The Nexus Virus
By Black Waltz 0
Mordesh didn't get sick, Agent Formaldehyde thought. He told himself this with all confidence even as needlelike chills ran up and down his arms like electric arcs of reprobate ice.
He hadn't suffered an ailment in almost eighty years. Sure, there remained the periodic influx of nausea and fatigue that could sometimes wash over him every so often, symptoms that were entirely to do with the vitalus that still flowed alongside his veins, not to mention the rare and horrifying potential blight known as the wormcurse, but colds and flus, the same petty troubles of the living hadn't bothered to plague his ravaged body since he was a young man, still warm and thrumming with the beat of life deep within his chest.
Why, he could barely remember being all tucked up in bed, covered in a down duvet and reading the comforting adventure serials that had sustained him while his mother prepared her powerful alchemical remedies in the next room. Bitter medicine, nourishing warm broth and cool lips against his forehead, checking his temperature with a kiss. Mother's kiss. He couldn't even remember her face anymore.
Agent Formaldehyde sat on the edge of the sick-bay bed with his arms wrapped tightly about himself, trying to constrict the chills out of his body by hand. He visibly gritted his teeth even as he waited for the effects of the medishot to manifest, trying to ignore Dr. Dmitriev Konstantinov as he prattled on while gauzing the laser burns on his back.
"Go on and tell me again what happened." The doctor said, speaking behind his white face mask and from the metal prosthetic smile hidden beneath.
Mal relaxed just enough to permit himself to speak. The treatment stung a little but he could barely feel it beyond the powerful sensation of trembling cold. He sighed, no longer digging his nails into the flesh of his biceps. "Ah… I was in Walatiki temple. Enroute to infiltrate the Dominion base. I stuck to the shade so I could be sure of my stealth. I would not be spotted. But then…"
Formaldehyde released himself and looked at his hands. They were unstable and sweating slightly. "I… lost control of my nanites. My cloaking cancelled and entered cooldown before I could even consider my chances amidst, oh, around half a dozen dangerous defending Dommies. I am still somewhat muddled as to how I managed to survive. Since then I have experimented but my nanites refuse to hold reflective form for long, or barring that, they fight with me to maintain their shape even when I wish for my nanoskin to dissolve."
Dmitriev swabbed the burn area with a long-handled q-tip, taking a sample of his fellow mordesh's tissues for later. For tests. "And the shivering and shaking? Do you have sound reasoning for that?"
The Black Hoods agent shook his head. "No. This is new."
Dr. Konstantinov made a clucking sound with his mouth that honestly Formaldehyde was utterly stumped over how he could make it, considering the other man did not possess a tongue. "We mordesh do not get sick, you know."
"I know." Agent Formaldehyde echoed, a tad annoyed. He didn't need someone with a PhD to tell him what he already knew.
"Have you been anywhere particularly contagious lately? I am going to tell you now that if you mention 'strain-anything' I am going to cram you into a containment unit and call the reapers right away." He was smiling as he said this.
"I am awed by your compassion, Dim."
"Compassion is the cheery call of the optimist, Mal. I'm just being practical."
Formaldehyde tried to think back even as his head swam. "I suppose I was present at the Exiles War Memorial close to two days ago. Yasty wanted to go. She wished to hang a dedication on the boughs of the memoriam tree for the sake of her family."
"And plenty of people were there?" Dmitriev was inspecting his ever-present datachron now, dragging a gloved finger across the screen as he spoke.
"Enough." The stalker responded, beginning to piece things together and not liking where this was going, but in all honestly he was feeling a little too weak to react much more than the slight quirking of his eyebrow and the narrowing of his eyes.
Dr. Dmitriev said something very quietly under his breath that not even his patient could hear, rapidly opening and closing programs compartmentalized in the palm of his large hand. He uttered a sigh of his own eventually, leaning over a little to toss Formaldehyde his discarded, somewhat bloodstained shirt. "We'll have to look into this. I'm sorry to say you're not patient zero in this troubling time, but until you revealed yourself there haven't been many cases affecting Grismaran patients."
Before Mal could speak again the doctor waved his words away. "Look, just hurry home for now. I'm going to tell you what I've been telling all the aurin who arrived earlier today. Stay warm, drink plenty of water and try to sleep it off. Oh, and refill your vitalus every twenty-two hours instead of twenty-four. Just to be safe."
Agent Formaldehyde pulled his shirt on over the freshly-affixed bandages. His necrotic flesh would heal eventually, but slowly. "There remains works to be done." He said, a tad obstinate.
Dmitriev pressed a few more buttons, his datachron emitted a gentle chime and he laughed softly. "Aaaaand… already taken care of. I've uploaded a medical certificate to your file. Return to your residence right away."
The silver-haired mordesh grimaced, but he was forced to admit his defeat when he started coughing uncontrollably.
The mordesh physician with the light green skin and glowing vitalus plugs in his skull helped the suffering Black Hoods agent up and escorted him to the back door of the sickbay. It would have been nice to have more time to study him, particularly because of the pathogen-blocking properties of the contagion, but he had to move on. There was a line already forming of coughing and shivering people beyond the door.
Mordesh didn't get sick. Everyone knew that.
But nothing was ever really right on this crazy world.