Disclaimer: I do not own Venom
A/N: Wow, we've finally managed to hit chapter 20 at about 90,000 words! Note that this chapter seemed, for me, particularly difficult to write. Not because I was necessarily hit with writer's block, but because Evelyn's narration has become considerably more unpredictable now than ever before to write, and therefore reading things from her perspective might become more ... elaborative now than before. She's becoming less mechanic, and experiences emotional hardship primarily because of guilt. While she tries to keep it under control, she visibly struggles, as she finds her rationality conflicting with her inexperienced emotional state.
Another thing I want to make clear before you proceed, what Evelyn 'sees' later in the chapter is not a vision produced from some kind of 'special bond' she shares with the symbiotes, nor anything within the category. It's purely the result of stress and sleep deprivation that's consuming her, accompanied by the sensation of guilt. Because of that, her physical state is also affected.
Fun Fact #2: While it is not explicitly stated in the story that she has it, Evelyn's inability to comprehend emotions - be it her own or those of others - is closely related to a personality construct known as Alexithymia. While the symptoms vary, most prominent is the inability to articulate or otherwise read emotions. In Evelyn's case, she's completely disinterested in learning more about the topic, despite its severity later on, and mistakes her incapability to understand them as simply being logical compared to the rest of the population. Alexithymia can be caused by various factors; genetically, childhood neglect, or traumatic events. It's a thought I've had ever since I first started developing her as a character.
Thank you for your attention and please enjoy and review!
Chapter 20: Guilt
She arrived just in time for her shift to begin, which was a relief in terms of avoiding unnecessary attention. The director did not take note of her apparent state of sleep-deprivation, nor did her colleagues. Their concerns were seldom from the start, and she always had a knack for avoiding the necessary amount of sleep the human body required, so there was nothing to be done.
However, she could not help notice the fact that Dr. Lewis did not seem to be present at the hospital. The lack of his presence became one of the first things that reached Evelyn's attention following the morning she spent working. Although she was not too surprised, as his schedule indicated that he wasn't supposed to be on duty until later in the afternoon, there seemed to be something … off following his nonattendance. Whether it was the lack of greetings he would present her with on each shift they shared, or simply his overall ability to increase the morale of his colleagues, Evelyn had no way of distinguishing which of the alternatives stuck her as most convincing.
Throughout the day, between following her daily routine of prescribing medicine, diagnosing patients, to cooperating with her fellow oncologists to keep people steady with their medicine or through procedures – even breaking up a verbal-turned-physical confrontation between two patients at one point during the day – Evelyn could not muster the strength to place all her focus on the well-being of her patients as much as she ordinarily would have.
While she had deemed the majority of them stable and otherwise healthy to the point where immediate treatment was not required, her mind no longer seemed like the steady setting it normally would have been. Her thoughts were scattered, letters were dissected before they could even make out the shape of words, and she was too preoccupied with what had occurred earlier to be concerned about much else at the hospital. It was uncharacteristic of her, but somehow inevitable. She could not put what she was feeling into words or come up with some sort of diagnosis.
When she was not working with patients or preforming her duties, she was occupied trying to locate the whereabouts of Mr. Brock and the symbiote, knowing fully well that she was required to find them before the Foundation unless she wished to suffer the consequences of her transgression against them.
After some deliberation with herself regarding the possible places he could be at, she had attempted the few clues she could think of. First, she tried to contact his previous place of employment, the Daily Globe, but after receiving no suitable answer after attempting to call them (she was put on hold), Evelyn abandoned the thought and moved on to the more personal environment. For example, the current residence of his ex-girlfriend seemed appropriate, and people seldom tended to easily rid themselves of attachments in the past. It would, perhaps, be expected that he was located someplace around there, which would make it close to the central park. She knew that Dr. Lewis had recently moved in with Ms. Weying, so she knew the location. Asking her colleague directly for information would be inappropriate, but she could deal with those consequences on another occasion.
She eventually decided that when her shift ended, she would try and look for Mr. Brock there unless she received suitable answers from Dr. Lewis. If she was fortunate, she would get closer to Mr. Brock and the symbiote's whereabouts. Was she not, then she would simply have to continue searching.
Please, just find them.
As the image of Dr. Dora's pitiable expression entered her head, practically begging on all four, Evelyn placed her hand on top of her forehead and sighed over he coffee-cup in her hands, not knowing how to comprehend the situation. As soon as she was able to take a break, she did not waste a moment grabbing a cup of caffeine to keep her energy at a relatively stable point. It was not enough to keep her from occasionally losing her concentration, but it managed to keep her conscious thus far, which was what she needed at the moment. Failing to function properly did not make her much of a valuable human.
But her thoughts lingered on those words she had so carelessly proclaimed earlier. "I promise, I will find him."
Maybe it had been produced as a side-effect from her lack of sleep, which would have affected her sense of judgment, or maybe it was a subconscious way for her to satiate the pleads from Dr. Skirth. A promise was simply a couple of words, trivial to no limit and easily broken. She had never found it hard to go against a promise, as such concepts seldom made any impact on her in terms of sentiments. Just like the promise she had made Mrs. Rodriguez that day, this was no different.
Yet still … why did it feel like she was obligated to fulfill this one for reasons other than the plausible ones? Locating Mr. Brock and the symbiote would ensure that the Life Foundation would not know about her involvement, and it would also guarantee that she symbiote would note leave corpses in its wake for them to find later on. And still, the reason that fuelled her motivation to keep searching for him was not inflicted by either of the two reasons mentioned above.
But simply because she made a promise.
A promise – a declaration or assurance that one will do a particular thing or that a particular thing will happen.
If she could describe the sensation she harbored towards idyllic notions, it would be (hate? detestation? contempt?) something she could not put into verbal words. To place someone in a position where the lack of their cooperation would result in severe consequences for both themselves and others was (cruel? unkind?) unpleasant. And yet, she had deliberately allowed herself to be caught in such a corner for the sake of something as trivial as … the 'trust' of another woman.
The last time Evelyn made a promise, she went against it without thinking twice because it was expected of her to do everything within her power to ensure the safety of those under her supervision. Whether Mrs. Rodriguez harbored fond opinions of her or otherwise as a result of that betrayal, the oncologist could practically not concern herself with less. If being physically safe came at the cost of losing the one who put you in that vulnerable position to begin with, then Evelyn had severely underestimated her neighbor's subservience.
But this matter was entirely different. Locating Mr. Brock could potentially benefit others as well, instead of just a single individual. This promise had possibly hundreds of lives depending on it as a human body would depend on sustenance for survival. If she failed to locate him, then the symbiote could potentially leave carnage in its wake, discarding Mr. Brock for the sake of selecting a more suitable host instead, then following that same pattern countless times.
This promise …. She had to keep it.
She did not make promises she necessarily intended on keeping, because the last time she did it, she was unable to keep it.
Promise me you will let me go, even if it hurts.
"Ah, it would seem that Dr. March has finally decided to grace me with her presence at long last," came the voice of someone she had not interacted with for a while, during which she had relished the sound of his absence.
Upon acknowledging him, Evelyn's eyes trailed up and landed on top of the towering figure of Dr. Lambert, smiling down at her with shimmering teeth that looked like they would be able to reflect UVC-lights.
"Dr. Lambert," she greeted him disinterestedly, not wasting any energy on making it seem like she was interested in trivial conversations with him.
"Dr. March." He inclined his head towards her and proceeded to summon a chair and sit down next to the table, coffee in hands and stethoscope around his neck. "Been a while since last time I saw you. Busy?"
"Something's been preoccupying me."
"More so than the miserable atmosphere that usually surrounds this place?" he suggested with a witty grin. "That's a bold change."
She took a sip from her drink, but inclined her head towards him as a sign of affirmation.
"Well, damn." He tilted his head to the side. "If something's important enough for you to neglect your work, then it has to be critical."
"I'm not neglecting my work," she contradicted him. "I'm merely making effort into trying something else."
"Who are you and what have you done to Dr. Evelyn March?"
She narrowed her eyes at him in response to his comment, not finding it particularly amusing. "I am very much the very same person," she responded dryly, not moving her eyes as she reached for her cup to take another drink. The cup barely contained any black liquid left.
"That's what an impersonator would say," he insisted childishly.
"The process of human cloning requires too much time and effort, even with the assets at our disposal," she explained thoroughly. "A considerable amount of time would be spent in order to properly duplicate a human being to the exact state of their mental and physical well–"
"Alright, I get it." Dr. Lambert relieved himself of a chuckle. "You're not some impersonator."
"One would suggest that you have spent too much time on pointless movies recently, Dr. Lambert," she suggested. "It would be unnecessary for it to hinder proper work."
"It won't," he assured her. "But at the same time, working excessively is too good for you either. You could afford to get out sometimes, too." Then he squinted his eyes at her, pupils trailing from the top of her head to whatever was beneath her waist which the table did not conceal. "But judging from the bags beneath your eyes, the recently-applied bandages around your neck, and the way you halt when you walk, you already have found something quite intriguing. Mind satiating my curiosity?"
"No." Her answer was brief, simplified to only two letters as to warrant as little as possible in response. However, as she said this, she could feel the ache in her abdomen increase. It reached the point where she could feel her heartbeats vibrate through the abdominal area in which the pain was residing.
Tightening her lips to a line, Evelyn placed her free hand over her stomach without giving too much away from the external eye.
Unfortunately, Dr. Lambert wasn't too out of focus.
"Stomach-ache?"
She begrudgingly nodded.
"Coffee on an empty stomach again?"
"Been occupied," she repeated.
"'It's not good to neglect your physical health', is what I would have said had I not been speaking to a brick wall."
"The human structure is quite different from that of a brick wall, so if you somehow managed to graduate John Hopkins' without the ability to distinguish those two, then I would question the competence of your teachers–"
He rolled his eyes, sighing. "I was being sarcastic, March."
"Your attempt at entertaining is most unnecessary, Dr. Lambert," she spoke with a subtle trait of anonymity scattered between her words despite not raising her voice in the slightest. Her green eyes stared into his. "As far as it concerns my physical health, I do not solicit your personal opinions."
"I know," he agreed on, shrugging indifferently. "But Dan has been tearing his hair out recently because of you, so that's another case."
Just as she was about to take another sip of her drink, she halted in the process as those words were processed. Her eyes fell to the black concoction in her hands and her mind once again returned to a disheveled state. The prospect of Dr. Dan being concerned on her behalf did not strike her as remotely surprising but considering the circumstances, this was hardly the appropriate time to be disturbed.
"Dr. Lewis is always in a state of constant distress when it comes to the state of his colleagues–"
"Evie,"
Dr. Lambert looked at her solemnly this time, no smirk in sight or any indication that he was amused despite the glare she directed his way in response to that childish nickname.
But he continued. "His compassion isn't only directed towards his patients or his colleagues, but his friends, and you're killing him."
He pronounced his sentence with what could easily have been deemed sincerity, although she had no way of knowing for certain whether her judgment was correct. Dr. Lambert, despite his frivolity, was not a man to be underestimated. His movements were stiff as he moved, his facial features were restricted – uncharacteristically so of him – and there was something lacking in his usually conceited demeanor.
But what struck Evelyn as particularly strange was the way the word 'friends' entered the equation. As much as she intended to keep it concealed, Evelyn could not keep a look of (concern? distress? fear?) from entering view. Whether it was obvious or otherwise, the lack of change in Dr. Lambert's physique indicated that she had not made it visible to the external eye. When Dr. Lewis became concerned, he would go to great lengths in order to ensure that the well-being of whomever he was concerned for was stable, even if it was at the risk of his own health.
His selflessness and overall inability to not help others made him the ideal person behind the license of a doctor, but incompetent in terms of logical reasoning. He would have gladly placed himself between a person whose name he didn't even know and a bullet if it meant that he could potentially save the former from an imminent death. It was within the protocol of a physician to prioritize the well-being of others. But likewise, if he was to know of her involvement with the LF and how her life was at peril, he would not hesitate to try and relieve her of that burden.
She looked distantly into the drink in her hand, pondering on the many outcomes his involvement could produce (DEATH? DEATH? DEATH? TORTURE? DEATH?), and none of them were … convenient. Dr. Lewis was a prominent addition to the hospital, an excellent physician whose lack of presence might as well have resulted in the deaths of many. Losing him would be as mutually disadvantageous for everyone as it would have been for her.
However, she did not look away from the fact that many people had already been killed, and he was not the cause of that. That was on her, but she did not intend for his name to end up on that list of people whose lives were extinguished because of her contribution. If that was to happen, then …
What about the fact that human lives are at stake?
Evelyn would not allow him to die for someone like her.
As much as she loathed to admit it, Evelyn found the prospect of his death to be dreadfully unnecessary. Certainly, she harbored nothing akin to the likes of affinity towards him beyond a professional point, but that did not necessarily mean that she intended for him to die. She would not be responsible for that. If he got himself involved on his own account, then that was on his hands, not hers.
Evelyn was not a murderer to that extent. Her contribution might have resulted in the deaths of many people, but she was not ruthless enough to have someone else die in order to try and relieve her of her own complications.
It's not going to be missed just 'cause it's dead. Nothing more than a sack of meat the crows will eat.
Although Evelyn did not doubt that the LF could easily make his death seem like an accident, the lack of his presence would most certainly become problematic.
Dr. Daniel Lewis could hence not become involved in this.
He couldn't.
He couldn't.
He couldn't.
He couldn't.
He wouldn't.
"That is his own problem." Her eyes met those of Dr. Lambert again, gaze cold and unfazed with the information she had just received in regard to the state of her other colleague. "Dr. Lewis is incapable of restraining his altruism, thus the consequences are his own to manage."
"But the fact that you are partially the cause of his increase in his altruistic ways probably makes you accountable if anything goes sideways because of it," he contradicted, the rim of his coffee-cup reaching his lips to take another sip.
For unfathomable reasons she could not designate, Evelyn felt a spark of something foreign make its way to the center of her chest upon hearing that accusation. Without the rest of her body moving in the slightest, her fingers clenched around the cup to the point where the heat left bright-red marks in her palm.
If Dr. Lewis – If Daniel was placed in a disadvantageous position because he simply could not make her an exception when it came to people he was worried about, if he got involved with the LF and suffered the consequences, how was that logically her responsibility? She did not request for his concern, nor did she intend to have him associated with that unethical organization. That was not her fault – if he was killed or otherwise harmed, then that was not her blame to claim.
YOU'RE A MURDERER
At worst, perhaps death would have been preferable above the other potential alternatives. The Foundation was running out of people to use, so perhaps they would see fit in exploiting a potential hindrance to their work. Dr. Lewis – rendered to a designation consisting of numbers – would be contained within a cell with an alien parasite inside of him. He would be coughing blood and become rendered to a mindless shell of his former self. They would leave no loose threads, and if he was to die from exposure, then it would be unbearably easy to dispose of the body. Just like they would Ms. Nordstrom's body – just like they would the rest of the bodies of those who had ceased to survive.
IT'S YOUR FAULT
So many others had been killed, with Maria Nordstrom being neither the first and nor the last. If they were not beneath exploiting people in general, then the prospect of using a prominent surgeon as one of their guinea pigs might not have been too unimaginable.
YOU KILLED HIM
– everything from the ashen color of her face to the way her veins popped up from where they were not supposed to be visible. Her eyes were ajar, bloodshot and had tears that bore a striking resemblance to ink leaking out of them both; the pupils that had expanded to the point where there was almost no white left in the sclera. Although it had only been less than a couple of hours since she died, it already appeared as though her body had been left decaying for the last couple of days.
The vivid memory of that corpse left her in a state of (disarray? shock?), she could scarcely feel her grip around the cup tighten considerably over the course of just a few seconds. She opened her mouth to say something, intending on answering Dr. Lambert's accusations with as cold a response as she could muster, but something caused her to keep her silence.
As she glanced over his shoulder for a split moment, she thought she saw …. She saw a person standing there (indeterminate gender?), glaring at her from the back of the canteen with eyes that lacked pupils and irises and which's scleras had completely consumed both of the eyeballs to the point where it could have been mistaken for blindness…. But the eyes were inhumanly wide, stretching to the edge of their cranium. Their lips parted into a Glasgow-like grin, extending from ear to ear and filled with numerous, large teeth which resembled those of a shark.
"March?" She almost missed Dr. Lambert's voice as he tried to regain her attention, yet she still did not respond to him.
Hurriedly without a word, she got up to her feet, accidentally knocking over her coffee-cup and spilling some of the steaming beverage on her coat in the process. The occurrence shook her to the extent where she instinctively moved herself a few steps away from the table, but she only lingered long enough to provide Dr. Lambert with one last look of uncertainty before she left the room entirely.
As she paced through the corridor, Evelyn constantly kept looking over her shoulder in the hope of not seeing anyone following her. Numerous doctors and other members of the staff both walked in her direction and in the opposite direction, which did little to console her. Perhaps the LF had people positioned in the hospital as to keep their eyes on her and ensure themselves of her undying loyalty, or perhaps she was simply imagining it all (delusions? effects of sleep deprivation?).
Wherever she went, she could hear people speaking, yet their voices and the intent of their conversations did not reach her ("have you heard from mom yet?"/"I can't wait to get home."/"I'm going to France next week. Do you want to join, Sarah?"/"W-Where's daddy? Is daddy okay?"). There was never a moment where silence seemed to be possible; no second of nothingness; not a moment of soundlessness. The constant presence of her colleagues, staff, and patients had never before been an issue she could not handle, but she felt watched. It was the feeling her father always described to her as being simply there, incapable of being put into words. Being a police officer, he often taught her and David to be vigilant no matter what.
But this was ridiculous, utterly ludicrous. Under ordinary circumstances, she would have completely dismissed the sensation as nothing. And yet there she was, under constant wariness and under the impression that someone had not ceased to keep an eye on her movements since her departure from Mr. Axelson's car.
As soon as she passed the door leading into the ladies' bathroom, Evelyn stopped in her steps and did a complete turn. She entered the stalls, slamming the door behind her and making sure that there was no one in there. For once, there was quiet, but it could not compare to the tremors she felt vibrate through her body. Her heartbeats were incapable of being counted, her fingers were shivering, her stance was overall unsteady.
Evelyn cast a look into the mirror, noting the prominent bags beneath her eyes and how considerably paler her complexion had become. The coffee-stains on her coat was still fresh, as were her wounds. Although she had always had bags under her eyes as a subsequent consequence of her unpredictable – and more than often inadequate – sleeping patterns, they were more distinguished now than ever before. Being awake for nearly thirty-six hours straight with barely any sustenance would leave behind prominent traits on her physique.
She leaned over the faucet and plashed a fair amount of water into her face, trying to rid herself of his dread her body was experiencing as well as the tiredness. It did not make sense to her as to why this was happening now. Although the lack of sleep was most likely a contributing factor behind her lack of concentration, it did not excuse the rest of her physical symptoms. Her head felt heavy, her abdomen was still sore, her neck was stinging her. Everything was disorganized.
As she reached for a paper napkin to dry her face, she suddenly felt something slowly descending from her nose. It couldn't be water, because there was a warm temperature accompanying it. It was not until she looked down at the paper napkin that she discovered what it was.
Crimson drops of blood had stained the white material.
She placed a finger beneath her nose and few it back for inspection. It was indeed nosebleeding she was suffering from, but from unknown causes (dry air? alcohol abuse = most unlikely?). Though she quickly tried to dry it away, leaving behind no evidence on her face, the bleeding would not stop and continued rushing downwards until a few drops landed on her coat, staining the collar of it.
Reaching for another napkin from the dispenser hanging on the wall, Evelyn released an exhale she had contained for longer than she should have (ten seconds? twenty seconds? thirty seconds?) as she placed the napkin over her nose. None of these side-effects could have been caused by sleep-deprivation, and yet she could not find a suitable explanation behind them. It was an unknown sensation, not to be able to find the answer, but it seldom struck her. When it did, it was a bad situation.
But at the same time, working excessively is too good for you either.
Her intent was to ensure that no more lives were lost and no more unnecessary bloodshed was to occur. If achieving that goal came at the expense of her physical health, then she did not comprehend what was so wrong with it. If her work would make sure that no more people would become subjected to those experiments, that no more lives would be 'sacrificed', that Dr. Lewi– That none of her colleagues would become involved in this, then it would be worth it.
AND YET ALL OF THAT HAD BEEN HER FAULT TO BEGIN WITH
And still … all she could do now was to keep her promise. She would find Mr. Brock, secure the symbiote, and keep them both out of the Life Foundation's radar. If succeeded, then perhaps there was still a chance for everything to be corrected. If she failed, then she would simply have to manage the consequences of her actions. That was her price to pay for the sins she had committed.
Everything came at a cost.
Nothing was ever free.
After washing away most of the stains of her coat and composing herself to the uttermost ability, Evelyn stepped out of the stalls. The number of people in the corridors had decreased considerably, but that did not lessen the unease she experienced. Despite being perfectly capable of keeping it from being visible on her countenance, even Evelyn could not deny the fact that whatever her body was responding to, unless it was dealt with soon, it could compromise with her work.
But as she turned around to head into the direction where the cell of her next patient was, Evelyn found herself halting in her steps and freezing where she stood; immobile yet focused on the scene in front of her. She could see two figures standing further down in the corridor, one of which was the recognizable figure of Dr. Lewis, whereas the other one was …
Her eyes widened.
It was him.
Mr. Brock
Dora could not find it in herself to relax, or sleep, or even move without feeling like she was at the constant risk of being shot in her steps. Ever since the incident with the infiltrator was reported, there was an increase in security personnel around the labs and the facility altogether. She could feel guards eyeing her wherever she went, grips around their guns, deliberating whether shooting her would satisfy their Head of Security or not.
Treece was another problem she was facing. He was constantly breathing down her neck, convinced that she was somehow involved with what had happened. Although his hypothesis was not incorrect, she could not afford to let him know that. If she was going to die, then Luke would be left all alone, and all she had tried to do for the sake of redeeming herself would have been for nothing. She could only hope that Dr. March was having better luck than herself when it came to avoiding attention.
But now that she thought of it, perhaps the young doctor had a better time processing all of this than she herself could ever hope for. Janine had always called her a prodigy, albeit a Machiavellian one. Moving away from bloodshed and human experiments never seemed like it had struck the oncologist as difficult, not since the day they first met. Therefore, as cynically as it seemed, Dora did not doubt that Dr. March was easily able to move away from the experience with no problem.
Dora looked through the cell where Jacob Markson was being contained, strapped like an animal and constantly exposed to various forms for tests and research; some of which she herself had reluctantly participated with. Food and sustenance had finally entered the equation – they had given him enough to feed a grown elephant – yet something did not seem to add up. They had also tested its limits, and it eventually turned out that the symbiote had a weakness towards sounds between four- and six-thousands hertz.
The symbiote was increasing in size and strength to the point where it was consuming the organs of its host. Mr. Markson was already suffering countless of internal injuries, few of which could be properly diagnosed without the attendance of their primary physician. His liver was failing most prominently, that was for sure. All Dora could say for certain was that, without a new host available, they would lose Mr. Markson as well.
Losing their subject would be a problem to Drake, but losing a human was another – trivial – case for him. His misanthropic attitude seemed to increase the further away they strayed from their initial goals, and it was the very presence of that quality that had initially made her want to work for him, to begin with. His ability to empathize, but it seemed to have completely disappeared.
"Dr. Skirth," Dr. Collins called her after they had finished their general diagnostics of Mr. Markson. "Good work."
"T-Thanks," she hesitantly responded, offering him a shy smile before she exited the lab and headed towards her office with the reports. On the way there, she avoided as many of the guards as she could without looking conspicuous whilst also greeting her colleagues.
But as she reached the door to her office, her entrance was partially blocked by a guard stationed there – one with half of his face concealed behind a mask.
Curious, while also wary, she excused herself past him with a sheepish smile and reached for the handle. The guard suddenly shifted his look to her, eyes unreadable yet also filled with warnings. That look she received from him made her heart drop to her stomach, yet she tried to contain it.
"Is there a problem?" she inquired.
He only shifted his pupils to the door, not saying a word.
This did not decrease the unease she felt surging through her, and that was confirmed quite soon. As she opened the door, to her horror, the sight of the security guard who was on patrol last night came to view, but he was not alone.
Treece was standing there next to the COO, both of whom were looking at her quite predictably over her computer.
"Good afternoon, Dr. Skirth," Treece greeted her coldly. "You've been keeping secrets."
She could not utter a single word as she processed what was happening, not even when the guards escorted her out of the office and back to the labs. Her nerves were shaking as though volts were surging through her, she could not count her breaths, her temperature was decreasing; she could physically feel herself grow paler the closer she came to Drake.
She was done for.
"Sorry to interrupt," Treece said the moment they entered proximity with Drake. He then shoved her forward. "Thought you'd like some good news."
All she could mutter as she met that cold and disappointed look on Drake's was two words.
"I'm sorry."