It does not help to have more light shed on all that black slime and the eyes that sprout from it like a rotten harvest. Forcing down her nausea with a dry, painful swallow, she steps to what seems like the one clean spot the floor.
"Thanks," she manages weakly, but Ghost isn't listening. Ghost is babbling, so softly that she can barely hear him over the pounding in her chest. "Ghost... Ghost. You need to find me a keycard, or hack the panel open. If we're supposed to heal someone, this must be the cure..."
She thinks. Hopes. It's impossible for her to tell what's in the syringes just by looking at them. It could be a cure, or it could be the very disease that started this whole mess. She tries to decipher the writing on the panel above, but it’s a hodgepodge of symbols and chemical equations. Her knowledge in biochemistry is failing her, and every second that passes is another second that they’re trapped in this room with no way to escape.
Her gaze flicking side-to-side, she catches sight of a pair of eyeballs on the panel next to the syringes. They look more human than the others, their irises colored hazel. They are as vacant as the the rest, but this doesn’t help, because it reminds her…
It reminds her…
“No,” she whimpers. No, she has to concentrate. Find the right syringe while Ghost hacks it open. Or they’ll be trapped…
The orange light upon the slime gives it an almost reddish glow. Like blood. Like blood that spreads from a wound, that clots and clumps around bits of skull and brain matter…
The warmth of his lips on hers is still fresh when he pulls the trigger, and she can only stare in stunned silence as he collapses like a puppet with its strings cut. She drops to her knees and puts her hands on his chest, his face. There’s a mess under his head, on the sanitary white cabinets beside them. His body is warm, but his eyes are cold. Lifeless.
His body is still here, but he’s gone.
With a choked sob, she sinks to the ground and wraps her arms around her knees as the memory consumes her. She can’t breathe, she can’t think. Her heart is going to explode. She’s alone, she’s alone, she’s alone.
tw: suicide
"Thanks," she manages weakly, but Ghost isn't listening. Ghost is babbling, so softly that she can barely hear him over the pounding in her chest. "Ghost... Ghost. You need to find me a keycard, or hack the panel open. If we're supposed to heal someone, this must be the cure..."
She thinks. Hopes. It's impossible for her to tell what's in the syringes just by looking at them. It could be a cure, or it could be the very disease that started this whole mess. She tries to decipher the writing on the panel above, but it’s a hodgepodge of symbols and chemical equations. Her knowledge in biochemistry is failing her, and every second that passes is another second that they’re trapped in this room with no way to escape.
Her gaze flicking side-to-side, she catches sight of a pair of eyeballs on the panel next to the syringes. They look more human than the others, their irises colored hazel. They are as vacant as the the rest, but this doesn’t help, because it reminds her…
It reminds her…
“No,” she whimpers. No, she has to concentrate. Find the right syringe while Ghost hacks it open. Or they’ll be trapped…
The orange light upon the slime gives it an almost reddish glow. Like blood. Like blood that spreads from a wound, that clots and clumps around bits of skull and brain matter…
The warmth of his lips on hers is still fresh when he pulls the trigger, and she can only stare in stunned silence as he collapses like a puppet with its strings cut. She drops to her knees and puts her hands on his chest, his face. There’s a mess under his head, on the sanitary white cabinets beside them. His body is warm, but his eyes are cold. Lifeless.
His body is still here, but he’s gone.
With a choked sob, she sinks to the ground and wraps her arms around her knees as the memory consumes her. She can’t breathe, she can’t think. Her heart is going to explode. She’s alone, she’s alone, she’s alone.
He’s gone.