine, green eyes, a shock of red hair, spindly limbs, pale hair and a swollen stomach. She stood with eyes wide with fear, in stark contrast with her bulging cheeks and hand buried in the paper cone, grasping another handful of brown grub.
Vyzion relaxed and smiled. He drew breath to talk and was interrupted by a short, sharp, extremely powerful kick to his groin. He fell to his knees clasping his manhood yelling in pain, barely registering the small tap on the small of his back as the girl lightly used him to spring away.
He lay there for some time before getting up and brushing himself off, still holding his aching organ tenderly with one hand. Then he coughed a quiet chuckle. That girl had reminded him of himself all those years ago, and he couldn't muster the anger or even a desire to chase her down. He re-orientated himself and proceeded on.
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
|
Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2487
|
Posted - 2014.10.01 14:01:00 -
[7] - Quote
Vyzion noticed the tunnel system opening up ahead and quickened his pace, finding himself in a square-ish space, with him standing on a raised platform which fell off to a lower gravelled path lined with tracks, perpendicular to him. Both sides of the track continued into tunnels, darker and bigger than the one Vyzion had just exited. A train station, he guessed, and even as he thought it a tram cart came rattling down the tracks, headlights cutting swaths through the dimness. It shuddered to a stop as the driver notices Vyzion through the grimy window.
He looked at the state of the cart, and promptly shook his head at the driver, who shrugged and kept going. Vyzion quickly stretched his legs, leapt onto the tracks, sprinted until he caught up with the lumbering tram, and then settled in to a steady run in the narrow bit of ground between the tracks and the walls of the tunnel behind it.
The tunnel stretched on for some time, and the mercenary was breathing heavily by the time he saw the pinprick of light ahead, which slowly grew to a sizable hole, then grew larger by the second until...
Neon. So much neon that he could taste it. The tram continued on into the main city of the station, but Vyzion froze like a deer caught by headlights. He shut his eyelids hard, but it felt like the lights had burned their way into his eyes and he could still see their ghosts in the blackness.
The darkness of the tunnel probably was no help, he mused as he opened his eyes tentatively. Neon signs and glowing billboards lined tall concrete buildings, neon signs, neon walkway indicators, neon road markers. Much of the lightning though was covered in some quite tasteful graffiti, so the overall effect was patches of brightness, and muted glows.
It was... unique. The pilot had seen Caille's Crystal Boulevard and after that rarely did any other cityscape impress him, but this would have had to be a close third after the sunset over the walls of Dam-Torsad. As he walked into Snowfall proper, though, and observed people enjoying themselves freely, indulging in their own desires, imbibing substances through methods that even his Gallentean upbringing could not have prepared him for, the Imperial City of the Amarr Empire, as magnificent as it was from the outside, was probably more in need of the chaos they were about to bring upon Snowfall.
Vyzion shook himself from his reverie. He was deep into the city now, multi-coloured lights shining down on him from every direction. The station's city-dome above his head depicted an artificial night sky, but it may as well have been day down below for all he knew. The streets were painted in rainbows from all the neon, and even people had lights on them. Vyzion raised an eyebrow at a few women who were using glowing ribbons and loops to literally highlight their bodies. The medic particularly liked one who had made it appear as if some strands of her hair were made of light. Now you don't see this in Caille...
He resisted the temptation to research further -purely for scientific purposes he told himself- and pressed on. His eyes were adjusting rather quickly and soon the neon lights seemed to fade and it begun to get darker...
Vyzion turned. Then turned back to face forward. His eyes hadn't adjusted at all, there was just less lighting in the area he had walked to. He turned to a nearby wall and looked up. It was a residential building with balconies jutting out. Perfect. He jumped up, grabbing the first balcony by his fingertips. He pulled himself up, repeating the process for each level until he reached the rooftop.
From this vantage point he realised that only a small section of the whole city was as slathered in neon light. The rest of the place was a little more conservative. A neon district in a neon city.
Vyzion sighed. First a little orphan, then an amazingly unique, lit-up section of a sprawling city. How many more reasons could he discover to NOT want to blow up the place?
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
|
Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2495
|
Posted - 2014.10.06 12:47:00 -
[8] - Quote
Vyzion ran across the rooftops gracefully, leaping over the small gaps that formed alleyways between then and making his way to a part of the city he had spotted that didn't seem to have any apartment building or highrise complexes. The neon lights became fewer and fewer as he moved towards this open area; eventually it actually seemed to be night, and streetlamps were the only way for him to see down to the streets below. Neon signs and billboards barely penetrated the darkness, their muted glows painting the bland walls of adjacent buildings in fluorescent colour.
He reached the last tall building and looked down. He was standing on the edge of a huge circle formed by buildings of similar height to the one he stood on, and it appeared as if he was looking down into a shallow cone. The buildings got progressively smaller, ring by ring, as they approached a structure in the center of the circle. Vyzion could smell the blood. This was where the pits were, where mercenary gladiators fought for money, the favour of Zippang, women, fame... or just out of boredom. The appeal, the medic guessed, compared to traditional arena fights, was that it was possible (if the winner felt like it) to progress to the death. Vyzion had read pit fights between immortals, especially one where an unfortunate capsuleer found himself against a mercenary soldier. The crowd had bayed for blood, and the "finish him!" chant was the last thing that capsuleer heard before waking in a medical bay.
He jumped down to the lower level of buildings, rolling to break the fall. Turning around he realised there would be no way he could physically jump back up. It was down from here on out.
Leap, roll, stand. He landed in next smaller ring of shorter buildings. These appeared to be residential by the looks of the plants and balconies.
Another leap, but this time the gap between the buildings Vyzion was on and the next level down was a little wider; he cleared it with his fingertips, body slamming into the concrete wall and nearly rebounding him back off. He silently thanked the past few years of hacking NULL cannon interfaces; it really worked his fingers. He hung there for a moment, regaining his breath. Just as he was about to pull himself up, he heard voices.
"Leena, where are you going?" This voice was high, a child's.
"The clinic, of course. Men aren't going to look at me like this." Another voice belonging to a woman.
"But we can leave! We can get away with that money! We can... find somewhere..."
"... Ritae, darling, we both know there is no 'somewhere'. Everyone works for Zippang. Everyone. If we tried to buy a shuttle out of here it we would dock right back here, right in the arms of that God-forsaken bastard, and you don't want to know wh-"
"I DO know! I've seen them too!" The girl was haughty now.
Silence. Vyzion slowly pulled himself up, keeping as quiet as possible. A few meters away on the flat rooftop, a Gallentean women, beaten and bruised, was crouching and hugging the little skinny red-headed rascal that had stolen his food a while ago.
Leena spoke, her tone much softer now. "Yes, you have, darl'. Yes you have."
The girl, taken aback by the sudden shift in tone, turned away even though it was obvious she enjoyed the attention. That was when she caught sight of Vyzion peering up from over the side of the building.
"EEEK," she squealed. "It's a peeping holder!"
Leena let go of the girl and turned around. Her face twisted in disgust. Vyzion's mind went into overdrive. He tried to scramble up onto the building as the woman stormed over. He had half his body up and was throwing a leg over the side when a foot came crashing down on the top of his head, slamming his nose into the concrete (why was there so much concrete) roof and breaking it. The pressure was removed and Vyzion counted to two pulled himself forward and curled into a forward roll, bowling the woman over. He leapt up and wiped the blood streaming from his nose, then promptly cracked it back into place.
The standoff was strange. Both girls were staring bullets at the mercenary, but he himself could not make eye contact with both easily when one was half the height of the other.
"Another capsuleer," Leena spat. "Here to whisper a promise in my ear and run away too?"
Vyzion sighed. "The alternative being you sleep with them then they wake up naked without anything but a hotel room bill to call their own?"
She didn't respond, so Vyzion continued.
"Look, I don't really want to hurt you. But I could. But I don't want to. I need to get to a clinic, and by the looks of it you do to. That girl there," he points at Ritae, "she owes me. Take me to the clinic and I'll call it even."
The woman turned to the girl. "Is that true, you owe this man?"
Ritae turned redder than her hair. "Kinda..."
Leena sighs. "Fine."
Vyzion grins. Ah... honor among thieves. I could get used to this again.
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
|
Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2497
|
Posted - 2014.10.11 12:47:00 -
[9] - Quote
Vyzion gritted his teeth, seething with anger.
A few minutes previously, Ritae and Leena had led him to the clinic. He had blanched and asked whether it was the right spot. Only here could something so decrepit, run-down and unhygienic be called a clinic. Situated between two beefy stores selling merchandise for the gladiator matches (Blood-siphoning goggles for the splash zone, electronic neon placards with names of favourites, and lots of drugs), the clinic could have been any colour in the visible spectrum in its hayday, but right now it was the colour of... well, ****. The walls had a similar consistency too, and the whole double-story, square building was unadorned and drab, the only indication that this was the clinic at all was the copious amount of blood, faeces and vomit around the entrance, forming a disgusting moat of human bodily fluids around it. The drawbridge, as it were, was a mat placed on top of three rotting corpses; a horde of flies guarded the entrance. The medic felt faint as he watched the two girls leap over the corpses and inside.
He followed. Surprisingly, the inside was a little better. Half the grey floor tiles, at least, weren't covered in some form of excrement. Beds lined the walls of the whole first floor, forming a grid for nurses and doctors to walk, with the stairs to the second story found at the back. The beds were dressed with stained sheets, but he could still tell they used to be white, unlike some of the inhabitants of the beds. Most of them were filled, and most of the men and women lying on them seem to have gotten themselves there, and lay groaning, in various states of misery, or in some cases, extreme euphoria. As Vyzion walked towards the stairs, a guy next to him seemed to be rolling around on the rickety bed in a state of rapture, moaning in pleasure. The strange thing was he was missing an arm which was poorly bandaged, and blood was beginning to pool on the floor beneath him.
Where in the name of Balac's sanity are the staff!? Vyzion wondered.
And in answer to his twisted question, some masochistic deity sent his answer. Leena and Ritae re-appeared from upstairs, walking down with cloth, some jugs of water, and bags of some powder. Vyzion ran over.
"What do you two think you're doing, stealing medical supplies?"
Ritae stuck her tongue out at him. "No, stupid, we're nurses."
Leena didn't make eye contact. If Vyzion's eyebrows could go any further up they would've reached an orbiting Customs Office. But they did not lie. They went around, giving the patients (there must've been dozens, sharing the supplies that the two girls held in their hands) water to sip with some of the powder which Vyzion guessed was some kind of painkiller, and bandaged the most seriously injured.
Vyzion shook his head, resolving to grab some supplies from upstairs and help out. He had some time, after all, before Junko would be sent here.
He marveled at how quiet it actually was. In such an understaffed, insecure location, on a station such as this, he expected chaos and uproar around the clinic, fighting for space and medicine as doctors rushed madly to treat as many as possible. And yet, it appeared to be as calm as it can possibly be.
Then he got to the top of the stairs, and realised why. The top floor used to be some sort of medicinal storage. A dial on the wall nearby with a little green glowing screen above it Vyzion assumed to be a temperature regulator. But there was nothing worth regulating the temperature for. The whole place was ransacked. Cupboards and shelves lay in all sorts of disarray and damage. Shards of glass littered the whole floor, remains of bottles, vials and jars. Whatever was in them was either long evaporated, or had contributed to the sickly colour of the building. A clothing rack in the center of the room, miraculously, remained untouched. Vyzion slowly walked over to it, glass crunching under his feet, and picked up a white surgeon's coat. He shrugged it over his shoulders and shook his arms into the sleeves. He kept walking until he found what he was looking for. A little stash of bandages and a bucket filled halfway with water, and some packets of the white powder, all hidden under an upturned desk.
He sat on the stairs, not angry anymore, watching the two girls treat the random strangers that had no where else to go, no where left in the station, but here. A clinic, Fae had said. Perhaps there was another clinic somewhere on the station, properly equipped. Vyzion doubted it. He spotted a few extremely well-built men, most with missing limbs, laying in a corner. Foolish mortals who saw potential limitless fame and fortune in winning gladiator fights against immortals in the pits. Perhaps the only sons of struggling families, reduced to crippled youths smiling faintly as one of the girls came around with some water.
Vyzion stood up. May as well help out. He projected his voice across the room. "Leena, what exactly is that powder? Some painkiller?"
She giggled. "Kinda. It's crash."
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
|
Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2499
|
Posted - 2014.10.25 13:06:00 -
[10] - Quote
Air hissed out between Vyzion's pursed lips as he surveyed his work. Fresh bandages shone in the weak lighting of the clinic against dirty skin, bruises, and the drab colours of the room. All the patients had been accounted for, and he felt a little glow of satisfaction in his heart, one that a long day of harvesting would bring to a farmer on one of the many planets allocated by the empires for agriculture. Some he had no choice but to use crash on to numb the pain of the procedures he had to perform with the less-than-adequate tools he had on hand, but he tried his best to use as little of the substance as possible, much to the girls' delight. "Usually we don't manage to steal enough for a week, the way we use it," Leena explained.
The medic walked back to the staircase and sat with his back against the rear wall on the second step, with a leg resting on the first.
He closed his eyes. He hadn't slept since the transit in the Crow, but he had lasted much longer on deployments before. He felt Leena walk past as she went up to check on the Ritae, who she had sentenced to bedtime, much to the little girl's fury. She came back down a moment later.
"She yours?" Vyzion ventured.
"Nah, found her here." Leena walked past again and sat on an empty cot nearby, recently cleared of a 'patient' who had feigned sickness for some crash. Vyzion had told him in no uncertain terms never to return or he would find himself in dire need of medical attention. The guy thought himself quite the joker, though, and argued that that meant he could stay. He had received a sharp jab in the solar plexus and a swift chop to his temple, and in such disorientated breathlessness it was a simple matter of walking him outside and letting him wander aimlessly in pain and dizziness.
"Where are your parents?"
She looked at him carefully. "Dead."
"I'm sorry."
"Are you?"
"You're a good mother, and selflessness needs to be taught."
She absorbed that for a moment. "I'll take that as a complement, but don't think you're getting any points with me."
It was Vyzion's turn to pause, and he didn't say anything. Instead he closed his eyes again and started to hum. An old tune, one he and Rev both knew from way, way back... an old, grizzled man... an orphanage... ((something like this, I feel, best describes it))
A patient who hadn't fallen asleep started to whistle along on his third round.
A few others added their own voices on the fifth.
Slowly, everyone else who was awake threaded their own little additions to the basic hum in, until an assortment of clicks, claps, thumps and melodies turned the clinic into an orchestra without any one conductor.
Leena, silent until now, began to sing softly:
I seek refuge up in the void,
Away from troubles down in the world,
The stars call me - I can't help but answer.
For a moment, everyone abandoned themselves to the music, and later Vyzion could not recall whether they had been at it for minutes or hours. It ended, however, when the door slammed open and a man whose lower jaw was mangled beyond repair barged into the room, wielding a knife and waving it around, gurgling incoherently.
Vyzion sighed as he walked swiftly over. "I'm a doctor, put down the knife and we'll get you sorted."
The man looked at the medic with bloodshot eyes for a moment. Then he nodded and walked himself over to an empty bed. Bandages were found, and minutes later the man's face was mummified.
It was, Vyzion thought, an interesting assault. The blows were ruthless but not inexperienced. Whoever inflicted this upon the man had intentionally withheld blows that would've caused teeth to come crashing down on the tongue and causing severe damage to the organ, something that someone who was fighting with only intention to harm would've overlooked.
Whatever the case, if more patients were going to show up half-crazed with pain, it would be unwise to leave his defenseless charges in harm's way, since he was now the self-proclaimed master of this clinic. No sleep tonight.
Vyzion headed to the back again, and sat on the cot that Leena must have vacated as he was resetting the new patient's jaw, returning upstairs with her own responsibility, her only family.
He sighed again. A patient started snoring. Someone else groaned. Another murmured. Most shook uncontrollably and yelled softly at their nightly phantasms, the demons that haunted their sleep.
Upstairs, he heard Leena softly humming his childhood tune.
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
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Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2505
|
Posted - 2014.10.31 11:09:00 -
[11] - Quote
Vyzion's NeoCom beeped, snapping his mind from its trance-like state. He had sat on the stairway at the back of the clinic all night, eyes unfocused and mind blank, not conscious but not asleep. Long defense deployments that required him to be fully aware at a moments notice had let him master the technique, and he could fall into that state for days on end, sometimes losing himself in its peace until his clone body simply shut down from starvation or dehydration. It was nice, even though he had lost many a clone in that idle mode. The best thing about it was the usual clone soldier nightmares never came.
Galm Fae wrote:
FROM: Galm Eskola-Fae
SUBJECT: The Most Important Meal of the Day
I am hungry. I suspect you are too. There is a waffle house in the area I know of that probably wonGÇÖt give you botulism. No strippers, no gambling, just good wholesome breakfast with a side of family values fit for the Sarum family. Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration but seriously you have to try these waffles.
There will also be bacon, cigarettes, and coffee. (Just make sure you take it black. You donGÇÖt want to know what they do to people here that donGÇÖt take their coffee black.) If you prefer flapjacks I suppose they make those too, but to reiterate let me make myself perfectly clearGǪ You have to try their waffles.
The location is marked on your NeoComm.
-Pixy <3
He rolled his sleeves back down over his wrist after he finished the mail, stood up, and shook out his cramped muscles. Before him, patients lay in various states of consciousness, from not, to waking, to wide awake and muttering at the ceiling.
Trusting the two girls to handle the clinic, he walked outside, squinting in the neon glow. His head began throbbing; the clinic's walls protected its interior from the rancid smell outside more effectively than he had thought, and the odour of death and decay hit his nostrils once more. He ran and leapt over the cess... moat, and quickly walked on.
As he wandered along the streets, he let himself fall back into the rhythm of the environment. The pulse of the station.
He grinned to himself as he stood up taller and held up his head. He was already wide awake, senses relaying information to his brain at full speed, comparing it to other stations in other lives... to that one station in his first mortal life. Snowfall had potential. If he had the resources and the inclination, Vyzion felt he could've been the head honcho around these parts. Immune to harm due to his immortality, surrounded by power and riches, women and drugs, finger on the pulse of the city at all times, eyes and ears everywhere, nothing to fear, nothing for his subjects to hide, no need for any more accursed battles-
He walked into a light post, colliding into it with his right cheek and falling backwards on his arse. Around him, pedestrians and motorists alike guffawed, one yelling: "Get yourself checked out, doctor!"
The medic looked down: he was still in the white surgeon's coat.
He got up, patted the pole that had abruptly tore him from his dark thoughts, and muttered a quick word of thanks. By now those who had stopped to watch knew undoubtedly they witnessed the antics of a lunatic.
His thoughts flowed on, now to the strange sign off by his contractor. <3.... why? It seemed, unprofessional, to say the least. Why was he sending me a heart. A signal? Was it meant to be a code? Whatever the case, he thought, the pancakes and coffee were too good an offer to turn down.
The walk was a short one. For the first few minutes Vyzion relied on the route his NeoCom had displayed before in the clinic, but before long the smell of fresh, warm waffles guided him. He was openly salivating now, swallowing hard as he walked slightly faster. Breakfast was indeed an important meal and Vyzion never underestimated its importance. Before long, he found himself standing outside a well-established waffle-house, and he had no inclination to study the architecture any further. He dashed inside and sat down on a bench against a wall, hailing a waitress over.
"Three dozen lemon-infused pancakes drizzled with honey that the Sanmatar and the Empress would both approve at the same table," he ordered, "with coffee darker than the rings under your eyes, love. Working this long is bad for you, check yourself in to the clinic for some rest."
She sneered at him and spat something in Napaani and surprisingly, Matari. The usage of the latter let him catch "typical immortals". She turned on her heel and walked away. The medic shrugged; natural tact was something Rev had, not him.
He lounged back on his seat and waited for his pancakes. And the others, he supposed, as an afterthought.
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
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Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2506
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Posted - 2014.11.01 11:53:00 -
[12] - Quote
Vyzion smiled briefly at Junko when she came in but he already saw the exhaustion in her eyes, the same exhaustion he saw in mercenaries after the campaigns on Caldari Prime, exacerbated by weeks being revived with nanite injectors without the respite of a new clone, caught in the smog from the flaming wreck of the Titan that protruded from the ground like an unholy gesture towards the heavens.
"Have some of my p-," he started, then cut himself off as she murmured a drawn-out "D'weu Sybion", then fell face first onto the table, fast asleep. Vyzion shrugged, and assumed that was his cue to begin stuffing his face.
However sour-faced the waitress was when she brought him the pancakes, apparently she had acquiesced to his requests, and the chef had brought exactly the pancakes he wanted. He would have to thank Galm for showing him to this parlour later. The pancakes were cooked to golden-brown perfection, and the hint of lemon was there but at the very edges of his tasting capacity; he wondered whether there actually was lemon or it was because he had ordered lemon, and his mind told him there was.
As for the honey, the hives must've been taken care of by Amarrian holders with slaves who had nothing but the bees for company, because its thick consistency belied a sweetness that burst upon the tongue as soon as it made contact with the taste buds.
Oh, and the colour! It was crystal clear gold, perfectly harmonized with the pancakes and set off with a dark green plate underneath, topped with a sprig of what Vyzion guessed was mint. The whole stack looked like a tree with a ridiculously wide trunk set in a lush forest, oozing sap from every orifice.
The first stack was gone from its plate when Thal walked in and sat down next to Junko. He was less worn out that the Thukker, but Vyzion noticed that the Templar appeared to frown every time he inhaled. Bruised diaphragm... The medic turned to the sleeping Junko. He knew it was one of her deadlier combos, but the Templar didn't show any sign of concussion from the 'elblow', as Vyzion liked to call it. Then he recalled the cut he had spied on Junko's cheek before she fell unconscious. Ahh... so there are people who can counter that kind of speed.
Thal Vadam wrote:
"Hello Doctor." He said to Vyzion
Thal's tone was most certainly distracted, the medic pondered as he chewed thoughtfully (and loudly) on what appeared to be that missing stack of pancakes. He swallowed hard, but remained silent. He raised the empty plate to his face and proceeded to slowly lick the honey that had drizzled off the pancakes from it, trying to place it.
He put down the plate and looked at Thal again. Wait a minute, Templars don't wear lipstick.
Vyzion frowned as he drank some coffee (which was brewed to perfection as well). Then his eyes bulged and he nearly spat it all into the Templar's face. He slammed a fist into the table and controlled himself, putting his other hand over his mouth. Another swallow. He looked at Thal who was slightly confused. "Sorry... sorry, just... the coffee was so good."
As he spoke, he stole a furtive glance at Junko again, then back at Thal's lips. No... no, she doesn't wear lipstick either.
He reached out for another pancake stack, and pushed one over to Thal, making eye contact as he did so.
"There you go, big guy, on the house. Although something tells me you've already had some sweets this morning." Vyzion winked, and slid over another stack for himself.
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
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Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2510
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Posted - 2014.11.03 08:29:00 -
[13] - Quote
Vyzion was onto his fifth stack when Galm walked in with another man. He was about to wave when he saw the other man's mechanical limb. Captain Morgan GÇÿWulverGÇÖ V+órcolac...
Vyzion finished his next pancake, took a sip of coffee to clear get it all down, sat up a little straighter and crammed a pancake into Junko's drooling mouth. But it didn't look like the two were interested in making sure the squad were keeping their minds on task. Indeed, Galm himself was obviously recovering from an overdose of some horribly potent substance, and Wulver was less than amused at the contractor's state. Indeed, as the medic watched, Galm's introduction degraded into a full-on brawl between the two of them. I wonder if he has a rocket-propelled punch mechanism... The idea was immensely appealing to Vyzion, and he resolved to consider modifying future battle clones.
After the scuffle was broken up the pair took their seats at the bar, and Vyzion was still sitting silently, watching intently. When he realised the two really didn't care about the progress of the others, he shrugged and relaxed. He turned back to Junko and reached a hand out... but the pancake he had shoved in her mouth was gone. The medic blinked. I need to learn how to eat in my sleep too... He chuckled softly as he returned to his pancakes. Interactions with other soldiers off the battlefields were always so surreal.
He was about to say something to Thal, but the Templar had turned his back to the table. Vyzion looked up again from his pancakes (why couldn't they just let him eat his pancakes?) and saw two things.
Firstly, the enormous stack of chocolate chip pancakes Galm had ordered, topped with whipped cream. Wow, those look good. Maybe next t- oh. There won't be a next time, he thought.
Secondly, he found Thal had turned to greet Templar Ouryon walking in with a fairly stout-looking Caldarian stranger. Kador nodded to Thal, ordered breakfast, and then fell into a chair at their table, proceeding to lean back and study the roof, silent and brooding. He looked as worn out as the others, but covered in a few more layers of filth.
The medic looked down at his pristine white coat. He cleared his throat.
"So... where's Jester?"
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
|
Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2516
|
Posted - 2014.11.06 09:44:00 -
[14] - Quote
Passerbys would've looked in and thought there was an eating competition going on between Vyzion and Junko at this point, when Jester showed up. Vyzion had gotten his rhythm going now, and he continued chomping down on the flapjacks at a steady pace as the other Gallentean sat down at the table and ordered a coffee.
Clockwork Jester wrote:GÇ£You have no room to talk Fae.GÇ¥ Noah spoke in a deadpan tone.
The medic noticed the look Noah shot Galm, almost as if he were scolding a bad-behaved child. Vyzion grinned. Or at least he tried to make himself grin. The half-stack of pancakes in his mouth probably transformed it into a grotesque snarl.
Then out of nowhere, this Caldarian Kador had introduced as Makoai jabbed in in the ribs. A playful jab, but unfortunately for Vyzion, one that got him right in his most ticklish spots.
Templar Thal Vadam, sitting across from the medic, received a half-stack of pancakes to his face as Vyzion choked, then reflexively emptied his airways explosively.
"Sorry," he coughed. "Here, I'll help you clean it up."
Thal sat still as Vyzion cleaned, and whether he was astonished, amused or angry Vyzion could not tell, probably because the napkin he was using to wipe the Templar's face covered his features. When he was finished, he found himself in possession of a sticky, wet mess of pancakes, saliva and honey. Perfect.
He turned to Makaoi, cowering now from Galm, his broken wrist laying on the table, the burnt part of his hand gently smoking. His stout build had appeared to shrink next to the mercenary. "Hey, Mister. Put this on the burn." Without waiting for a reply, Vyzion slammed the mushy pancakes and honey into the Caldarian's hand, and wrapped the tissue around the back of the hand tightly.
Pleased, the medic turned back around and dragged another stack of pancakes back in front of Thal.
He sat back, burped, and pat his stomach. He called for another coffee, and the waitress scowled at him again before hurrying off to fulfill the order. He whipped out a packet of toothpicks from his pants, stuck on in his mouth and exhaled through his nostrils.
"Well," Vyzion began, over Makaoi's whimpers. "So far I've been enjoying this place... I think. Feel a little more comfortable in a dropsuit, though. The girls though, give me more of a kick than a combat rifle, even though I can't talk to them for ****."
The waitress had come over with another coffee and overheard the last part, and she muttered a response in shaky Gallentean.
"Got tha' right."
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
|
Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2520
|
Posted - 2014.11.09 21:28:00 -
[15] - Quote
Hunter Junko wrote:battle-royale
Vyzion managed to restrain himself from spitting his toothpick into True's eye. Instead he gasped and swallowed the damn thing.
As he sat gagging, eyes streaming, and body cringing at the sensation of the toothpick sliding down his gullet, his mind processed the words Junko had uttered over and over.
Battle royale.
Battle. Royal.
Free-for-all. Bloody.
Immortals. Crazy.
Battle-royale, free-for-all, immortals, bloody, crazy.
Bad clinic, not enough supplies or materials, bomb vests. Disorganisation. Chaos. Destruction. Madness.
Oh God, I know I make fun of the faithful all the time but, please help me no.
On the exterior he attempted to regain control of himself, despite this tempest raging inside of him. He tried to consider how the others would react to the idea.
Thal certainly wouldn't mind it.
True had plans with the Caldari man, and "four hundred thousand" sounded like a bribe if anything. Whatever True wanted to do in the matches, this would make things easier for him, because nothing spoke of entertainment like bigger, bloodier fights.
Jester didn't seem remotely interested in participating. This was one plus.
Galm surely would discard the idea as too deviant from the original plan, as the resulting aftermath of 'last man standing' could mean their plan would fail to be set in motion at all. But in his current state...
Vyzion gulped, and he could've sworn he felt the toothpick fall into his stomach acid and start dissolving as quickly as his hopes for things going smoothly.
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
|
Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2520
|
Posted - 2014.11.10 12:52:00 -
[16] - Quote
Clockwork Jester wrote:
GÇ£Hey Doc, remind me, which backwater Matari school certified you?GÇ¥
Vyzion thought for a moment.
"If there was one I'd tell you about it. All I know, I know from the Valklears, and let me tell you, they don't give a **** about medics. Flawless victory, they demanded. Flawless. No losses, no injuries, no questions." Vyzion stared at the pancakes, his appetite gone now, eyes gazing but not seeing.
"They didn't even give me a damn first-aid kit, you know. I watched people get their limbs shredded in firefights. They just fought on until death took them or they bled out after the battle was won, believing their glorious end would take them to the halls of their forefathers. That's what they say, anyway. One look at their eyes and I knew they were just abso-****-lutely afraid of being left behind."
He blinked and frowned, and then started speaking a little faster, a little more flustered, than usual. His street slang, usually buried under a clear pronunciation and wide vocabulary from his reading, became a little more prominent.
"But no, you're right. I ain't got a fancy piece of paper. No actual doctor to my name. What I got? Natural remedies, past experience and observation, experiments on myself and others, a **** tonna assumptions based on eve more reading is what certified me. If I walked into a hospital looking for work they'd walk me right into the insanity ward. Honey and saliva though, 'terestingly enough, I've found to be-"
Vyzion was, to his immense relief, cut off from speaking any further as Galm turned at that moment.
The contractor reeled off the plan with no regard for those around them who may have had a reason to listen to their group. Either he really trusted this pancake eatery or he knew it was too late to stop the plan now that it was being set in motion. Vyzion didn't really care at that point. He let the words flow over him, resetting his focus, calming him.
Galm Fae wrote:Are we all clear on what needs to get done.
Vyzion nodded and rose from his chair, picking up one of the remaining plates of pancakes as he did so. He strolled over by the counter and dropped his own notes on top of Wulver's payment, and proceeded to leave without a word, raising a hand in farewell without looking back.
Too much, he had said too much. He wasn't the only one who had to deal with the endless life and the endless memories that came with it. Memories were anchors, anchors that held you down as the days rolled by, making time feel more real than ever. Time had long since lost any meaning, could not be allowed to have meaning, for these immortals. They had to live in an eternal present, and if they forgot it, if they let themselves believe for a moment that things would change, that immortality was progress rather than stasis, freedom rather than purgatory... insanity came swiftly.
But still he had let himself wander down that path, the path of memories they all had locked away inside, sometimes partially open, whether by themselves or triggered by events. The path that was his life, before this... this... existence. He had never distinguished the two before. After waking coughing in a clone vat the hundredth or thousandth time, never related them again.
Vyzion slid another toothpick out of his pocket, and stuck it between his teeth, exhaling. He hoped the others didn't mind his abrupt departure. If they ever bothered working with him again they'd get used to it. Teamwork was a vital factor in the warzone and he respected and enjoyed it, but he was never one to revel in the company of others for long. Awkward was an understatement. He felt out of his depth around many other clone soldiers, green and fresh-faced amongst the others. Immortality or death at the age of 25... it was a no-brainer when he made the choice.
And yet today was one of the days he couldn't help but wonder how different the two options had been. Blast it all, the medic thought as he walked. Clockwork Jester makes a comment on my methods, and now I'm walking around like I've been abandoned in a wormhole, in a city with a vitality that rivals Caille no less. Too damn sensitive, Vyz, and they all know it.
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
|
Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2530
|
Posted - 2014.11.17 23:20:00 -
[17] - Quote
True Adamance wrote:
"Doctor! Uh...Vysion!" He called out casually hailing the Gallentean with a sharp gesture. " Well met this morning.... I was wondering if I could ask a favour?"
Vyzion turned, surprised. There stood Kador Ouryon with Makoai, the latter's hand still slathered in his 'natural remedy'. He stared at that dripping tissue for a moment, then turned back to the Templar, frowning slightly, toothpick pointing downwards.
The Templar asked for a favour. It was funny, that. You'd think favours between immortals would be swiftly forgotten. But no, they're remembered all the more compared to mortal favours. Their lives are too short to worry about getting even. Here, in the unending twilight realm of immortality, it was an eternity of seeking inner peace, inner balance.
A favour, something so trivial in their previous lives, something they could repay in an instant, with a gesture of good-will or a simple, free meal. It warped into something else when time lost all meaning, into a way to keep track of time. When did this guy ask me for a favour? How many days has it been since then? How many favours do I have currently? Significant events created a timeline of the past for the immortal, not dates, or day/night cycles, artificial or otherwise. And favours, they were like the numbers of the months. Small, insignificant, and yet sometimes they become so important it was incredible how they felt so humdrum before. Today could be someone's birthday; the day of the month suddenly becomes the focus of their entire being. So too, can a favour suddenly become as vital, if an immortal finds himself on a battlefield at risk of failing a contract that could make or break his career.
So they were remembered, and remembered well. The day where favours are traded became brighter, a pinprick of starlight in the eternal void of their lives which didn't seem to follow the normal flow of time but instead just expanded, and expanded, a dark seething bubble of blackness that consumed everything, leaving darkness behind. Favours gave light, gave form to this void.
Of course, there were different degrees of light. Some favours were certainly less critical than others, indeed, it could boil down to a free meal here and there. Ohers held more weight behind them, perhaps the disposal of a body. But when their lives extended into the unknown future, so far ahead of them they could not even consider the consideration of a possibility of knowing that far into the future, who knew when a single meal could enable a chain of events to be set in motion, events that could lead to the fall of empires.
He looked Templay Ouryon in the eyes and spoke between his teeth, keeping a firm clamp on his toothpick. "Sure. Fire away."
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
|
Vyzion Eyri
The Southern Legion
Final Resolution.
2539
|
Posted - 2014.12.08 05:35:00 -
[18] - Quote
Vyzion looked with apprehension at the Caldarian beside True, but then suddenly he grinned.
His jawbone creaked in protest as it stretched rapidly from ear-to-ear. It was a certainly a smile, yet it could've been described as an upside-down frown. His eyes were cold and emotionless, his face unreadable except for that strange smile, a disfiguration that ruptured his face, leaving a white, cracked crevice across it.
It was over in an instant. In that instant, everything clicked into place for the mercenary, and he knew exactly what had to be done.
"Sure, I'll take Makaoi."
With that, he grabbed the promoter by his injured hand, still soaked in honey, causing the man to yelp. Then he walked off towards the clinic, dragging the protesting Caldarian behind him. As he stormed through the concrete station, the crowds and faces seemed blurred to him. Things rushed through his head madly, thoughts scrabbling over one another, vying for the attention of his brain, words chased each other before his eyes, memories flashed.
Amidst the chaos in his head, though, there was a faint tune playing in his head, the same one he had sung in the clinic.
***
Vyzion stood outside the clinic, no longer holding onto Makaoi, not even aware of the other man's presence. He stared at the filthy clinic exterior... stared at the fresh graffiti on those walls... the holes that were windows... and the smoke pouring from them. Black, putrid smoke that rose like the trunk of a tree from hell, spreading into a wide plume as it reached the limits of the station dome.
Slowly, the medic walked towards the building. At the entrance, a crowd of people were watching, silent and unmoving. The whole street was silent, no noise came from anything, not even the clinic. The roar of the fire, it's crackling laugh, taunted Vyzion.
He walked past the spectators, straight up to the front door, and opened it.
The inferno inside blasted him, hot as a furnace, but he walked in nevertheless. His eyes saw it all, from the burning mattresses, to the burnt and charred corpses on top of them. Not one patient had managed to escape. He counted them all as he walked down the center aisle between the beds, just like he had counted each one the previous night. He saw through the burns of some, saw bruises that were not there before.
He bent over and picked up a few ends of burning rope. Rope that had not been in the clinic before. They were sticky to the touch. Some sort of flammable compound, the medic guessed. He clenched his fists. Defenseless. They were defenseless.
He reached the back of the room and walked upstairs, following the smoke. The door was smashed open, and hung on a single hinge, broken. He approached the temperature regulator now, and calmly studying its functions as the smoke swirled around him. There was a pressure adjuster just as he had expected. This upstairs room was a quarantine area to isolate patients in dangerous states or have contagious diseases. He turned the pressure far into the negative range. An exhaust fan above his head hummed to life as he dragged the door back into place, and sealed the gaps around it with lab coats.
The smoke cleared, and Vyzion stared at the scene before him. The room was as destroyed as always, and there were no signs of the fire reaching this area yet. However, there was one grisly addition. Leena lay on the floor in the center of the room, naked and beaten. He walked over and gingerly checked her pulse. It was gone; her pale face suggested she died unable to breathe through the smoke. She had, he also noted, been sexually violated.
He grit his teeth in anger, crushing the toothpick in his mouth into a fine powder, mushing it into a paste with his teeth. Then he spat the mixture into his hands, and applied death marks to the woman's still face, something a Vherokior mystic he once knew told him would guide the deceased's spirit to their ancestors.
As he worked he noticed Leena had fallen with both arms outstretched. He glanced to where she had been reaching: an open cupboard. The medic got up, walked over to it, reached out a hand... and opened it. Lying at the base was Ritae, curled in a ball, almost as still as the other. The medic put a hand on her shoulder and shook slightly. The girl opened her eyes... and screamed when she saw his face inches from hers, throwing herself against the back of the cupboard. Vyzion backed off, hands raised.
"It's me," he coughed. "It's me."
***
Makaoi's jaw dropped when he saw Vyzion walk out again with a girl slung over his back. The mercenary's clothes had been badly burnt and hung in tatters on him; the only sign he was wearing a lab coat before were patches of white cloth on his shoulders. His hair was charred, and his eyebrows were singed. His exposed skin was red and raw and in some parts, crisp. His hands dripped with some strange paste. The girl looked to be in a much better condition, but was coughing up blood, thin wisps of smoke escaping from her lungs as she did.
The curious thing was that despite the fire burning behind Vyzion, Makaoi could not turn his eyes away from the mercenary... and the fire in his eyes.
Vyzion walked until he was right next to Makaoi, and spoke softly. "You're going to take this girl and return home. You're going to stay there until I come for you. Understand?"
"What the h-"
"Do you have a family?"
"Why does th-"
"DO YOU HAVE A FAMILY?!" Vyzion turned his bloodshot eyes onto Makaoi.
"Yes..." The man replied haplessly.
"Then for their sake, follow my instructions."
As the Caldarian hurried off, Vyzion turned back to the clinic as the fire finished off the mattresses and extinguished itself. He watched until the last curls of smoke escaped from the windows. Then he went back inside.
> Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?
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