A/N: Hello, my lovelies. This is just a little drabble I wrote when bored. Enjoy.
The doctor was frantically searching for something. He was digging though shelf after shelf, desk after desk. It was to little gain, but he continued his scrounge through the old workplaces of Der Riese. His teammates, however, thought he was just being the crazed, mysterious being he usually was, and paid no attention to his odd actions.
The doctor's vision was blurring. It was beginning to become difficult for him to see what he was even looking for. Every vial, every container was the same. Edward became agitated. He swore silently, unable to form a coherent word physically.
A sudden violent fit of coughs racked his thin yet muscular frame. He was forced to double over, using a nearby filing cabinet for support. Mein Gott, if I do not find this soon I am finished, he thought to himself.
Something dripped down the side of his face, tickling his skin lightly. He wiped at it, only to see it was sweat forming. Richtofen peeled off a black, bloodstained glove and raised his cold, pale hand to his forehead. The doctor's normally ice cold skin was burning. He knew he couldn't take much more.
They were telling him just to give in. To let it take over him, to let it course through his veins, to let him feel the power. He knew that wasn't what the outcome was certain to be, but there was not much he could do about it anyway. Another series of coughs shocked his weakened body.
Droplets were heard splattering on the ground oh-so quietly. The psychotic scientist looked down to see blood had sprayed from his mouth. Nonplussed, he wiped it from his mouth, then slowly licked the blood from his hand. He wanted more; the overwhelming amount of iron dancing across his taste buds. The voices cried out angrily for him to inflict more pain, that it would feel good and he'd have more blood to consume. He ignored them, the logical side of his brain saying he needed to stay alive as long as possible. Maybe he could contact one of the dummkopfs to- no... He didn't need them.
He needed no one.
Besides, he knew he was dead anyway. His will to live slipped away, and he merely sat on the dusty, blood coated floor and sighed wearily. The doctor drew a little smile in the dust, chuckling quietly to himself. The laugh ceased abruptly as more painful hacks rose. The scientist couldn't clear his throat of the delicious viscous red liquid in time; it blocked his airways, causing him to choke on the very thing that gave him life. The voices stopped, satisfied at his unfortunate turn of events.
Then, everything stopped. The world slowly swirled to black and he went limp. No throbbing migraine. No sore throat. No weak, shaky limbs or cloudy vision.
There a blissful nothingness as death filled the room.
But it wasn't over.
His eyes snapped open, as well as a surprisingly powerful jaw. The being that was once a German scientist snapped up in a jerky fashion, stumbling to a stand. The scent of blood overwhelmed his senses, and he wanted to find where it was coming from.
Then he heard voices. They were distant; obnoxious and taunting. The monster followed the voices only to find three other living beings killing his brothers. He had no sense of reason, only a drive to join them in their run to take down the living three.
So he ran, as mindless as the other ones into a warm, welcoming death, never to see the day again.