VIII
High Overseer Scott Grafton
"He drove back the darkness, so we might have peace."
First Overseer to forge into Pandyssia, to purge darkness wherever it might be found.
Died of plague.
Cremated with Holger's Opal to honour his battle with plague.
No! This couldn't be true! There was so much to do, so little time, so many people to save.
He leaned back, finally moving away from the microscope and a sample he was examining for the last half an hour. No matter how much longer he probed it and whatever tests he did, it wouldn't change the ugly truth. He was so careful! Of course, he was aware of the danger and couldn't be absolutely sure, that he would be immune, yet... The irony was that for all the deadly plants, people and bacteria Pandyssia had to offer, it had to be here, in Dunwall, in a relatively safe laboratory environment. And probably not enough scrubbing.
He carefully removed the sample from below the lens, suddenly noticing how much his hands were trembling. He took a steadying breath and slowly exhaled. The extensive knowledge of the illness he had gained over the months didn't help, the phases he himself observed and catalogued, left vivid images in his memory, images he'd rather not have. How much time, before he would need to make a decision? How long, before anyone would notice?
He ran his fingers through his hair, just to stop them from shaking. In his entire life he never wanted so much to be wrong, but part of him knew, right from the start, from the first innocent cough, that it couldn't be a coincidence.
He got up and made his was to the window, absentmindedly passing by the desk of his assistant, too engrossed in his work to notice him. The window gave to the backyard, the river and the district across it, barely visible thorough the raising fog. Parts of the city were still in ruins, quarantined or flooded, like a festering wound no one had even tried to clean, but there was the sun shining trough the clouds, bathing everything in warm afternoon light and one could almost smell spring in the air. As if nothing happened. As if he wasn't condemned to die.
He still got some time, a week if he's lucky. His recent research confirmed the bacterium had became more aggressive in the last month, much quicker than in the beginning attacking lungs and brain. The last subject however, displayed astonishing resistance. If only he could isolate the antibodies... His hands clenched the windowsill so tightly that his knuckles went white. It would be more than a week. Maybe, if he joined efforts with a newly appointed royal physician – what was his name again? Something Tyvian... ah, yes, Sokolov – they would figure something out on time. There were rumours Sokolov had made considerable progress in devising a working vaccine. Maybe...
The probes, flasks, tubes, sheets of paper, tongs and spatulas went flying, crushing on the floor, when with one movement he swiped everything from the nearest worktop, barely noticing his assistant rising in alarm from the seat. Not good enough! He didn't want to die, not now, not in this painfully wretched way the plague had to offer, not losing his mind and bleeding to death.
Suddenly resigned, he dropped limply to a chair, hiding his head in hands, not wanting to think, to feel, just slumber away and forget about everything.
A light touch to the arm woke him from his numbness. He raised his head to see his assistant, cautiously leaning over him, Overseer mask hiding his face. It never occurred to him before, but it felt like the mask's dispassionate expression was mocking him, grotesquely twisted mouth sneering at him. He felt sudden urge to rip it off, just to see a living thing behind it.
It took him a moment to realise what the man was saying. Something about how far they had got and how soon they would find a cure. There will be no cure, dammit! There couldn't be, not with him already rotting away. What progress could he possibly make? What difference?
The assistant must have seen something in his face, must have noticed and figured it out. Through the holes in the mask he could see, how his eyes suddenly went wide with fear. He backed away, the impassive mask a sharp contrast to his stance. He half expected him to run away in panic, so he forced his lips into a small and reassuring smile, repeating few times and in different words that it's too early for him to spread the disease. That he wouldn't let the assistant, or anyone else for that matter, to contract the plague because of his negligence. When he was sure the man's fear was under control, he told him about his plan. To return to the research and finish it for the day. And then all that remained was asking for help in a matter he couldn't deal with himself. If he was to die, he would go down on his own terms. He was the damn High Overseer after all.