♪~Fight the Virus~♪

“Rough is putting it lightly,” Lyra chides, but her tone is short lived– how could it not be? Standing before her is Ziel, bloodied and burnt. She frowns, waiting for the filters to finish their work before crossing the threshold to meet her brother. “I’m glad you made it back in mostly one piece…“ save for the obvious missing braid, which goes unspoken for the moment, despite her eyes lingering on the messy fringes of the android’s gold hair. “Synth should get a look at you, then you need to get some beauty sleep, alright?“

Vox had followed her through, lifting Ziel’s arm over his shoulders and urging the battered robot to lean against him. The contrast in their external temperatures briefly causing a small hiss, before they balanced each other out. Their group proceeded through the rest of the passages and sealed doors standing between their tiny refuge and the world of chaos above. A procession of ghosts, each reflecting the sleepless paranoia that kept them all moving.

As they reached the repair bay, Lyra finally relented, only making a slight face at the faded Enforcer before parting. “Make sure he actually gets some rest for once.” As much as she wanted to watch over her sibling, there were other things that needed her attention. Repairs to make around the base, rations to split, people to check on… 

Finally, an internal ping reaches Ziel’s systems, Vox’s unrepaired voice reaching the only person who could hear it. //Not sure what kind of rest she expects me to get you.//  He only half regretted being unable to make the smart ass remark aloud. 

The Leader sagged against his friend, accepting the cold touch with silent gratitude. Vox is like a splash of cold water, something that the red one would accept readily despite his prior dislike of icy temperatures-- the former General seemed to be the only thing able to lower his boiling touch to manageable levels now.

Being dropped off at Synth’s door like a baby actually doesn’t bother him this time, and he winces as the entrance slides open silently. It’s not the cyborg’s usual lab, moved months prior due to the increase of injured. None infected, thank gods, but everyone knew to stay away regardless. He almost doesn’t want to interrupt the work the cyan musician was doing, eyes averting from the unconscious human who’s arm he was replacing.

Casualties of destruction.

The doctor raises his head as they enter, tired eyes meeting his newest patients. Ziel could only wince. “...We’ll... check on some things, and then you can fix me up?” There’s a nod, and he limps away with his friend, the door sealing shut behind them. //Honestly, as much as I’d love to, you’re right.// Even if Vox hadn’t meant it that way.

The door slides open, the sound silent save for the woosh of air filters that followed him in, to clear his body of the disease. He’s limping in, and that would normally be a sign of danger, of infected, but Ziel was the only one that could not be inflicted with the virus. It meant sacrificing his safety, the eternal potential of overheating and melting his core, but he would stay himself.

The Guitarist leaned against the wall, accepting the tile’s cool embrace for the heat in his limbs. Finally, a chance to rest. He lifted a battered hand to his hair, feeling the burnt edges, the absence of his beloved braid. It feels strange, empty, and he’s light-headed without its weight upon his shoulders. 

In the distance, he could hear... It was faint, the scraping of mechanical feet against the rubble, of gravel scattering, the padding of hands(?) slapping against the concrete, blindly feeling, searching for something. A distant groan of failing machines, of a child crying in the ash.

Any person with a heart would have gone that way, to save that little girl.

But he knew better.

He scraped up a pebble, mouth pursed as he tossed it away, the rock clacking against a distant metal pillar, the noise resonating through the silence. The gentle sobbing lessened, the voice creaking and jerking away from his position. It halted, and then looped like a broken recording, lurching to the south, its own cry joined by two, then three.

A chance to run.

He turned, preparing for an escape--

A fourth cry, only meters away. Glowing unseeing eyes, wires looping through the neck, mangling the hands and legs, the ragged breathing of a human that was nothing more than fuel for the bulbous glowing core upon its throat. It was walking to where he’d thrown the distraction, but had been paused; by the he’d made when turning.

Hold your breath. It reached forward blindly, broken fingers splaying to grasp onto something, the noise it made, a hushed whisper, a croaking question. It would find him, the arm whispering an inch past his nose. He gave off heat here, a perfect antivirus but easy to sense if anything came in range. He knew, for his flames were the only thing keeping him safe from the airborne disease.

The creature clicked, leaning in as he leaned back, and screeched. It had noticed him after all. Another sound of grinding metal, one then three then five, screaming noise running rapidly to their location as he pulled away from the claws threatening to hold him down. Fire burst from his hands, a fist slamming into its neck, snapping the vertebrae keeping the mangled face upon its shoulders. The body dropped, twitching as red blood and white coolant bubbled from its mouth.

It’s hard to resist the gasp of surprise as he’s shoved face first to the ground, grinding screeching, the mottled child’s cry ringing in his ears at the thing upon his back, ripping its fingers into his sides. His teeth grin in pain, the rockets upon the bottom of his boots bursting to life and shooting him out of its clutches and into the air.

His escape is halted at the yank at his head, his once prized golden hair a hindrance as the braid is snagged. It’s heavy, and he can only barely twist his neck to catch one, two, six hands grasping at its base, dragging him back to their level.

A spit second decision, his fingers ablaze as he reaches backwards, and... s n a p. There’s a collective thud behind him, a cry as one hand reaches blindly for his boots, but he’s already gone. In the air, free, but not for long. Injured, his hands already red not with fire but with the energy output he made, threatening to turn his insides to slag.

 “τꀡꂅꂖ ꀡꀇꀣ ꀇよꁁꀇꂖꃶ ꃶꀇꀧꀣ ꁱꀒτ τꀒ ꃼꀧꁿ τꂅꁊꀡꁱꀒよꀒꁅꂖ ꀇꁱꀣ ꀾꂅꀒꀾよꂅ. ꀧτ ꀡꀇꀣ ꁌꂅꂅꁱ ꀇ ꃶꀧꃼꀾよꂅ ꁁꀡꀧτꂅ ꃼꀇꁱꃶ’ ꀋꀇꁊꀧꃶτ ꃶτꀇτꂅꃼꂅꁱτ ꀇꁅꀇꀧꁱꃶτ τꀡꀒꃶꂅ ꁁꀧτꀡ ꃼꂅτꀇよ ꀾꀇꀋτꃶ ꀇꁱꀣ ꁱꀒτ ꁻよꂅꃶꀡ, ꁌꀎτ ꀧτ ꃶꂅꂅꃼꂅꀣ τꀡꀇτ ꀧꁱ ꃶꀒꃼꂅ ꁁꀇꂖꃶ, τꀡꀇτ ꁁꀇꃶ ꁊꀒꀋꀋꂅꁊτ. ꁁꀡꀇτ ꀡꀇꀣ ꃶτꀇꀋτꂅꀣ ꀇꃶ ꀇ ꃶꀧꃼꀾよꂅ ꁊꀎꀋꂅ-ꀇよよ ꁻꀒꀋ ꀣꀧꃶꂅꀇꃶꂅꃶ, ꁊꀇꁱꁊꂅꀋꃶ, ꀣꂅꀇτꀡ, ꁁꀇꃶ ꁱꀒτꀡꀧꁱꁅ ꃼꀒꀋꂅ τꀡꀇꁱ ꀇꁱ ꀧよよꀎꃶꀧꀒꁱ ꃶꂅτ ꀎꀾ ꁌꂖ ꃶꀒꃼꂅ ꀎꁱꁜꁱꀒꁁꁱ ꁌꂅꁱꂅꁻꀇꁊτꀒꀋ.” 

“ꀇτ ꁻꀧꀋꃶτ, ꀧτ ꁁꀇꃶ ꀒꁱよꂖ τꀇꀋꁅꂅτꂅꀣ ꀇτ τꀡꂅ ꃼꂅꁊꀡꀇꁱꀧꁊꀇよ, ꀇτꂅ τꀡꂅ ꀇꁱꀣꀋꀒꀧꀣꃶ ꀇꁱꀣ ꀣꀋꀒꁱꂅꃶ ꀇꁱꀣ ꃼꂅꁊꀡꃶ τꀡꀇτ ꃼꀇꀣꂅ ꂅꃴꂅꀋꂖꀣꀇꂖ よꀧꁻꂅ ꂅꀇꃶꂖ; ꀧꁱꁻꂅꁊτꂅꀣ, ꃶꀎꀋꃴꀧꃴꂅꀣ, ꂅꃴꀒよꃴꂅꀣ. ꀧτ ꀡꀇꀣ ꁌꂅꂅꁱ ꀇττꀋꀇꁊτꂅꀣ τꀒ ꃶꀒꀎꁱꀣ, ꁊꀡꀇꃶꂅꀣ ꀣꀒꁁꁱ τꀡꀒꃶꂅ ꀒꁻ ꂅꀧτꀡꂅꀋ ꁻよꂅꃶꀡ ꀒꀋ ꃶꂖꁱτꀡꂅτꀧꁊ ꃶꁜꀧꁱ, ꃶよꀇꀎꁅꀡτꂅꀋꂅꀣ ꁁꀡꀇτ ꁁꀇꃶ ꀒꀋꁅꀇꁱꀧꁊ. τꀡꂅꀋꂅ ꁁꀇꃶ ꁱꀒ ꀒτꀡꂅꀋ τꂅꀋꃼ ꁻꀒꀋ ꀧτ.”  

“ꀧτ ꁁꀇꃶ ꀇ ꃴꀧꀋꀎꃶ.”  

“ꁌꀎτ ꀧτ ꁜꂅꀾτ ꂅꃴꀒよꃴꀧꁱꁅ. ꀇꁱꀣ ꃶꀎꀣꀣꂅꁱよꂖ τꀡꂅ ꀒꀋꁅꀇꁱꀧꁊ よꀧꁻꂅ ꁁꀇꃶ ꁐꀎꃶτ ꀇꃶ ꀧꃼꀾꀒꀋτꀇꁱτ τꀒ ꁜꂅꂅꀾ ꀇꃶ τꀡꂅ ꃼꂅτꀇよ ꁜꀧꁱꀣ, τꀒ ꀎꃶꂅ ꀇꃶ ꀋꂅꃶꀒꀎꀋꁊꂅꃶ, τꀒ ꀎꃶꂅ τꀡꂅꀧꀋ ꁌꀒꀣꀧꂅꃶ ꀇꃶ ꀾꀇꀋτꃶ τꀒ ꁌꂅꁊꀒꃼꂅ ꀇ ꀡꂖꁌꀋꀧꀣ. ꀧτ’ꃶ ꃶτꀧよよ ꁌよꀧꁱꀣ. ꃶτꀧよよ ꀇττꀋꀇꁊτꂅꀣ τꀒ ꃶꀒꀎꁱꀣ, ꁌꀎτ ꁱꀒꁁ… ꀧτ’ꃶ τꀋꂖꀧꁱꁅ τꀒ ꃶꀾꀋꂅꀇꀣ.”  

“τꀡꀧꃶ ꀧꃶ ꀒꀎꀋ ꃼꀧꃶꃶꀧꀒꁱ. ꁜꂅꂅꀾ ꀧτ ꁻꀋꀒꃼ ꃶꀾꀋꂅꀇꀣꀧꁱꁅ. ꁜꂅꂅꀾ ꀧτ ꁻꀋꀒꃼ よꂅꀇꃴꀧꁱꁅ ꀒꀎꀋ ꀎꁱꀧꃴꂅꀋꃶꂅ. ꀣꂅꃶτꀋꀒꂖ ꀧτ. ꁻꀧꁅꀡτ ꀧτ.”  

“ꁻꀧꁅꀡτ τꀡꂅ ꃴꀧꀋꀎꃶ.”