Author's Note: I don't own Portal or Beowulf.
More than one portion of wealth
shall melt with the hero, for there's a hoard of treasure
and gold uncounted; a grim purchase,
for in the end it was with his own life
that he bought these rings: which the burning shall devour,
the fire enfold.
He sat in his office with the lights off, long after everyone had gone home. Plotting a course of action for his last days. He was a doer, damn it, and he was not going to sit around and mope.
There were accounts to close, affairs to set in order, but he wasn't going to deal with that garbage. The bean counters could sort that out after he was pushing up daisies. He was just going to keep working as he had his entire life, as though there was nothing wrong, and the doctors be damned.
One of the docs had told him that he was in denial because he was afraid. He had laughed in his face, but the words came back to him now, in the quiet darkness.
He wasn't afraid. He wasn't.
At least, not for himself.
What would happen to this facility, this lifetime of sweat and blood, when he was gone?