An abandoned research facility. How apt.
Navel walked smartly up to the front gates, the chilly autumn breeze sweeping around his feet, sending the fallen leaves tumbling. In a gloved hand he clutched a white envelope so tight, lest a stray wind carry it off, or worse.
His host would be inside, of course. Yet the lack of people around made him feel suspicious. Was it really just a prank, or was there someone who wanted to reform Delphi under their own hands?
The envelope he received surely cannot be the only one.
At least, if it was a trap, he still had his credentials on him. Say he was on a recon mission after being tipped off by some anonymous dude. Believable enough. The letter would be proof, and he would have only wasted three hours in finding the place, driving here, and letting the curtained surprise fool himself into pumping out adrenaline.
Or, if said trap was not of the good kind, there was always the pistol he kept in his pocket for emergencies.
His fingers pried open the envelope for the twentieth or so time that week, pulling out the piece of paper that he could already recite from memory. A typed invitation, formal in style, hardly any embellishments or format. Just a note. Could have been a memo, for all he knew.
And obviously no fingerprints, saliva, hair whatsoever. Whoever that wrote the note was either a hygiene freak or dressed top to toe in a hazmat suit while typing, printing and sealing said letter, which was highly unlikely anyway.
He walked through the iron-wrought gates, skirting the pebbles strewn about the pathway to the slightly ajar doors. They were at least three times of him stacked up together, leaning upon their rusty hinges like cobweb-wrapped skeletons.
Beyond, there was hardly any light. Navel was sure that he probably would lose sight of his own hand somewhere down whatever lay behind the doors.
If he had not remembered to bring a flashlight, that is.
A small click and the hallway before him appeared as the yellow light swarmed in. Even the dust did not stir at his entrance, merely lying on the floor as a thick grey carpet, showing three other sets of footprints.
Bending over, he quickly snapped a few photos of the footprints, taking note that none of them seemed to point back to the door.
Walking on, he soon came to the main hall of the facility. Completely devoid of furniture, unless dust carpets count, the place seemed… occupied, somehow.
The letter led him down one of the staircases, around a corner, towards a heavily bolted door, a pale white light surrounding its edges like a cornea. Navel rapped his fist on the cold steel – thunk, thunk, thunk.
Silence. Then the scraping of a chair. And the low, bated breaths of someone waiting behind the door. By the light of the adjacent room, he read the letter yet again, just to make sure he got his instructions right. Clearing his throat, he spoke to his host.
"I am the holder of belief."
The password written in the letter made the door yield to him. Standing in the doorway was a young woman, probably no later than her thirties. She had a heavily stained lab coat – black with an orange outline – wrapped around her shoulders, hanging limply on her skeletal frame.
"Belief," she answered, her barely audible voice further dampened by the heavy air. "The first."
She led him into the laboratory, the only room in the facility that seemed to be at least in a decent state. The bright lights refracted off the numerous glassware, ranging from test tubes to conical flasks all piled around on the tables, amongst the stacks of paper and the occasional stationery.
She pulled out a chair from seemingly nowhere and rolled it towards him.
"Please. Take a seat."
The woman then flopped down on her own chair and held out her hand.
"Pleased to meet you, holder of belief."
He did not take it.
"You have called me for?"
"To assist in our founder's honorable goal once again."
He had to suppress a smile at that one.
"Cut the princess talk, miss. We aren't in the Victorian era anymore."
Her face turned slightly red.
"I-I… But it's true. I require your assistance."
"About? Don't tell me it's another wannabe GUILT strain. Besides, what part of 'disbanded' did you not understand?"
"It does not matter. As long as at least one of us still survives, we will carry on Adam's orders. Isn't that the same as the bacteria that infect us? Who says those that survive the wave of antibiotic gel will just lie down and die?"
"So… you want to restart Delphi?"
"I can assure you, nothing like that."
Once again with the haughty attitude.
"But," she continued, "We do not need an entire organization to carry out the biomedical apocalypse when all you need is just five people."
"Five people?"
"You and three others, and me. That is all it takes."
"Really."
Her cool gaze froze his own the moment he tried to pry information from her eyes. Navel swallowed a mouthful of saliva in shock.
She was actually serious about it.
"Okay… miss. Who put you up to this joke?"
"Joke?"
"Yes. Joke. The first GUILT alone needed Delphi to back it, and even then we needed Eidoth as a cover. And Neo-GUILT had rich snobs behind them in case of emergency, with Acropolis and the HOA as a front. Both have failed. What makes you think you can wipe out humanity with biomedical terrorism, let alone with only a team of five?"
… Was she smiling at his question?
She got off her seat and leaned close enough to his face that he could pick out the streaks of grey in her irises. Her hand pushed something into his, a quick glance downwards showed it to be something wrapped in a small white cloth.
"Keep that with you at all times, holder of belief."
Her other hand reached behind his head and jammed something quickly up his neck – quick enough for him to only flinch and collapse back into the chair.