Purity

The levicoils powering the lift hummed beneath their feet as they descended. Down they went, down into the underbelly of Corneria City's central island. For reasons he couldn't name, Jamison McDougal, former head of the treasury and member of the Cornerian Council, felt as if his stomach was sinking along with them. There were many things about this that were unsettling. It was wrong, all of it! Cromwell was supposed to have been a controlled element! How had he managed to come so close to killing such a highly ranked member of their order? How had he been allowed to orchestrate this entire predicament? He would have needed information and support from outside the order's circle of influence, but such benefactors should no longer exist! Not after the purge they had conducted following the Lylat Civil War. Their order's existence had remained a secret for millennia, so why now? How had it come to this? But it wasn't these thoughts alone that put the heavy lump in his throat or the cold weight in his gut. These feelings were more recent.

His stomach was no better for his thoughts when the lift coasted to a gentle stop, a ping accompanying the mechanical hiss of the doors as they slid open. He, along with a small group of others, all herded themselves out of the elevator and into the narrow, uniformly pristine corridor beyond. The walls were all solid, immaculate white, and the air reeked of sterilized death. He had always hated hospitals. Even the specialized facilities of his family's personal physician was unnerving to him. It was all so unnaturally spotless. As if they were trying to clean away the lingering presence of decay while their residents all courted the inevitable end game of entropy. He had been this way since he was a boy, visiting his grandfather in a place much like this. He bore it with a gentlemanly constitution, however. He would not allow these terrible circumstances to rob him of his stature as a McDougal. His was one of the wealthiest houses on Corneria, and they had faced many attacks in their family's history because of it. Despite it all, and no matter what accusations or missteps they fell victim to, the McDougals had always maintained their stature.

Staring ahead evenly, he spotted an engraving above the large, solid doors on the far end of the corridor which said, "Purity."

The Purity Installation was one of the order's secret facilities. It was where high profile members were taken for treatment, and as such housed some of the greatest minds in both medicine and science. It was nearly as old as the man-made island itself, and had been retrofitted many times over the decades. It had remained as it had been since its construction, the most advanced medical facility in Lylat, available only a select few among the elite. Sadly, that wasn't the only function Purity served. For many, the persistent rumors that the order conducted experimentation here was just a matter of gossip, but for Jamison, the man responsible for acquiring the order's funds, it was more than just rumors. He had never been privy to the details, but Purity consumed far too many credits to be a mere hospital, no matter how high profile its clientele. He didn't know what, exactly, went on down here, but he did know exactly how much it cost. Perhaps that was the cause of his unrest. He was afraid of seeing what he had helped fund all these years.

He followed the small crowd he had arrived with as they walked toward the entrance. They, like him, had likely been in hiding when they had received Master Touvier's summons. Jamison had been surprised, to say the least, that Jaques was ready to make an address so soon after the attempt on the elderly man's life. They say it was a gas called Cyban. It was primarily a nerve agent when inhaled, but it had a horrifically necrotic side effect on muscle tissue given a high enough level of exposure. It was incredible that a man Touvier's age had survived even minor contact with it.

He supposed he should consider it a victory. However it had occurred, Touvier's survival meant the order still had a chance to recover. The Touviers were powerful and well liked across Lylat. It was unlikely the allegations would stick to their house, and his position would help the order slip quietly back into power. With Venom's declaration of war heating up into full blown skirmishes with the CDF, Corneria would flock to the man's familiar guidance and all would be forgotten! This should have brought him a degree of comfort, of relief, but still his unease continued unabated. The patter of his small group's footfalls echoed through the corridors as they made their way deeper into the underground medical facility, and it dawned on him that they were the only things making any sound down here at all. Where was the staff? Why was no one here to guide them? Jamison was leading the pack. He had been here before and knew where Jaques would be, but someone should have met them at the elevator. Guards, technicians, a doctor, SOMEONE.

Murmurs from his companions revealed their own nervousness, and little by little their pace slowed. Eyes darted down every empty hall and their cumulative breathing grew slightly shallower.

"Where is the staff?" another nobleman voiced everyone's concern aloud as Jamison resisted the urge to shush the man out of fright.

Putting on a bold face, he turned to reassure his brothers, saying, "I'm certain they are just further inside. These are trying times, and we are likely understaffed."

By their expressions, he could tell his words had sounded as desperate and uncomforting to them as they had to him. He frowned, and turned to continue with a bitter taste in his mouth. Was this a trap? Did Cromwell's dogs know about this place? Perhaps the transmission they had received had been falsified.

Just down the hall was a pair of double doors which led to the intensive care ward. Jamison steeled himself and attempted to swallow the lump in his throat before forcing himself to push through, and his pack of nervous noblemen stuck close behind their impromptu leader.

The second they walked through, Jamison's hand came up to cover his nose. There wasn't a smell so much as there was a…texture to the air. It coated the back of the throat as he breathed, and by the sounds his companions were making, they were having a similar experience. He attempted dislodge whatever it was by clearing his throat. Others were either blowing their noses into kerchiefs, coughing, or doing the same. The need to panic which they had all been suppressing then began to kindle like a small fire, with the gathered noblemen serving as dried wood. It started with exchanged glances. Had they been poisoned? Had something gone wrong down here? Was that why no one has greeted them?

Before the panic could give way to full-blown hysteria, the feeling subsided. Everyone breathed heavily as their frayed nerves began to settle down to an even level of semi-rational nervousness.

"What was that?" a woman asked from somewhere in the back of the small group.

"Probably just a small glitch in the circulation system, this place is rather old…" Jamison said. After years of handling wealthy benefactors, assurances had apparently become a reflex reaction, "Come now, let's proceed. I would hate to keep Touvier waiting."

"Precisely."

The familiar voice was shockingly clear, and everyone began to look around at once, as if the source was there in the room with them.

"Jacques?" the man standing just left of Jamison asked.

"The P.A. system in here is…uh…impressive," he adds, nervously. Something about that voice…it didn't feel like he had actually heard it.

"Come," the voice compelled, "I have wondrous news for all of us."

The sound of the man's whispery voice was somehow soothing. Jamison could feel his earlier fears begin to subside as he started to walk deeper into the facility. The others moved with him. The farther he walked, the lighter he began to feel…no…not lighter. He felt…numb.

"Do not be afraid," Jacques said, like a whisper in his mind, "This is a glorious day."

As they moved, deeper and deeper into Purity, it occurred to Jamison, in a removed sort of way, that it was very dark now. Light flickered from overhead here and there, and when it did the walls were sometimes white in some places, and sometimes blue in other places. There was even some red here and there. Glistening. Wet. Red. Was that wrong?

"We were not abandoned," Jacques said with many voices, many comforting, tempting voices, "The makers have finally blessed us. We are their children, and all their gifts are for us."

Eventually, they came to a halt. Jamison stood in a stupor. He managed to look to the others for a moment and saw that they were in much the same state. He wasn't sure how far they had walked, but they stood in a dark room now. The only light came from flickers outside. There were more people here than there were before. A large group. It was hard to think. They all stood in a crowd, bunched together, swaying as if drugged or weak. Why didn't he feel concerned? So odd.

"Good," the legion of Touvier voices said, "We are many now. We will require more, but we may continue."

The lights slowly began to come on, illuminating the large room. Some sort of bay. Very large. Filled with machines. Machines covered in dark blue growths, connected by pulsing azure veins. And at its center was Jacques. It didn't look like Jacques. It was large, and throbbed around a central mechanism, but Jamison was filled with the innate knowledge that the grotesque abomination was Jacques Touvier. There were bodies strewn about. Empty bodies. It was horrifying, but Jamison couldn't move, or scream, or feel anything outside the numbness. He felt nothing. His terror was one of rational objection. His mind screamed out against a body that was no longer his. Farther ahead in the crowd, monsters began harvesting people. People who were blue and bloated. They cut into them, and as they did, a gush of dark blue muck intermixed with red blood and grey organs as it all rushed to the ground. The monsters gathered up all the filth and began applying it to the machines. Some of it hardened on its own, took shapes, became more monsters, leaving the empty bodies behind.

And that's when what was left of Jamison McDougal broke. It felt like a twig snapping far, far away. And then he was gone.

"Do not fear," the voices said, filling the empty shell that was left, "This is not death. It is ascendance. As my body failed, the gift of the Makers took root. As I was reborn, so shall we all be. It is for us. It is all for us."

The empty puppet's mouth moved and gave sound, "Everything in this universe is for us."