{{This is a little experiment I had in the back of my skull for ages but didn't have adequate framework to work under or the conviction as I had become indifferent and sometimes uncomfortable with the series. I wrote much of this out before the icky feelings had set in, and editing it after was difficult. But I'm putting this here for the sakes of a few people who wanted to see it even in an ugly state.

Included SCPs created by Gabriel Jade and Lt Masipag.
Content warning: Some medical gore obvs!}}

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Chapter 1 -

When he had strolls in the sun, many pretended they weren't watching him. Hurried glances and hushed words of caution, how they gave character away. In return, he acted calm in his searching for any signs of the pestilence despite his rising panic.

On most days, he stayed inside a house that was both too worn for the average person's taste, not yet in eye-catching disrepair. Its previous residents had long since lent themselves to his cause, decomposed, and fell to ash in the fire. Roughly a dozen others suffering in ways sympathetic or otherwise joined the count and vanished from the public eye.

Through APBs over the TV listing names and accompanying faces, he learned of his patients which they refused to say. On the off chance, names the anchors scrolled through weren't recognized. Those, he deemed lost and gone forever to the pestilence. He'd whisper a prayer for their families and return to his work. His newest patient couldn't fight back, having been a depressed drunk unwilling to slap away the flies. The doctor wouldn't leave him to languish beneath the arch of someone's door, miserable and ignored. A man just approaching old age, and almost a week of operation made him seem older. The patient's skin was wrinkling, retracting, and the doctor was losing hope fast for this one. Hastily jammed copper tubes in the man's lungs hadn't worked.

Now the patient- corpse laid with its ribs cracked wide open, arms dangling off the table's edge. Its intestines, liver, and pancreas were doused in preservative fluid and rearranged during the final operation. Surely, the body's stench was overpowered by slapdash chemistry.

So much blood loss, so much had been mopped up. He had no shortage of a replacement, but it was no use for a body that rejected it so violently. If he had a reason to shop around today, a few carpets weren't a bad investment for a slippery mess. He would rather forget about that misstep.

The doctor turned his attention to the nightstand, pulled one of the few clean shreds of cloth from its drawer, and shoved it shut. He pinched the corners and shook the sheet before laying it over the man's face. Copper tubes were removed by hand with wet sounds and clattered in the sink. There, he rinsed the dark blood from his hands and watched the blood spiral down the drain as he dried off.

Stepping away with a sigh, the doctor inked his findings and confusion in his thick journal. He used a flowing shorthand belonging to no history but his own. It made him yearn for the smoke floating from many freshly extinguished candles.

Rapid knocking startled him into swiping a large loop into the previous entry. He waited, in case he was just hearing things. After a five-count, it came again. He set the journal back on the shelf.

Against his better judgement, he emerged from the back room and crossed the living room to the splintered door. He hadn't anticipated guests, and had but a handful of rehearsed lines for various figures of authority seeking for his aid, or confinement.

Whoever it was, they didn't speak. Perhaps they were waiting for him to ask so they could identify him by voice. He gripped the handle, knuckles stretching leathery skin.

By Hygeia, he had to know. He unlocked the bolt and snapped it open just enough to poke his beak out. Daylight fell through the frame as he saw the last thing he expected on the porchfront. One, two, six children who'd stolen a step backwards as they gawked at his face towering over them. Apart from tiny heart attacks he'd given them, they were healthy. Why were they without a guardian?

"Hello," he supplied softly.

"He's r-real!" One boy stammered as he fell into the direction he intended to run, and all of them followed suit screaming about not wanting their bones boiled for curses.

Except one who stared after them, a pale girl with dishevelled pink hair. She spun around with a smile and, he couldn't believe his ears, thanked him. One eye of hers was all black, likely hyphema, he noted. Before he could ask about it, she fled opposite from the rest of the group, screaming happily in mock terror.

He was still for a moment, not understanding what happened if it wasn't a botched ding-dong-ditch attempt.

A dull weight sank in his stomach as he retreated into his shack, and turned his head towards the muffled voice of the news anchor repeating the tragedies from earlier. Ones that weren't his doing. The humour of it reflecting his fear would have been appreciated if it wasn't grave. He closed the man's ribs like a book, but did no further preparation for incinerating the corpse.

Instead, he tuned in for the details of a suspect who recently attempted homicide and remains unapprehended.

Tom Blanchard, 48, armed and aggressive. Crude police sketching portrayed him with an almost uncannily square head and narrow nasal bridge. His criminal record stretched back six years, working up from petty shoplifting to stabbings and body counts. Apart from the receding hairline, he was glaringly familiar. If the doctor's hunch was at all correct, this desperately sick man was in uncomfortably close proximity.

In his gut, the weight sank deeper. He was sure his modified heart was giving out, and there was no existing surgeon who can replace it. Unless he slits himself open.

The doctor blinked in resignation. He hurried about to wipe the blood off his hands, gathered his stick, and bid farewell though no one would hear it. He shut the door behind him, focused on its clicks to ease the pounding in his chest.

The pestilence is restless, and he sensed it was changing. It must be, if his "tried and true" was no longer effective.

He'll appreciate the sun when it sets, but for now he slides into the shadows between the buildings. This Blanchard fellow must be cured.

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At eight years going on nine, Edith had witnessed more than what someone twice her age would see. Not all of it was pleasant. A fearsome myth whispered through school which then she retold to her extended family coming to life should have fitted into the unpleasant side, but didn't. She knew most people wouldn't think meeting monsters made a positive impact. They wouldn't know why it was without the uncomfortable story as to why she was at the crumbling little house.

Today's events replayed over and over as she skipped and hopped through the archways of the bastide, passing shop windows and receiving curious, concerned glances. On most days, she ventured the public with a friend as they followed trustworthy-looking strangers closely, until the strangers no longer went the same way. Caroline was sick this week, unfortunately.

Luckily, a familiar place was bouncing into view. Its sign hung off a pole, white lined by blue trim, peeling. Through the dark glass was a round figure shifting behind the counter. Good, because this was too good to not tell her, Edith thought privately. Various sweet scents in the warm air signalled fresh goods and safety.

She burst through the entrance, calling Gianna repeatedly, all but knocking the bell loose from its fixture above. Gianna's pug-like face had frozen in apprehension, but softened in realizing there was no emergency. She smiled and shook her head, her grey curls trailing with the movement. Her hand flattened against the breast of her apron as she uttered her relief in her native tongue.

Then Gianna said, "asteri mou, do not to scare me like that." Her French was purely functional rather than correct, but intent was understood most of the time. Sighing, her hand fell to rest at her side as she smiled down at the girl who hopped up to the counter.

"I'm sorry," Edith said, holding her own hands behind her, putting on puppy eyes despite the old woman having already forgiven her. The same eyes and her palms quickly glued themselves to the shimmering desserts behind the glass.

"You may have one if you tell me what made you so..." Gianna searched for the word, "happy?"

The elder already had the spatula slipping under the slice of dessert. Despite her words, she wouldn't have withheld the goods. Better in a belly than the trash, as she'd said often. The dessert was plated, speared with a fork and presented to Edith. The girl said her thanks and dug into it on the counter instead of sitting at one of two tables there.

Every other day when she was able, Edith visited Gianna's bakery, partly because business was slow. The white walled interior was once full of historically relevant photographs and artwork, and each had vanished in the short months they'd known each other. Now, only two personal items remained. A small ceramic pot on the glass, and a framed photo. It's a full shot of a young man in a white skirt and shoes resembling slippers hanging on the wall behind Gianna. Edith thought it would look less sad if it were in colour.

"First, I saw the creepy crow man the kids talked about!" Edith mumbled around her food.

Gianna looked off into the distance, her mind's gears turning. "Crow... crow... OH! O korakos! What's wrong?"

"Ehh, it's not bad. Only in the beginning I mean," she finished another bite, "I went with some kids who don't really like me well. They wanted the owner inside to be an angry old man telling us to stop ruining his lawn."

"Did he?" Gianna asked, her face unusually stern. It wasn't for show, Edith had known from the one time she shouted at ill-tempered teenagers smoking outside the bakery's doors with a spatula in her hands, prepared to strike.

"He said 'hello' and I didn't know what to say because I was excited that I found someone scarier than those bullies, and they ran," pride crept in the girl's tone, "he scared them good."

"One time, he came here. I did not like him then." Gianna looked away, her lower lip jutted out in exagerrated contempt.

Edith paused mid-chew, asking "what? Why?"

"Who comes here for the monthly special and then calls my place filthy?" Gianna swept her arm out viciously.

Though her anger wasn't directed at Edith, the girl was still unnerved. She felt an urge to defend this odd stranger's honour because his eyes were pained with concern just before her abrupt goodbye. In equal amounts she was curious as to why he would say such a thing, and the events following after.

"It happened in March on a day you did not come here. The bakery was just like this, floor like a mirror. If he was not so rude, I will give him some baklava like you got." Gianna fell silent, inclined her head, and closed her eyes. It didn't take much to realize how painful that was in her situation. Edith finished her dessert and pushed the plate away.

Gianna looked up, her face creased fearfully. "He was nice to you only one time without meaning to. I do not trust him," she held back a sob, "you should not go outside alone!"

"I'm sorry. Everyone's so busy, and Caroline's got a nasty flu." A flu so awful that made her cut off most day-to-day interactions with anyone who wasn't nursing her back to health. She had shouted at someone to leave although they brought cold packs for her head.

"Oh," Gianna palmed her cheek, "it did not to leave you with much choice."

"With one good eye, it's not so bad," Edith stated frankly, "I always look around."

"As you do. But not safe from bigger and faster people."

The sun began to cast orange light, creating long shadows. The elder said plaintively, "I close early this night, you should be home. Family are worrying for you."

Swiftly, she retrieved a styrofoam container and began packing it with two more cuts of baklava with some brownies. Enough to share with a few friends.

"I will take you home. You take this," Gianna held it out for the girl, "and share with the family."

"Thanks again. What are you gonna do if you lose your bakery though?" Edith asked as she pushed the lid's tabs through the slots. The insensitivity of the question stung immediately after it, but she didn't want to ignore it, nor ignite the poor lady's anger with the other subject.

"I move in with you and be thea or I disappear," she forced a chuckle. Then, she did as she'd said, only to return pulling a raincoat across her shoulders. "You know how I got rid of o korakos? THIS." She brandished the spatula, raising her eyebrows and laughing. If she was trying to be funny for Edith's sake, it sort of worked.

The sign was flipped to "closed" and locked with an extendable gate inside.

During the car ride, Edith asked, "What should I do if those kids won't stop pulling my hair out?" A clump of hair had when she scratched her head, reminding her of yesterday. She stretched her arm out the window and let the clump fall away.

"Tell them they were afraid of a hello, and if that does not work, make them to pull their teeth from the ground."

The girl winced at the premise of losing skin on her hand. What would make it worse is the school staff not giving two hoots about who started fights and why they stirred in the first place. Maybe the parents were half the force Gianna was and the staff were unwilling to insult their parenting for the ensuing feuds exploding onto the front page of the papers.

"I don't wanna start anything," Edith muttered, then louder, "may I switch over to music?"

"You may, asteri mou."

The girl pressed all the buttons on the audio system, stopping on a folk song with a gentle beat. She was satisfied with it, and began daydreaming of fantastical animals running parallel to the car. Through shrubbery, over houses, stomping impatiently at the stops, the pink and blue quad followed fervently. It then winked from existence as home slid into Edith's notice.

Gianna parked her car on the street in front of a house of unassuming appearance. Two trees grew from the far ends of the lawn, tall enough to make it seem shorter than it really was.

Edith undid her seatbelt just as Gianna said, "get soup for Caroline with few lemon juice."

"Uh-huh," she replied noncomittally, leaving the car. Her father immediately filled the frame of the front door, frantically waving for her to come inside. She followed cue without a word, feeling a firm hand on her back press her across the threshold.

"Dinner's ready, Edith. Go say hello to your mother," he spoke quickly as he guided her down the hall, "give her one less reason to have a heart attack today."

Her mother's head hung over the table, fingers tangled in her grief-frizzed hair. She held back her sobbing in big, shaky breaths. Edith's eyes began to fill with tears as she pushed the container on the table. Seeing mother like this sent a sharp pain through her, and she latched onto her side for comfort. For them both.

"Edith," her mother whispered. Nothing else apart from the laboured breathing had come afterwards.

Her father shared a look with his wife and said, "Mrs. Stathopoulos dropped our little doe home. Bless her."

"Gianna gave me some brownies. I'm fine." Only in that she wasn't hungry. "Caroline would love one."

Her father's hands were pressed together, against his lips as if to stop what awful news he wanted to break at the moment. They fell away, his eyes fluttered shut, and tears fell down his bristly cheeks.

The youngest child burst from nowhere apparent, shouting, "brownies!" On another day, that would make anyone chuckle. Today, the little burst of happiness went silently ignored. Edith let go of her mother to face her father.

"Sweetheart," he knelt to meet her level, "Caroline isn't here. She's in the hospital, undergoing some very, very intense treatment for something very, very bad." He thumbed the wetness from his face.

She wrapped around his neck, careful to not brush her face against his stubble. "I know what surgery is, papa. Why are they cutting her up?"

"Don't say it like that. He doesn't know. I don't know yet," mother answered, idly pushing food around in her plate.

Mother took two slices of meat before her appetite called it quits, and that was the most alright part by far. Edith had no way to know for sure, mother hadn't given a strong response to anything. The woman was looking at nothing, but also through everything. More frightening than that face was Edith not knowing how to set her back to normal.

"I had fun earlier papa," the girl said slowly. She didn't mean to sound upset, but couldn't summon the cheer. Anything to not think about the nothing she could do for mom, or Caroline.

"Yeah? What did my little doe get up to today," he forced a smile, "besides being late for dinner?"

She retold the encounter, imitating the hilarious faces of her peers, and finished with Gianna's dislike of the crow man because he's a neat freak with impossible standards by the old woman's account. By the end of it, father's arms were folded across his chest and he looked away with his lips pressed in a hard line.

Edith shrank into herself. "No TV for a week?"

"No. Lots of it, actually. So you know why you won't be allowed outside without anyone looking after you," he counted on his fingers, "and you will stay by the school until either I or your mother pick you up. Understand?"

"Yeah, but-"

"Come have dinner," mother beckoned weakly. Edith obliged and sat pressed next to her for comfort.

"I'm not hungry," the girl's nose scrunched up from a familiar smell, "we're having peas?"

It fell quiet until father noticed the styrofoam container was gone. He jogged over to lift his five year old son, who already messily helped himself to dessert. Of all of them, only the boy's appetite remained, but dinner was bland. A stretch of silence for the most part, uneventful and forgettable like an idle thought.

But Edith would remember when the feeling struck her on the way to bed. She lingered by an empty room where someone would've been reading graphic novels, yet eager to listen about her days. Stripped of the colourful sheets lining the mattress, it looked too new, yet the intact shelves signalled past residence.

She left for her room to bury her face into her pillow. The wet spot cooled before she fell asleep.

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Nighttime breezes brushed against the leathery skin of the doctor pressing in and out of sight. He welcomed it more than the sun this time of year, and spared little more thought to that. His search turned up nothing if not headache-inducing eyewitness accounts. Briefly, his index and thumb pressed against his forehead. He muttered to himself how sooner he'll found a coin sifting all the sand of a beach with his hands. Just before he entered saturated pools of light, his posture straightened to full height. A bent shadow sneaking about was among the last things he cared to be caught doing. It was however necessary to keep his reputation someplace within unsettling, yet unassuming.

It facilitated an odd habit. Sometimes his hands were clasped over his chest as if he were in awe, or wary of what may come. Or his arms were crossed to hide them under his triceps, which they were, presently. Not a confident look, it normally broadcasted he desired to be left alone, though it wasn't the first motivation for closed body language.

He paused momentarily to gaze from beneath his hood at a venue active with live musicians and even livelier young people bouncing and chatting under the string-lights. Irresponsible as they were, at least it wasn't frigid or raining. Possibly they know something, or are blissfully unaware of the pestilence drifting among them.

It was indeed close, by indication of the fierce pressure burning along his parietal lobe, back to front.

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{{Gianna is pronounced like "Yanna". I'm not seeking to offend anybody with her broken not-Greek, I've only routinely been around one Greek person who spoke broken English, and translating the errors a Hellenophone may make in French-written-in-English was difficult.}}