Fantasy Totum revolutum

[Featherstone]

Noah had renounced anything but that which could be proven when he was still a boy, a decision made in the midst of primal fear and blatant defiance. Afraid and alone and contending with the shattered pieces, he'd decided that there was not anything beyond what he could touch and see and know; death, as with life, was a set of variables and their interactions with the world. Death was when consciousness ceased to exist, when the brain stopped functioning past any hope of return, when synapses stopped firing and thoughts could no longer form. It was when there was nothing except a husk--regardless of whether that husk continued its automated movements. Life was death's antithesis: life was what stopped entropy and, for a temporary time, reversed it. Death was when that entropy finally overtook it.

That was what Noah thought he knew. Science, he understood, was made to question, not to hem in reality, but when the existential darkness stared him in the face he found himself wanting to cling to it like his father had a nonexistent god. The ice that had formed between his ribs and beneath his sternum was melting into his muscles and trickled through his blood with every pulse. The weight of his blade was detectable only in the pull of his arm, fingers tingling and numbed, and his dark eyes struck the writhing mass. Like the flies' larvae thick over the ground. Like maggots wriggling through eye sockets. Decomposition, grotesque and abhorrent, like the deer's corpse in the woods he'd stumbled upon as a boy with all the crows that Caleb had so adored. They'd dissipated in a flurrying curtain of black to unveil a writhing, fleshy mass that smelled sweet enough to make his stomach heave in repulsion, like the one oozing through his nostrils and throat and lungs now.

My nature still eludes you.

Whatever intentions Noah had before held of standing his ground were squashed out when the near-ten-foot-tall, likely diseased thing loomed above him and the unwavering miasma of decay surrounded him. He didn't know how he'd survived war, but he had every intention of opening his eyes to Carter's disheveled, half-awake figure next to him and looking back on this in the same wonderment he did on that half-formed memory of himself and his men in the mud. He turned, springing up the staircase as quickly as his legs could carry him, his heart bouncing against the edges of his chest. He grabbed the only key he had on his person--the one from the upstairs--and jammed it into the lock. If the last door had held that thing, then so could this one, or so he prayed--but only if he could get in and snap it shut before it got here. It wasn't rushing, yet, and that gave him a chance.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

Noah struck the mass, and at its core it remained unfazed. It remained as it was - not as a living being, but something else... The only thing that came to his mind was: fact. It wasn't dead, or alive, it wasn't changing, or going back, it couldn't be stopped, because this wasn't an entity it was a fact of existence.Black linen of the cloak was clinging to his hand like an old band aid, allowing him to escape, albeit leave burning cold on his skin. The being didn't retaliate, it didn't flinch, it wasn't angry, it wasn't amused. It didn't give the sudden attack any more thought that a person would to an angry ant biting the sole of their shoe. "Like. A. Child.", it spoke again, crawling up slowly after Noah, knowing full well that however fast he goes, it'll reach him sooner or later. He fiddled with the key, and the shape of a lock allowed it to be pushed inside, putting out the last source of sparse light coming from a keyhole. The key did not, however, turn all the way through: the door was locked, or jammed, or maybe held by the creature - by the fact - he had wanted to destroy for so long. "You can hide, but you can't run.", it reversed the idiom. It seemed suiting for its voice to turn low, and hoarse, and demonic, and yet, it remained the same - a high tenor of a young man, or a tired contralto of a mature woman.

"You wake up in the morning, and the town looks so calm and clean, and beautiful. But somewhere in the depths of another nondescript house a carrier is already lurking. In the noon, horde of fleas appear, transmitting sickness. Rats. Ravens. Flies. By the evening, the whole town is in agony. You've seen it many times now. You don't really expect to run away from this.", in the dark, amber eyes emitted a small glow - more akin to a reflecting light than real luminescence. The darkness creeped up the stairs, now halfway to Noah. It repeated: "So, are you ready to die?"

 

[Featherstone]

The door wasn't going to open. He could try breaking it down but he dismissed that as quickly as it came into his mind: if he did, then he would destroy the last thing between it and the only two living beings he knew of here. Instead, he turned around, staring at the entity bearing down upon him, knuckles turned pale for the force with which he grasped his blade. It was pointless to bear: it'd done nothing, it would do nothing, and here he stood. Pollen. He'd written that, in his notes, and now he knew what had brought it to mind, that horrible smell that was almost, for a flitting instant, summer. Where was his mind when now he needed it? Where were the clear memories, the understanding of what this was, any of Carter's wise words?

"No!" he snapped back at the creature, back pressed to the wooden threshold and eyes searching the narrow passage for any potential route of escape. "And I am not ready to let you take their lives, either!"

 

[kevintheradioguy]

The bird's face floated closer, and the silent black tentacles painted the walls around Noah from almost jolly sky-blue he remembered the house for, into a dark colour of space behind the clouds. "You cannot save them, doctor. Maybe you could, but not any more. I am already here.", it repeated. "You thought you'd lock them here from me, but instead, they are all locked away here with me.", it did make an immense amount of sense. Noah did quarantine the part of the city - most well-shielded, walled, separate part, an island on the river, not letting any man, woman, child, stray dog, or rat to come here. But what if something did? Then the sickness would bloom here, inside a walled stone garden, with orders from people to not let anyone out. People would die here, like in a gas chamber, suffocating on infection, because he gave the order. "You may not see me at once, but that doesn't mean I won't be there. I am telling you once more, I am already here. Resistance is pointless. You need to come to terms with my existence, and accept me, like you accept the law of gravity, or the sun rising from the east. I am earth. I am life. You have to feed me. Feed me, doctor. We are of the same nature. Take me in, doctor.", the black-and-white figure started riding over Noah, towering over him, as the voice ringed once more, repeating the question for the third time now. "Are you ready to die?"

 

[Featherstone]

The thing spoke as if it was death. Disease. Was this some wild apparition of his mind? Some bizarre, nightmarish hallucination conjured by a fevered imagination trying to make sense of terror? It didn't sound like an illusion, smell like an illusion, look like an illusion. It didn't feel like one, either, as it bore down upon him. Could his head well and truly come up with something like...this? If this creature's words were true then it was over. If there was disease within the quarantine area, he didn't know if he could find a way. To his knowledge there hadn't been any survivors. There had to be some, somewhere, but unless he could find them, it was all but meaningless.

It was life? Earth? The meaning became blurred: death and life were opposing forces, interrelated as they were. It asked him to feed it. To take it in. It'd called him stubborn moments before, and now he only gave it further reason to: "I will not give myself to death, not when my heart is stopping in my chest; no, I am not ready! I came here to destroy death, not to help it, not to open my door to it. I will resist until it is pointless and beyond, that is what soldiers, doctors, do! It is what I do! It doesn't matter how many times you ask it, I am not giving this sanctum up willingly, nor my place in it. Either go through me or leave now."

His voice wavered when he said it but he didn't sway regardless. He raised his gaze to meet the sick, yellowish eyes towering over him, adjusting the grip on his knife. No. No. He would not succumb. He would rather die than bend his will to this thing's. He'd bowed his head in obedience before and he would not--could not--do it again, much less to this abhorrent monster, this very thing that he sought to destroy, that Carter sought to destroy. Carter was the reason he was here and, if for no one else, Noah would prove this monster wrong. His breath came in sharp, deep, fast breaths, adrenaline coursing through him, afraid as much as he was adamant.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

For a moment the thing stopped there, on the stairs, its slow pace halting for a second. A new emotion emanated from it - a very familiar one, in fact, but Noah couldn't understand where it was familiar from, exactly. Tiredness, and condescension, as if it wanted to take a long sigh, but could not, for there was nothing but writhing darkness where its lungs were. "So be it.", it almost sang in it's eerily high voice. The cloak tentacles grabbed the walls tighter, going through the old paper, making it flake, and fall off in small, dusty chunks. The darkness strained, shivering, and twitching, like a feverish person, before all of a sudden, it lunched forward, poncing like a cat. Amidst the blackness of leather and rags, Noah saw two long, bony hands, clad in black, with finders just a bit too ling, and wrists just a bit too crooked, with white, polished, crooked nails - like fishing hooks - aiming at him. The next moment, he was suffocating in the linens, feeling the weight slamming into him, fingers aiming for his throat, but piercing his shoulders instead. It weighted no more than a human skeleton stripped of flesh, yet its long, flowing cloak wrapped around him, tangling his feet, as shaky fingers tore through his clothes and under his skin, taking by force what he wouldn't give up willingly.

 

[Featherstone]

One moment he was standing there before it, daring it to take him; the next and his breath was seized from his lungs, choking on the odor and pain that seared in his shoulders; darkness played over his eyes and frigid air sucked sensation away from his skin. Warmth--the only warmth in its grasp--welled through his shirt's threads. Saturating it in crimson. Dripping down his side. White and red flashed over his eyes but he did not go still. He thrashed beneath the monster's grip like a hare seized in a wolf's brutal fangs: it was all but a futile effort, or so he thought, but wild instinct overtook him to drive his knife into one of its arms and kick at the living--dying--fabric. A feral, defiant cry was rent from his lips in basal rebellion against life's single absolute.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

Noah was startled by a loud thud. He was sitting in his bed, feet tangled in the sheets, bright orange sun shining from the window scorching his skin, making him sweat, while the draft from the open ones cooled it down, making him shiver feverishly. He was sitting there, shaking, knife he kept near clutched in his grip, blood dripping from it. On the floor, back to the chest of drawers with some of his clothes, there was a fair-haired boy - no older than twelve - with skinny face and all covered in freckles - looking up at him, as he clutched his elbow. Blood oozed from between his fingers, and his dirty, green plaid shirt few sizes too large was slowly turning crimson. One would expect the boy to cry, but he instead was looking at him astonished, offended even, as if he was insulted by what happened. His expression changed fast as he realised Noah came to his senses. Matches, the man recollected. He didn't know what the boy's name was, but everyone called him Matches. He didn't know why - but the fact he had lost his parents in a house fire painted quite a tragic story behind that nickname.

Looking down, Matches lifted his hand to try and look at the cut, letting more blood out, and immediately pressing the hand back again. He wobbled, standing up without the help of his arms, but managed to do that with relative success. He still didn't cry, and looked like he forgot all about it, looking at Noah with light concern, but general disposition. "You felt feverish there, chief.", he said in a high voice, saturated with mischief. "You're not getting sick, are you?", the boy cocked his head. "The Judge came this morning, said he needed to talk to you, but I said, no, sir, he needs to rest. An' now look at me, waking you up on my own!", he gave an entertained chuckle. "But you seemed like you needed an express waking up there, else ya'd break the bed!"

 

[Featherstone]

The knife clattered to the ground the instant Noah registered the blood. Worry was instantly replaced with relief when the kid didn't express any panic or express particular alarm, although concern still wove itself in the ripples over Noah's brow. It was a dream. A dream. The death-bird, Norah, Murad, the bull, the bodies, the barbarian woman. His fingers wrapped in the mattress, weight swaying against it as he tried to process where he is and what the boy was saying. The Judge, waking up, the boy was still bleeding. One deep breath was what it took for him to seal the disorientation over and shove it aside: nightmares were a natural part of existing, much less having seen war. He wasn't dying.

An expletive was the first thing to go through Noah's mind, but something far less uncouth was what left his lips before the youth as he untangled his legs from the blankets and rose. "No, no, I'm fine, just tired. Sorry, Matches, are you alright?" he asked, shakily standing to go to the bag at the foot of the bed to get the boy a bit of gauze, just to stem the bleeding. He'd take a quick glance at the cut before he left, just to appease the nagging anxiety that would plague him if he ignored it, although he doubted it was anything severe given the child's reaction. Tremors still coursed through Noah's muscles, although he wasn't sure if it was from the receding chills or the fading adrenaline. The confusion still clouded his thoughts but he'd focus on the boy first. Time would orient him and answer his questions; that was the nature of waking up from terrors. He fished the gauze out and extended it to him. "Just hold that there for a few minutes to stop the blood, kiddo.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

In response, the boy winced - not out of pain, but dismissing the question. "Not the worst thing to happen to me.", he commented, shrugging. The boy was brave for his age - or he might really have seen worse things in his life than a deep cut to the elbow - and Noah knew a few things about bravery. Matches didn't flinch, and he didn't cry, or panic, just held his hand tight to the cut, and spoke business, and tried to bend his arm and arch his back in such a way blood wouldn't drip on the carpet, and instead soak the shirt - it was obvious by the way how he mindfully looked under his feet, and clutched the shirt closer to his body as soon as he felt anything dripping. This is something not all soldiers could brag about, and this was a very young orphan boy in front of him - not an adult man trained to handle such things. At least Noah didn't hit a vein - which was extremely lucky for the kid given the place of a cut. Maybe went through one artery, seeing how much blood there was, but not deeply so. The boy felt fine, after all.

He winced again, seemingly not appreciating being called 'kid', and hesitated to take anything from Noah, asking "You sure this is necessary? I mean this is nothing to how some of the boys used to beat me up before I learned how to sneak 'round, and you might needed it for the real sick.", he didn't, however, defy, what the real sick were, though Noah could probably figure this out. The Bridge Square, after all, was the last place uninfected buy the plague outside, and if even one person gets it... well, his dream told him everything about it. Everyone would die. Yesterday morning this was the last citadel of health in town - asides for the church in the square they called a quarantine zone to place anyone with as much as a hint of fever in until close examination. Now it seemed like the afternoon, and by the lack of cries and screams, their small citadel held the siege of sickness perfectly. That was until Matches spoke again:

"So, yeah, I came up 'ere not just because you were trying to break the bed - and not because you had that lass over, I'd not bother in that case - but because I got some bad news. Blacky's... you know, Blacky, right?" Noah didn't, but by the nickname, it was probably another kid. "Anyhow, Blacky's old man's sick. Not like sick sick, like, you know, not the plague thing. Will you cure him? And not send your blackheads after him? Cause then them all are getting locked up. Or worse. And it's not the plague thing, I'm telling you!" The children were calling the morticians 'blackheads'. Or what was the closest to morticians anyway. People volunteering to gather corpses, wearing the bird suits they've traded from the theatre which, in turn, got them from the local tribes. If their leather-and-bone beaks are filled with cotton, then, combined with heavy garments and stilts, they have made perfect plague-proof suits for those that handled the dead. And people feared them even more than the plague itself, almost believing these people were the ones to bring it instead of helping getting rid of it. Of course, people being people, they marauded and robbed to their heart's content while handling the dead - which might've had a role in their infamy - but this was truly the lesser evil.

 

[Featherstone]

He was so stoic for one so young, and the reality of that being borne out of necessity was sobering. A subtle solemnity tugged at the corners of Noah's lips and he nodded an affirmation. "Yes, it's just a little bit, and it's better than using something dirty. Lessens the risk of infection. There's plenty more, I promise." He didn't call him 'kiddo,' this time, not wanting to cause the boy any unnecessary discomfort. Once he'd convinced him to take it, Noah moved past him, listening while he grabbed a thick button-up to pull on over his current shirt. He'd take the time to clean up when the sick weren't waiting on him--or as close to it as he could get.

He proceeded to grab his boots and laced them up, keeping the concern off of his face. The fear of the morticians was unavoidable but unpleasant and, in Noah's opinion, a bit dangerous: it was too easy for frantic people to start rioting and mobbing when they panicked, and whatever they blamed for their terror became their target. In spite of Matches' stubborn repetition of it not being the plague, worry dragged at his drawn-out thoughts--if it was, well...His dream told him enough. He grabbed the knife and wiped the blade on the hem of his pants--he didn't have a rag, and he couldn't very well put it away bloodied, not to mention that it'd be shoved inside his shoe the rest of the day anyways--and then buckled it into place.

"I'll check him out, Matches, and I won't send anyone anywhere if I can help it," he assured the boy. "If you can tell me where to go I can head there now. Do you know where the Judge is so that I can find him afterwards?"

 

[kevintheradioguy]

Being convinced by Noah's words, the child shrugged again, taking the gauze, and trying to apply it fast enough not to let the blood spill too much. He might not have been a doctor - even though his constant running after Noah and basically being his secretary in last few days made him at least an apprentice - but he knew that most bodily fluids belonged inside. He got tangled in his shirt and a dirty old undershirt, but managed to somehow press the gauze to the wound, before trying to bandage himself with it. He was skinny, and bony, and narrow, with arms like... well, matches. That shouldn't be very hard. He was quite a confident youngster for someone his age and size, come to think of it.

"Yeah, he lives just 'round the corner. ", Matches replied, nodding to the window. "You jus' walk out, go through the arch, and it's the first house you'll see. Blue one. Blacky lives on the first floor. I mean, I'd walk you there, but we shouldn't been seen together.", he said that in almost conspiratorial tone, though not a childish one. Almost like some older lady having an affair with a servant, knowing full well what would happen if her husband learns about it. like this actually was a life-and-death situation.

"An' the Judge... probably in his house, I don't know. He's too important for me to know for sure." The Judge wasn't an official title, but as close as it got. Noah knew the man by the name of Gregory - in fact, this was the man he reached out to meet the 'immortal' living in this town. Before the plague hit and put his plans on hold. Gregory Caine was de facto leader of the town, hence why people called him the Judge. As Matches spoke of him, he bit his lip, and doubted for a moment. "I don't know if you should't skip this one, chief. Didn't like how the old geezer looked, you know."

 

[Featherstone]

First house past the arch, blue, first floor, Blacky's father. There was an odd tone to Matches' urgency about not getting seen with Noah but he chose not to press the kid and instead take it in stride--if that was the case, then Noah would be careful to avoid getting seen with him. It was simple enough. Noah leaned over to grab his bag and dragged it over, opening it to rifle through and made sure he had everything--bandages, alcohol disinfectant, stethoscope, syringes, sharps, a flashlight, his notebook, a lighter, and a half-gone pack of cigarettes, among other various items and medicines. He ran his hand through his hair to neaten up and stood, slinging it over his shoulder.

"If he's so far gone then it won't take me long, and if he's not then my time is well spent," Noah answered, shaking his head. "Thanks, Matches, for getting me. Sorry again about the arm. Let me know if it gets worse. I'm sure you've lived just fine through more severe things, but that doesn't mean there's any reason to suffer when I'm right here, even if it's not so bad, alright? I'll go see Blacky and then the Judge. You keep safe as you can out there."

 

[kevintheradioguy]

"I'll be fine. And around. Not my first, um-m-m...", he seemed to forget the word 'rodeo', but quickly dismissed it. "If anythin' goes bad, I know how to use alcohol properly. Not like Squirrel's father, that is.", there was an obvious story behind what was the improper way someone's dad used it. "Oh, about that. Don't give Squirrel any nuts, okay? It's important.", he said, and although the sentence was nonsensical, and asked for a joke about rodents liking nuts, he looked dead serious about that - even more serious than when he spoke about the Judge, or not being seen together.

In the light of day, not distorted by the feverish dream, Noah recognised the house. He was in his room - where he dreamt the bull - and knew exactly that there was a larger lab-slash-library area. That the room next to his led downstairs, and a small room to the left he "awoke" at earlier was once a bathroom, but the pipes burst, so it was remade into a small carpentry by the family whose house was taken for a small hospital. It was just in the middle of Bridge Square, and gave equal access to every other place around, thus, being a perfect hospital. Outside he heard people talking, children playing, and someone yelling about another quarantine inconvenience. Despite the lockdown, people proceeded with their lives as if nothing was happening, always sure that whatever bad happens won't touch them at all.

 

[Featherstone]

Don't give Squirrel any...nuts? He almost asked what Squirrel's father did, then decided it probably wasn't worth the time and didn't know if he wanted to further lose his faith in humanity, so he dismissed that and chose to inquire about what the latter statement meant instead. It sounded important, or like Matches thought it was. The ambient angst of the nightmare faded the more reality soaked in: a recognizable room, a clear direction in what he had to do, and a safety that, although stringent, was still very much present. There was still life here--even if there wasn't in his dream.

"Nuts?" he asked. "You don't mean like...nut-nuts, like food nuts?" It didn't sound like it, but he was unfamiliar with the local slang Matches was so accustomed to. He paused, habitually checking his pockets and going back through his mental list, in spite of the fact that he'd just put his knife away and flicked through his bag. The knife, the contents of his satchel, the extra shirt he was already wearing--if he had a moment to spare, it had to be spent triple-checking the things he already kept in religious order.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

The child looked as confused as Noah it seems. He cocked his head, awkwardly scratching the tip his ear. "What other nuts are there?", he asked, not ashamed of his own ignorance. Then, he shook his head. "No, I mean nuts-nuts. Like... chestnuts, or hazelnuts, or peanuts, or hose small crooked ones that taste like cotton candy... or so they say." He probably spoke of cashew, and probably never tried cotton candy. "I mean if you even have any. You might not even meet her, but if she does... I mean, if you do, don't give her anything, okay? She'll ask for some, but don't. Better bring everything to me. I have my own contacts, I'll make you a better deal.", it almost sounded like he was speaking about some illegal drugs rather than food treats. Not giving some girl he calls Squirrel any nuts for some reason. He has contacts. Better deals.

This all sounded confusing and cryptic, but then again, this town lived in the middle of grassy steppe-like plains, surrounded by barbarians with most peculiar (to say the least) traditions ranging from covering themselves in mud to ritual sacrifices as he managed to read in what few articles there were about them. It was typical that the cultures mixed, so maybe nuts had some specific meaning to children, be it some symbolic declaration of love and appreciation, or on the contrary - a black mark of sorts.

Or maybe he just cared for the Squirrel girl, and she had an allergy! However much young people liked to deny sympathies and crushes, Matches looked mature enough not to shun away from natural emotions. Whatever the reason was, some girl by the name of Squirrel would ask for some nuts, and Matches thought Noah under no circumstances should give her any.

 

[Featherstone]

Noah, having been around Caleb in his youth and worked in law enforcement, was not exactly a stranger to backhanded alley deals--not that he'd engaged in many of them himself, but they'd definitely been in his vicinity more than once. The way Matches spoke about nuts was like some spoke of horse or dope, the irony of which threatened to bubble out in a chuckle. It didn't, revealed only in the slightest of eyebrow quirks, but then he shrugged.

"Alright, I won't give Squirrel any nuts, if I happen to have any and encounter her," he agreed, mind wandering even as he spoke. When did the train come next? Inevitably, Carter came to mind, the last lingering thoughts of him leaking over from the dream. The only reminder he had of his fiancé was the plain band on his finger. Noah had proposed before the university's plans to shut down the project, and they'd postponed the wedding for all of this.

He went to the door, then, pushing it open and glancing back to Matches. "Is there anything else I should know before I go to Blacky's or will I be safe so long as I don't give Squirrel nuts?" he asked, a hint of humor coloring his tone. Noah wasn't the sort of person who was a particular jokester or smiled more than most people did, but he had a trained sort of bedside manner he'd developed long before he became a doctor that inevitably leaked through in most of his interactions. It was a personable manner--or meant to be--if reserved.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

It was refreshing seeing the place in daylight, when the sun shined on blue wallpaper, covered in small prints of tiny, dim-purple roses. Very old-fashioned and nice, laving behind some decrepit romanticism, a feeling of good old times that are long gone, but still bring pleasant memories. It felt nothing like the dream - it felt warm, and soft, and maybe just a little bit stale, like being submerged in hot, murky waters of a small pond. But the dream, however odd and eerie it was, managed to leave impression behind. It might've been a collection of Noah's fears - or rather, a fear of failure, but it was a prosthetic one in a non-spiritual way. Dreams spoke to people on a subconscious level, after all, their brains analysing things that happened, and sometimes bringing up things the conscious mind missed. Maybe, his brain told him he really did miss something. Some way for an infected rat to get through, or some house he didn't check thoroughly. The dreamed showed him what will happen tomorrow, or the day after, if he fails at this quarantine. And it wasn't the most pleasant picture.

While there was some jesting in Noah's voice, Matches didn't seem offended at all. He seriously thought about that for a moment, before shrugging. "Well, not really. Blacky, Judge, Squirrel... better not tell them I sent you, though. Hope you got enough sleep, there seems a lot of work to do today. Everyone look... itchy for something. Saw people cursing your name in large groups - must've been something you'd done that they feel imposes on their freedoms or whatnot. So be careful there. I'm not saying they'll try to bet you up or anything, but you know.", he shrugged. "Louts and oxen."

 

[Featherstone]

Louts and oxen, was it? He nodded, sighing inwardly at the news of civil unrest. It wasn't surprising but it wasn't ideal, either. "I'll keep my lips sealed and eyes open," he assured him. "Take care of yourself, Matches, and if you need it for the arm I have some alcohol in the bottom drawer there. Might not hurt to use it ahead of time anyways, just in case." He gestured to the dresser that mainly housed his clothes, with a few other odds and ends--the bag he'd brought his attire in, extra supplies and materials that he didn't need to keep on him, and the like, although he kept his gun better hidden--shoved into the bottom of it.

With this, he slipped outside, grabbing his trench coat from its place folded next to the door that would lead downstairs and then outside. His gloves and scarf were already shoved into its pockets and he'd set his hat carefully on top. He deposited the hat on his head, shrugged his bag onto his other shoulder to start pulling the coat on, and then opened the door, striding briskly down the stairs while he buttoned it up. That was one thing he and Carter had in common: although Noah was far more organized and methodical in his manner, neither of them wasted time when there was a patient around the corner. Coat, gloves, scarf, bag, journal, his bag's necessary contents, his knife--canteen. Water was useful for drinking but he couldn't count the times it'd helped him in a fix when treating a patient--it wasn't the best way to flush wounds, but when time was of the essence, it served its purpose. He turned, jogged back up, grabbed the metal container from the ground next to where his coat had been--he'd had it there the whole time and, even still, overlooked it--and then ducked back into the stairwell to resume his journey to Blacky's residence.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

This was a weird season here. Early autumn. The winds blew cold, but the sun was hot and scorching. It was hard to tell whether to dress light or warm, as the former left the skin revealed to the wind whipping one with cold. Having warm clothes on would leave a person sweating. The locals were used to it, however, as they wore obscene amounts of the most exquisite leather - typical for a town that's know for its meat industry. Wool, on the other hand, was a very rare thing to have, showing status and income. The opposite of what Noah was used to in the Capital. Here, even small children wore leather coats not many adults in his university could afford, and never even thought about keeping it clean or with no tears.

He walked through the door downstairs that once had a large 'no' on it, entering a well-lit stairway down, and approached another door that also held a 'no' in his dream. And behind it there really was nothing but a hallway, an umbrella stand, a coat hanger, and a few doors leading to other apartments here. People did live in a weird way in these parts. Not just through labyrinthian houses, but sharing such places the way they did. Small, uneven, different apartments, sharing hallways and kitchens. Odd.

He opened the door outside, preparing to be met with bright sun and cold wind, but instead bumped into darkness. Looking up, he was met by a bony fact of a giant bird he saw in his dream, placed atop linen and leather long coat. Almost as if it was waiting for him just as he was going to step outside to drag him to hell. It looked down at him with its empty amber eyes for a couple of seconds. "Gregory Grbić. Orderly number eight. Here to report.", the muffled words resonated through the warm hallway behind Noah's back.

 

[Featherstone]

It was only through self-control that he kept himself from jumping when he nearly collided with Gregory, the bizarre dream-apparition still tugging at the back of his thoughts, but he made no external flinch or visible motion of having been startled. The only detectable hint of anything off-putting was the fact that he took an extra second of silence to answer the orderly, taking that time to step outside and close the door to make it seem as if he weren't merely taking a moment to process.

He reached into his bag, grabbing his notebook and flipping to one of the many tables, where he input the data on infections, deaths, and the like, intending to write it down now instead of trying to store it in his mind and record later. "Thank you, Gregory. Please, go ahead," he prompted, leaning over the pages and pulling down the brim of his hat so he could see them properly. The sun was bright and the sky was cloudless, making the pale paper damn near glow and forcing him to squint in order to make out his pencil lines. That was where a pen was useful, but ink bled when wet, and graphite didn't, so he dealt with the inconveniences of lighter writing.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

The man beneath the mask took a long, hard breath. Cotton-filled beak prevented hi from breathing properly. Noah knew that feeling well, having worn gas masks before - it was extremely hard to take a breath through all the filters. "Generally speaking, the coast's clear. No signs of the plague. The area seems to be secured, no visible signs of the sickness, no one even reporting their neighbours. Me and the boys spoke, and we think congratulations are in order. it looks like you've won. The rest of town might die in a few days, but these people out here seem safe, even if a little on edge. Nothing a good drink once the bar's open can't fix!", he seemed to try to be jolly, but there was something on his mind weighting him down. "As for us, we're be leaving this part of town. Our place is across the river. There's work to be done there. People to bury. Can't leave them lying there for the crows." It was ironic to hear that from a giant crow. Orderly Grbić did make sense: bodies should be buried or better yet - burned to prevent the sickness spreading. Though if they all are gone, he, Noah, would have no one to help him here as well. Not to mention, that 'coast is clear' was his, orderly's, evaluation - and it was for Noah to decide whether or not the sickness penetrated their barriers, especially since his own brain was telling him he missed something. If he really did, he'd need orderlies to be here. But if it was a fantasy, they'd be wasting their time in this district while able to do their job in the infected part of town.

 

[Featherstone]

Won, had they? He dropped a few zeroes into place with a subscript 8--to indicate that the information was received from Orderly 8, whose name was written down several pages before the charts. The news seemed too good to be true, but he hoped that his assessment was an accurate one. The dream still had him a bit shaken but there was certainly the possibility that his dream was exactly that: a dream. "I'm glad to hear it," he said, keeping the worry from his face and replacing it with a warm smile as he tucked the notebook away. "Would you do me a favor and talk to the others, see if a few of you could stay behind? Just in case. I would rather err on the side of caution lest one of us missed something, and this way, if we did, I won't be trying to do damage control alone. Not that I think it likely--only that it wouldn't be the first time myself or one of my men have overlooked something and not been prepared for an oversight." And, of course, damage control with a rampant plague could mean the ruin of the last people here in the final sanctum. "I really do appreciate your services, Orderly Grbić, and the same goes for the others. None of this would be possible without your assistance."

 

[kevintheradioguy]

There was tangible confusion coming from the man behind the mask. "But most orderlies are already there. Gone for good. Some went home even." He looked around, the beaked mask swaying, as if he was trying to give everything another look, albeit a surface one. He didn't notice anything plague-related. Just another peaceful day: the town looked calm, and clean, and beautiful. He turned back to Noah, and even through the cotton, his voice changed into a higher, kinder one, almost feminine, as if he was trying to calm down a little child in pain. "Come now, doctor. Look at yourself! I've seen happier corpses - and I've seen a lot. If you wouldn't have been talking, I might've taken you to a pyre! You really should stop worrying - your work here is done. You deserve some good rest. Good, long, peaceful rest..." Coming from that mask, that sentence sounded incredibly ominous, like death itself was speaking once more through the bird, telling him to give up.

 

[Featherstone]

It all seemed so normal, and this, paired with the orderly's obvious bafflement made Noah question his own reality for a moment. Was he being paranoid? Was it possible to be too careful in a time like this, fighting an invisible enemy? He hesitated and followed Grbić's gaze. No, no--there wasn't time for rest, not with the potential for a single rat, a rat that could fit through a hole the size of a quarter, to bring this all down. People were locked in here from the quarantine. It was as that nightmarish thing had pointed out--if disease got in here, it would destroy them, in close quarters as they were. Trapped inside a gas chamber.

Was his solemnity really so obvious behind the smile? His face fell more at that realization than it did at the light chiding and the recollection of the dream-bird that had told him to die. The adoption of a higher tone brought no more pleasure to Noah than being called 'kiddo' had to Matches--he wasn't immature or stupid or irrational, he was wary, and rightfully so in the middle of a pandemic that had just razed countless lives. He didn't comment on it, though, only answered in a tone that tried much less hard to be warm and at least somewhat uplifted.

"Just give me a few hours, I need to see Blacky's father and talk to Gregory Caine, and then I can go assess everything for myself. If they're all already working, surely they can spare you for that long?" he asked. He wasn't begging or plaintive, but there was definitely a hint of imploring there.