Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Resistance franchise. I do not intend to steal it, either. For those who attempt to, beware the curse that Hybrids will gun you down, and a Titan will melee you, resulting in instant death. Be afraid. Very afraid.

Rating: "T", for certain themes and the "better-to-be-safe-than-sorry" motto.

Notes:The fourth chapter, featuring a very much-needed piece revolving around one of my favorite men in the entire game. :3 So yes, this small ficlet is about to come to an end with only one chapter ahead of it. I've noticed that I spelled Shepherd's name wrong (I hated spelling it in the first place), and I wish to formally apologize for the action. However, just for the sake of this fiction, I'll stick to Sheppard. Watching the cinematics and playing online gave me some motivation for this chapter.

"How did we get this far
How did this come to be
Why does fear dominate
When all we want is peace
We've got to find a way to heal
The wounds that we have bled
The empires fall
And rise again

Save us, save us from ourselves
Now."

-- "The Great Divide" by In This Moment

". . . . I can't get. . . Do you. . . Me?" The comm call came in, disrupted by static and gunfire and God-knew-what-else. Malikov stared at the radio communications center with a apprehensive, slightly scared look. Blake took notice of the SRPA man operating the station and hastily walked over, flipping a switch before leaning over and speaking into the built-in microphone.

"This is SRPA command, Blake responding."

All was silent in the command center as every man present stared at the tiny speaker, waiting for the response. . .

"This is. . . I need a. . . Shit!" An explosion rang out over the speaker, coupled by more static. Blake turned to another man and gestured to the radio desk.

"When was the last time Echo Team radioed in?" He barked sharply, every inch the commanding officer. A soldier instantly turned to written-down numbers and scanned over them briefly before looking back up at Blake.

"Over two hours ago, sir."

"Shit. What the hell happened? Try to raise--"

"Blake! This is Capelli with Echo Team." The microphone blasted, finally free of static. Malikov would be lying if he did not say that he heard an enormous amount of gunfire, coupled with the odd buzzing from Capelli's energy barrier.

"Capelli, what the hell is going on over in the tower? The other Sentinels have not radioed in--"

"Can't talk about that right now, sir. Get me an emergency dust-off. Complete with a medic."

Blake's expression mirrored Malikov's as they both glanced at one another, and Malikov couldn't believe that Capelli had just said such a thing. A Sentinel? Requesting a medic? An injury that severe must have been very grave indeed; perhaps something akin to amputation-worthy.

"VTOL closing in on your position. You've got some explaining to do, Capelli."

Malikov watched the lab reports print out of the ancient computer with wary eyes. His physical and mental self was exhausted, and many a medic had told him to get some sleep -- but no. Not with so much at stake. . . Not with so many people dying. Swallowing against a thick lump in his throat, Fyodor Malikov stared at the rough ground that made the intelligence tent. It also served as his little hub to report and print out lab results on his latest patient. . . His greatest hope. How could so many souls have died? Nathan Hale was supposed to have been the one who proved all of his theories and conclusions wrong; Nathan Hale was supposed to have fought against the odds and become the hero. Malikov felt his hands fist at his sides as anger consumed him once more. Was it foolish to place all of his hopes into one young American man? No, no. . . His hope had not served a lost cause.

Humanity was not a lost cause.

When Capelli had finally arrived, Malikov had been shocked to discover that Nathan Hale had been near death, virus running rampant throughout his body and changing him into one of the Chimera. Malikov had instantly set to work, doing everything that he could to stop the bleeding and patch up the horrible wound, but. . . It had not been enough.

Sighing, the man leaned against one of the many tables as the report finished. Taking a brief glance over the readings, he found them unchanged and unsatisfactory. Still. . . Folding it up neatly, Malikov placed it inside of a folder to give to Blake at a debriefing. Many times had he spoken with Blake about the conditions of various Sentinels, and while the man knew his jargon, Malikov could leave him in the dust with equations and chemical reactions. This was no different. Closing his eyes, he pulled his glasses down and scrubbed his face briefly. Malikov could not. . . Was not able to understand how one as strong as Hale -- how could Hale give in?

Sleep began to pull at his body, and Malikov shook his head somewhat forcefully to dispel it. Not yet -- no sleep yet.

The man snatched the folder up and tucked it neatly under his arm as he strode from the intelligence tent. He walked through the camp with slow, tired footsteps. . . There were so many faces here. So many tired people, grieving and fearful and furious. He could hardly blame all of these American people -- the Chimera had just exterminated eighty million people.

The largest genocide to happen in history. Eighty million.

Eighty million souls, gone in a flash as Chimera swept over the land.

The lucky ones died.

A small portion of that eighty million were converted to surplus Chimeran forces.

Averting his eyes away from the faces of despair and exhaustion, Malikov shuffled over to the medical tent, where Blake was waiting. The Sentinel commander was already heavy in his work, dictating commands to the remaining teams scattered across the US. Some of them were intelligence officers. Others were guerrilla warfare squads. More were defensive lines around the Baton Rogue Protection Camp. Speaking of Louisiana, Malikov was unable to believe how incredibly hot it was. Humidity pressed over his skin and made him sweat, and while he longed to splash his face in some cold water, the thought that Furies would eat him turned the idea into a sour one.

Blake peeked up from his paperwork and waved Malikov to an empty seat. Malikov managed to convince his tired body into the not-so-comfortable chair as he waited, folder placed on his knee and eyes concentrated on Blake. The man was currently speaking to a soldier behind him, and automatically signing a piece of paper. Before folding it up and passing it behind his shoulder, he finally turned to Malikov.

"How's he doing, Malikov?" Blake queried instantly. Malikov could hardly blame him.

"Still comatose. I'm doing my best, Blake, but I'm afraid that it is not looking well." The words felt like stones leaving his mouth. Malikov did not need to admit to the failure that loomed over the horizon, striking deep into his pride and caring for Hale.

Blake gave a brief, sad sigh. The man stared at his desktop for only a moment before looking up at Malikov once more and gesturing for the folder. Malikov offered it, switching to his doctor mode in order to explain the newest results.

"Nathan's immunity is not helping to stifle the virus. When I took blood samples, I discovered that it had somehow mutated and progressed to a level that I had not imagined before." Malikov didn't want to say that, either. It was another failure to add to his profile.

"You mean. . ." Blake looked up slowly from the documents, "Daedalus created a stronger version of the virus in Hale?"

Malikov offered a light shrug, "It is what I suspect, but. . . I cannot be certain. Nathan was overdue for Inhibitor treatments, yes, but he was only on the seventh series. The eighth -- my strongest -- would have held the virus in submission."

Blake pinned Malikov with a hard stare, "What does this all mean?"

"When. . . If. . . Nathan awakens, he will only have a few hours to live before conversion. . . If we are lucky."

Malikov shuffled off towards the tent that held the unconscious Hale. Perhaps his condition had changed, and he was no longer comatose. He was the charismatic and brave soldier who had saved his life several times. . . But no. Upon entering and parting the doctors who constantly watched the Sentinel, there was no change. Hale remained on the bed, veins turning an ugly black color and distorting the vision of the man. Restraints were locked firmly over his body, making sure that when he next tried to thrash around, he would not injure himself.

Speaking of which, Nathan was currently shaking and writhing, as though he were under the grip of some horrible nightmare.

Malikov ushered out a few of the more exhausted doctors to rest, and to clear out some room. Nathan moaned, a sound that was filled with both pain and fear, before he lay still once more. His vitals dropped to a range above normal for most Sentinels, and the electrodes hooked onto his head reported abnormal brain activity.

Malikov could only guess that Daedalus was inside of Nathan's head, urging the man to wake and kill them all. . . Shaking his head again, Malikov stepped forward and began to check the IV feeds and restraints holding Nathan down. Everything was normal and unchanged. . . No, that was untrue. Eighty million people died because of failure. Nathan's failure was not his fault; the fault of this horrible genocide was squarely rested on Malikov's shoulders.

He should not have let Nathan go without treating him. He should have demanded the Sentinel remain behind for a few hours and then set off for the Holar Tower. But no. Too prideful in his own skill, and too arrogant in his beliefs, he let Nathan go. Even at the beginning, he believed that Nathan was too powerful and strong (due to Malikov's influences) to be knocked down. Because of Malikov's emotions towards the matter. . . Nathan was going to die. Not right away, and definitely not alone, but in vain. Everything that the American had been fighting for was now gone -- friends, family. . . If he had any.

The entire nation of the United States was nothing more than a heap of twisted metal and destroyed buildings.

Malikov stared at the closed eyes of Nathan Hale, and he wished. He wished that the man would awaken and save them, somehow find a miracle ending for this mess. . . But no. Nathan remained sound asleep, lost in his nightmares. The young man grimaced, as though pained, and Malikov watched as it faded as quickly as it had come.

"Do not give in, Nathan," Malikov murmured to the both of them, uncaring if company overheard him, "Fight him. Do not let Daedalus take you."

For a moment, Malikov's heart faltered as he saw Nathan opening his eyes. There was no gold in the slits, just the brown he was known for. There it was! There it was!!Nathan was going to be alright! He was waking up, he was-- a hand on his arm caused Malikov to turn. Another doctor regarding him with an insightful gaze.

"Dr. Malikov, you'd best get some sleep. I'll report if there are any changes with the Lieutenant."

But there was! Look at him! His eyes. . . Were closed. Still sleeping. Still fighting his demons. Malikov gave a weary sigh and stepped away from the table, nodding his head. He walked to an ajacent tent, filled with cots and sleeping military personnel. His tired body dropped onto a cot gratefully, and sleep claimed him easily. He was glad for it too, for he could not bare to face his failures.

Hope truly did seem lost.