Written For
100 Word Prompt Challenge (germ)
Pocket Morty Competition (Flu Morty: write about someone getting sick)
Gringotts Prompt Bank:
Doctor Horrible- (word) strong, (dialogue) "[Name]? Is that you?"
CSI: NY- (object) newspaper
Warning for suicide.
Riddle leans back in his chair, a smirk on his lips. "Well?" he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.
You shake your head. "You realize that what you're asking me to do is bioterrorism," you say quietly.
"I'm well aware," Riddle laughs.
You shudder, shaking your head again. "Why would I do that? Why would you want that?"
"It's simple, Barty. Weed out the weak," he answers, his voice a little too calm for your liking. "The strong shall inherit the earth."
"The meek," you correct.
"Oh, no. I'm rewriting the Book. The strong will inherit the earth, and I will lead them as their lord."
You look down at your hands and notice that they're trembling. "You're talking about mass murder. No, genocide!"
"I'm talking about natural selection. You're a scientist. Surely you've read Darwin," Riddle says.
"Why would I help you?"
"You're not weak, Barty. You may play the part, keeping your head down, doing whatever your father asks of you, never questioning orders. But I've seen the way it eats you alive. You hate it. Your life has become stagnant, and you need a little spark," he explains, and you don't know what's worse- the velvet tone of his voice that lures you in or the truth in every word he speaks. "There will be a place for you, Barty. I'll be sure of that."
"What you're asking isn't exactly easy," Barty points out. "The lab is secure. Cameras, guards… I can't exactly walk out with-"
"You're a clever man. You'll think of something," he says, offering you his hand. "Are you in, or are you out?"
Your eyes flicker to the dark haired woman who guards the door, her eyes wild, her hand dangerously close to her gun. The smirk on her face tells you that you don't have much choice.
Hesitantly, you grip his hand as firmly as you can manage. "I won't disappoint you."
"See that you don't."
…
"Barty? Is that you?" Regulus calls.
"Who else would it be?" you snort.
"Won't believe the things I've read. They're poisoning the oranges. Did you know?"
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. Regulus always has some new conspiracy. You've learned to love him in spite of the ridiculous things he says.
"The oranges? Now I can't have my juice in the morning," you say patiently, pecking him on the lips.
"Tea is better."
"Much better," you chuckle.
"You were late."
"I had a meeting."
Regulus frowns at that. He looks as though he has something to say, but he thinks better of it. "No matter. Dinner's nearly done."
"Great."
…
"Something is bothering you," Regulus observes as you climb into bed.
"You're imagining things."
Even in the darkness, you know he's scowling. He hates to have anything he says dismissed. "I know you, Barty," he says. "What's wrong?"
You roll onto your side, stroking his hair. "Work," you answer, and you suppose it isn't a complete lie. "It's been particularly stressful lately."
"How so?"
You bite your lip. Sometimes his mind is a little too inquisitive. You wish he would just go to sleep and not worry about you.
"New strain of the chicken pox," you say. "It's more complex than we'd like."
"You'll figure it out," he assures you, leaning over and kissing your forehead. "I know you will. You're brilliant."
"Yeah. Brilliant."
…
"Morning, Crouch," Dawlish says with a too bright smile.
"Morning," you answer.
"Something wrong?"
"No, nothing," you say, and you realize you answer a little too quickly. You offer him your most reassuring smile. "Long night. Lots of notes to review."
"Better you than me. That's why I always preferred security over the brainy stuff," he laughs.
You laugh as well, painfully aware of how hollow it sounds. "If you'll excuse me," you say, pulling out your badge and sliding it into the reader.
The door beeps before unlocking with a click. As it closes behind you, a hand claps over your shoulder.
"You're late."
"Good morning to you, too, Father," you say dryly.
He frowns at you. "Punctuality is key, boy. Don't forget it."
"Of course not, Father," you agree with a roll of your eyes. "I have work to do."
"I know. Which is why you ought to be on time. Don't let it happen again."
"I won't," you say, pulling away from him.
He makes it too easy. You imagine him dead, killed by something that he's housed. The irony is almost too sweet.
"Excuse me," you mutter, shaking your head, trying to rid yourself of such thoughts. "I need to go."
…
You hesitate outside the door, hands trembling. It ought to be easy. A simple swipe. Grab. In. Out. Done.
But something pulls at your chest. Guilt rests heavily in your heart.
With a sigh, you lift your badge, swiping it quickly before you can change your mind.
...
"Same time tomorrow?" Dawlish jokes.
"Always," you laugh feebly, offering him a gloved hand.
He grips it firmly, shaking it. "You're a good kid, Crouch," he chuckles. "Have a good night."
"You, too," you say, trying to shake the guilt when Dawlish yawns and covers his mouth with the hand you've just touched.
As you start down the street, you peel the glove from your hand. Should you toss it in a bin? Could they find your prints and trace the virus on it back to you somehow? Then again, why would anyone even think to fish out a glove?
With a shrug, you discard it in the nearest bin before hurrying away.
…
"Phone," Regulus says.
You accept it, heart sinking. You know it will be your father. He'll have realized something isn't right in the lab. He'll have traced it back to you.
"Barty Crouch speaking," you say.
"Is it done?"
You don't know if you feel relieved to hear Riddle on the other line.
"Yes."
"Good work, Barty. You've done well."
You notice Regulus is watching you intently. "Thank you, sir," you say hurriedly. "I'll have that file ready for you by lunch tomorrow. Have a good night."
You hang up the phone and offer your boyfriend a weak smile. "Work," you laugh. "Pain in the ass, am I right?"
Regulus smiles and kisses your cheek. "Maybe you need a vacation," he suggests. "You're due for one soon."
"A vacation," you echo with a nod. "Maybe a permanent one."
"That would be nice, wouldn't it?"
…
You notice that Dawlish it not at his post in the morning. I his place is a young woman with short pink hair. A fill-in from the security company, you assume.
"Good morning!" she says, jumping to her feet so quickly that she nearly falls over her own feet. "Oops! Sorry about that."
"Where's Dawlish?" you ask with faux surprise.
"Poor thing's out sick. I think he caught a cold," she explains. "I'm Dora. I'll be covering for him until he gets better."
"That's nice," you say before swiping your card.
…
"Have a good night, Dora," you say as you leave, offering her a gloved hand.
"In another half hour, I will," she says cheerfully, shaking your hand. "Big date tonight."
"Lovely," you say before hurrying off, removing your glove and tossing it into the bin without a second glance.
…
"I thought you hated the news," you say, surprised to find Regulus with his eyes glued to the screen.
Without answering, he shushes you, waving you away.
"Thank you, Rita," the reporter says. "What John Dawlish believed to be a cold is proving to be something out of a nightmare. Doctors are working around the clock to treat him. No word yet on exactly what it is. Dawlish, age thirty-eight, is listed in critical condition. Anyone who has-"
"I'll bet it's an inside job," Regulus says, and he almost sounds excited. "You don't just show up with an illness no one can treat or- from the sound of it- identify. My guess is this Dawlish bloke is Mafia. Maybe even ex CIA. I'll bet he knows something, and someone is trying to take him out."
"You watch too much telly," you tease, sitting beside him. "Just sounds like a nasty bug. They probably aren't testing thoroughly enough. That hospital is rubbish."
Regulus rests his head against your shoulder. "You're probably right," he agrees. "But! What if-"
You silence him with a kiss. Your mind is still swimming with guilt, knowing that you're the one who put him in that hospital.
"I need a drink," you groan, climbing to your feet.
…
"Three more have been hospitalized," the reporter announces as you pour your morning coffee. "Doctors have declined our request for a statement, but we have reason to believe that the three newest patients have shown the same symptoms that John Dawlish have. Dora Tonks and her parents, Ted and Andi Tonks-"
You turn the TV off. Your fault. All your fault.
…
"I trust you've seen the news."
"Yes, Father," you confirm, scowling into the mouthpiece of the phone.
"They're fearing an epidemic."
"Should they?" you ask.
"Four hospitalized. No telling how many others have been infected after coming into contact with-" He trails off, and you hear him give a ragged cough.
"That doesn't sound good, Father."
"Just a cold," he says with a sniffle.
A twisted smile tugs at your lips. Maybe this is worth it after all.
"We're waiting for lab results to identify the bug," he continues. "No need to panic until we know what we're dealing with exactly."
"Of course."
"I expect to see you bright and early Monday morning," he says firmly.
"Yes, Father."
"Good boy."
…
Regulus slams the newspaper down on the kitchen table the following morning. Your eyes quickly find what's gotten him on edge.
Mystery Virus Claims Its First Victim
Below the headline, Dawlish's face smiles up at you.
"I'm telling you. It's the Mafia," Regulus says. "Mystery virus, my ass. They're covering for the Mafia. You know they wouldn't dare expose the truth. But they had to go further and infect others. It's a damn shame."
"Maybe you're right," you say, pushing the paper aside, unable to look at Dawlish anymore.
Regulus beams as he sits across from you. "It's the only thing that makes sense. Mystery viruses are the things of novels and films."
"I suppose so."
…
"A fifth victim has been hospitalized due to the mystery virus. Remus Lupin, boyfriend of Dora Tonks, was rushed in-"
You change the channel.
Remembering John Dawlish.
"He was a good man," a woman the caption identifies as Amelia Dawlish says, tears streaking her face. "The best man. Hardworking, and as caring as-"
You change it again.
"No information yet on exactly what this mysterious illness is. However, we-"
You turn the television off, slinging the remote against the wall. It shatters.
…
Regulus appears at breakfast wearing a surgical mask. You raise your brows.
"Can't be too careful," he says, setting the newspaper down.
Thirteen Confirmed Cases of the Mystery Virus, the headline reads.
…
"What happened to our security?" you ask.
Peter Pettigrew shakes his head. "They think the position is cursed, apparently," he explains. "Can't say I blame them. First John- God rest his soul. Then Dora. It's not looking-"
The sentence dies, and he looks over your shoulder. "Mr. Crouch! Fine morning, isn't it?" he squeaks.
"Shouldn't you be working? The hospital sent us a sample of the virus. Off you trot," your father says.
"No leads on what it is?" you ask.
"Not exactly. Looks like a mixture. Resistant to antibiotics. It works fast, too," your father says, pulling a handkerchief from his coat pocket and covering his mouth as he coughs.
"Nasty cold," you say.
But you know a cold doesn't make a person look like they're close to death.
'It'll pass. Get to work."
…
The Mystery Virus: What You Need to Know
You lift the leaflet, curious.
Fever, cough, chills, rash, and congestion are the first signs of the infection. As the virus spreads, vomiting occurs.
You grimace, the guilt returning. "How unpleasant," you murmur.
…
"The hospital is under quarantine," the reporter says, his face obscured by a surgical mask. "No one is allowed in or out. The public is outraged."
"They're tuning away the sick," a woman captioned as Lily Potter says furiously. "My husband is near death, and my son is-"
She's consumed by a coughing fit so violent that she screams.
…
"Regulus?"
He groans in response.
"Reg, hey," you say, rushing to his side. "Talk to me, love."
He coughs, curling into a fetal position. You place your hand on his forehead, your heart sinking. He's burning up!
"I don't feel good, Barty," he whines, shivering.
"I'll get you something for fever," you say.
"No pills. No pills. Poison," he says, and his shiver worsens.
…
"My boyfriend is dying."
Riddle shows no sympathy. You suppose you aren't surprised.
"Then he is weak," he says softly.
You shake your head, hands trembling with rage. You want nothing more than to snap his neck. But his bodyguard is still there, and her eyes are still uncomfortably dark, silently warning you.
"I'll expose you."
"And you'll tie the noose around your own neck, Barty. I don't exist, as far as records are concerned. I'm a ghost. Nobody at all," Riddle laughs. "Are you really going to tell them you unleashed a lethal virus under the orders of a man no one can trace?"
With a howl, you kick the desk and turn, pushing angrily past the grinning woman.
…
"The death toll has reached sixty," the news reports. "Officials are urging citizens to-"
You unplug the television, pushing it to the floor. There's a ridiculous satisfaction as the glass breaks.
…
"It's your father," your mother says. "He's… Barty, your father's… Oh God…"
She coughs.
"Oh, God. Blood. Barty, I'm coughing blood! Barty!"
…
Regulus looks up at you, his eyes glazed. There's a smear of blood from the corner of his lips, trailing down to his chin.
"Bar-" He coughs, but he's too weak to cover it. Blood sprays.
"I'm sorry, Reg. It was me. All of this. It wasn't the Mafia. It was me."
His chest heaves, and his body convulses.
"Bar...ty…"
And then he stops moving.
…
RIDDLE MADE ME DO IT
The words are smeared in blood above the tub. You close your eyes, ignoring the stinging in your wrists, ignoring the water that quickly darkens to scarlet.