Kyle regarded the corpse to which the Kantinian Praepostor had led him, the man departing immediately afterward, visibly unable to endure proximity to such a sight for more than a moment.
Emitting a silent, cheerless sigh through his nose, the weary agent of Prime's VST knelt to examine the body more closely.
Red eyes. Teeth bared in a final, terrible rictus. And that massive hole punched clean through the chest by something unspeakable. The creature looked ghastly… It was difficult to reconcile this horror with the notion it had once been an ordinary resident of this bustling city.
Sent at the request of Kantine's governing body from the capital, Prime, operative investigator Callix of the Very Strange Things Agency (VST) was here to assist the local Order services in unravelling this grim case. Which was precisely the task occupying him now.
It seemed the Kantinian Praepostor hadn't exaggerated the sheer horror in his urgent short dispatch. Yet, the fact that the notoriously proud Kantinese had swallowed their disdain to seek help from the most hated "witch city"… that spoke volumes.
Something had gone profoundly wrong. Very. Wrong. Very. Serious.
Kyle tilted his head thoughtfully, not rushing into the detailed examination just yet. He had certainly never encountered anything quite like this… Though, he mused, the roster of events filed under "never seen anything like this" and "never happened before" in his mental ledger had been growing at an irritatingly rapid clip lately.
Plus one. So profoundly annoying… and deeply unsettling. A bizarre corpse that had presumably been… a rather peculiar human being?.. Wasn't that the logical assumption?
Or… it was something far more terrible, a possibility his mind shied away from, refusing to let the thought fully coalesce.
It must be said, years of service in the VST had exposed Kyle to many things… But right now, he felt suspended in a kind of stunned stupor, unable to even begin formulating an approach. Not just to this specific investigation.
There was simply… too much. Starting with the unresolved vanishing of his partner and closest friend, agent Ingefara, who had, shortly before disappearing, stumbled upon something… deeply unsettling. Bewildering.
Compounded by the prolonged silence from his other colleagues. And the bog dozen of uncanny occurrences still plaguing Omill. That coffee-driven city, his second home, the locus of his previous investigation.
A number of unsettling incidents that led to those destructive, perfectly planned attacks on the Omill Temple Complex by powerful, unidentified witches. On his watch, the Omill Truth Precinct had indeed been attacked. And the criminals just evaporated, leaving no trace behind. No results from pursuits. Kyle had been on the verge of death. And his colleagues' companions as well.
So… it might seem strange to assume a seasoned VST agent could still be unpleasantly surprised. Yet it had happened.
…With the sheer, cold terror it evoked…
He has some reserves of patience, calm, and that flicker of optimism… but they are finite.
…There was no sense in all of this. No sense at all…
In his point of view. But it's clear that even the dreadful Omill attack's cause and motives held *some* discernible logic, though the larger picture remained obscured. Neither motive nor a discernible pattern in the perpetrators' behavior was visible.
Anyway. This encroaching sense of helpless despair wasn't reason to cease the pursuit of truth. Just because that seemed the only solid ground left in this chaos. Not the sanest of anchors, perhaps, but options were dwindling.
And truly, where could one run from entities wielding such power, orchestrating these meticulously planned horrors? If Kyle succumbed to panic now, it wouldn't erase the dangers… or solve the cases… or bring back his partner.
The agent gave a decisive, almost imperceptible shake of his head, a physical reset.
"Pull yourself together." he murmured to himself. "What do we have here?"
Hm. According to the Praepostor, these… "mad people" had begun emerging from the northern Youlle.
That was how he'd phrased it. "Northerners who come and attack the townsfolk."
So, the problems came from the North. Again.
But even taking into account the Kantinian bias due to the ancient feud with Joulle.
It couldn't be coincidence. Or too much coincidences here. Yet, inconsistencies nagged at him…
…Why mount attacks alone? Or in pitifully small groups?
Youlle, by all accounts from Wasteland scholars, is a vast settlement, technologically and witchely advanced. Acting in concert, they could have swept aside relatively small Kantine in an instant.
Naturally, any developed society has more independent individuals. But is this a degree of… independence? It has no sence.
…Why now? Generations of demonstrative indifference toward their neighbor, borders long sealed tight against the entire Mainland… Why remember Kantine *now*?
Why… in such a… profoundly *weird* manner?
So many whys. Answers remained elusive.
The Youllish attackers were unnervingly silent. Near mute. Only guttural sounds. No shouts. No threats. Oddly, threats might have been preferable. This silent assault maybe felt stealthier. More deeply sinister.
So… what purpose did this northern restraint serve? If it was the initiative of fanatical loners? Then. Why attack openly?
What if they were doing it… for "fun"? Then why not simply hunt Kantinese in the Forest or ambush them outside taverns late at night? And if it was a serious business.
Why not employ their famed witch abilities? Or technological might? They could. They really could. Their notorious technological advancement was the result of collaboration with the elves. So. The "whys" piled up, forming an unsettling cairn.
It defied logic. Yet, it undeniably existed, even if this VST investigator couldn't yet grasp its shape. Otherwise, it wouldn't be unfolding.
And the strangest things… wasn't even the initial attacks themselves. It was the aftermath. The victims began exhibiting the same bizarre, aggressive behavior as their attackers. Turning on their own.
Coincidence? Another peculiar coincidence, naturally. Of course.
He definitely hates it here. Best to be swift.
The agent sighed, a sound of weary resignation. The minor good news was he finally was "ripe" enough to begin the examination.
If one could ever truly be ready for such a thing.
Opening his worn tool bag, he pulled on a glove with resolute familiarity, retrieving instruments for tissue extraction. Kneeling once more, he commenced the grim procedure, carefully avoiding the pool of darkened blood already half-absorbed by the thirsty earth.
How unnaturally bluish this poor guy is… Hm.
The Primian carefully turned the townsman's head. The neck was webbed with bulging, starkly visible veins. And he was already… quite rigid. Onset of rigor mortis? Plausible. Yet, everything felt… off. As if the entire body had been seized by a single, violent spasm before death…
He's remarkably gaunt. Compared to the typically sturdy, well-nourished Kantinese, this man appeared skeletal.
Strange. People here worked hard and ate heartily.
These spasms… starvation? Illness? Overwhelming stress?
…Not enough data. Questions are multiplying faster than answers.
This is precisely where the Agency's skilled medical personnel would be invaluable. The locals had likely already performed their own examinations. And Kyle readily admitted his own competence in pure forensics was limited…
So, he would focus on collecting pristine samples for their lab.
Thoughtfully, he drew a long knife and an extra sterile container from his bag, arranging them neatly beside his other tools. He pressed the container's rim against the ragged hole in the Kantinese's chest – pierced by something unknown – and, with a focused witchly effort, coaxed a measure of congealed blood into the vial.
One viable sample secured. Good.
Now for tissue... One could only hope this would shed light on the corpse's profoundly unnatural state. Wait. Look here.
Dried bloodstains were visible on the shoulder. Old blood. A treated wound beneath the shirt, poorly bandaged. He'd clearly visited the Healer's Quarters. Why hadn't he at least changed his clothes? More pressingly, why hadn't the drastic weight loss and alarming change in appearance raised alarms among the healers?
Such transformations couldn't occur overnight. It would require at least a medium cycle. If not longer... Aaargh.
…When *did* these attacks commence? Need to cross-reference the VST dispatches.
…What *were* the Kantinese hiding *now*? Especially from those they themselves had summoned??
…Damn it…
Recall. What scant details emerged from that brief, brusque conversation with the harried healer? What preceded the man becoming "this starving wretch trying to devour everything in sight"? Fever. And insatiable hunger.
Assuming it *was* an illness.
That spawned more questions for the healers. Didn't they attempt treatment? Feed him, clean him? Was the situation truly that dire here? Did they simply not care for their people until they became troublesome? Pity them, then. It explained the endemic local aggression but excused no one.
There was always a choice to remain human, even in harsh conditions. Like Amelia did.
So. They noted symptoms of a… novel disease, apparently… One symptom is heightened aggression. Significantly higher than the Kantinese baseline, which was saying something. Hardly surprising, given the apparent indifference to this man's suffering…
And… the northerners? Were *they* deliriously sick? Did they bring the disease here? Accidentally? Or were they expelled from their own city? To contain… an epidemic? Or… as an act of deliberate sabotage?
Hmm… Curiouser and curiouser.
The pensive agent shifted the grimy bandage, scraping off a crust of dried healing salve mingled with pus. The salve had obviously failed. Miserably. It hadn't even drawn the infection out properly.
Something had entered the bloodstream rapidly.
If his illness hypothesis held… He was no medical expert. It's far too early to speculate, to jump to premature conclusions.
He'd have to wait for someone more qualified. Still needed to examine the other victims. And question these healers far more thoroughly. *If* they could be persuaded to answer cooperatively.
Working here was always… challenging. It wasn't his first visit. He even knew the language passably well, unlike most colleagues.
Except Inga. She was a true professional, the best of her graduating cohort, and one hell of an agent.
She disappeared while working here. And he… He felt stuck, mired.
…What in the ghouls' names *was* happening? What were they hiding? Why summon the VST only to conceal crucial facts??
The same criminal indifference they showed this poor wretch? Or did they genuinely have some inkling about the source of this aggression? And if it *was* a sickness… the critical question was its virulence.
They likely didn't want their own people exposed once they more or less grasped the danger. Understandable caution, perhaps.
How long *had* they hidden it, muttering their usual mantra, "We handle everything ourselves, without any witches or other upstarts"? And how much longer would they have concealed it if it hadn't become… utterly terrifying?
Anyway. If viral and lethal, hiding was futile. It would spread across the entire Mainland.
Summarising. This man sustained several severe wounds leading to death. Because. He was attacked by a northern assailant. Then he himself attacked locals here and was killed by them. Which wounds proved lethal? The central, massive one, obviously.
A smaller wound, presumably inflicted by the northern attacker… a torn wound, resembling a bite. It had been a long time since he'd seen one like that… Honestly… perhaps never outside Academy pathology texts. It revealed little about the causative object.
Imagine an *attacker's* bite. What savagery. It seemed nonsensical.
Though, it could conceivably be a bite received in a drunken brawl over the exclusive right to "true knowledge" in one of the local taverns.
Regardless. It's hard for a non-specialist to say, but the wound didn't resemble a witch burn; it looked more like the mark of a strange, tearing Youllish weapon. A new weapon, perhaps? Technologically advanced, long-isolated Youlle – many innovations could have emerged. Likely poisoned. That would explain much.
Poison could cloud the mind, induce spasms, create such a ghastly appearance… And horrific agony.
How long did it last? Also unknown. Must enquire.
Must also ask about the weapon. These locally pragmatic minds wouldn't discard something potentially useful.
He wished he could examine an attacker, but the locals weren't known for gentleness with outsiders, alive or dead; they simply disposed of the bodies. Work with what's available. Nothing was ever straightforward here.
Needed to examine the wound more closely. Interesting. If it *was* poison… a deeper sample was needed. From the side. Leaving the wound intact for later examiners.
Pursing his lips in concentration, Kyle took the knife and carefully cut away the shirt fabric and bandage to access the area.
Almost finished here. This poor soul needed cold storage until medical help arrived. For a fuller understanding, they'd need to examine other victims.
A shadow fell across the corpse. How typically rude to intrude upon a crime scene examination. Very much in a habit…
— That's how they all look, - a voice announced from above.
…of local Order Management officers.
Perhaps she could be a source of information? If he could coax her into conversation.
The speaker squatted down unceremoniously beside him. He remembered her. And her colleagues. Amusing, really.
Now *these* people were asking for *his* help. His help. A fine time to recall how much "help" he'd received investigating the high-profile amnesia case that originated here. Their "help" had practically been obstruction.
So. He returned to Prime VST practically empty-handed. And disguised Inga had secretly taken his place.
…He could almost hear the disdainful snort in his ear from his Kantinian apprentice, who'd endured this swampy-toxic atmosphere long enough to know the "joys" of service in the Kantine Place of Truth firsthand. Their acquaintance began precisely with Amelia expressing sympathy over his frustrating experience with her former colleagues…
Kyle, however, bore no grudge. The local clayheads had punished themselves this time. Three sat insane in Order Management cells; one was dead. The price of arrogance. Life, though unintrusive, proved a cruel teacher.
- What was he like before? Was he ill? Why so thin? - Kyle asked, not pausing his meticulous examination.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the officer's face assume a haughty, slightly affronted expression.
- Otto? Nah. Healthy as a warm-season akra, he was. True-blood Kantinian man, through an' through.
- Why wasn't he helped? His wound is… appalling. As is his general state.
The Order servicewoman exhaled, a flicker of discomfort crossing her features.
- He *Was* helped! But he scarpered. First from the Healer's Hut. Then from our lock-up down cellar. Hoboed around somewhere fer three lights, he did. Then comes back lookin'… Like *This*. An' his rabid mate too. Same story. We clapped 'im in irons right off. He… he's thrashin' around in the cage like a scalded cat. Gnawin' the bars, tryin' to sink his teeth into anythin' that moves. Ghouls only know what's got into 'em… Fourth one I seen like this. Pure manure… They was normal folk! Them northerners brought somethin' foul, the swamp-rattlin' scum…
- So all the trouble starts after contact with these… northerners?
Predictable. Why even ask.
- Course it does! - She threw up her hands violently, as if astonished he'd question the blindingly obvious. - Always been the root o' all our woes, since the dawn o' time! Always will be. Witches is witches… Treat 'em decent, they still show their rotten core soon enough.
Kyle raised a single, questioning eyebrow. The speaker caught herself, remembering whom she addressed.
- What about the others involved… in the altercation? - the Primian inquired smoothly, letting the previous remark slide.
- The attack? Yeah, same lot… Locked up too. Gnawin' the bars somethin' fierce. - his companion shrugged, as if discussing unruly livestock.
- And this one… was simply running loose in the streets?
- Yyy… yeah. Gnawed right through the bars, he did, busted out… Like I told ya. Swamp only knows how, but he managed. Strong as a bog-ox, that 'un. First time in my service anythin' like that happened. Cells ain't built fer bein' battered constant fer lights on end. Usually, they sleep it off, come to their senses, an' we kick 'em out.
Kyle frowned thoughtfully.
- Usually… But lately, "usual" seems in short supply. What if the others break out?
The orderist shook her head firmly.
- Won't happen. Our lads took measures. Barricaded 'em in proper with heavy cabinets hauled from the Archives. Solid oak, them. They ain't goin' nowhere.
She sounded grimly satisfied.
- Good, if so…
Slowly returning to his task, the VST agent took the knife and a second sealed container, carefully beginning to excise a small skin sample near the bite-like laceration.
Interesting rash, regardless… Good candidate for witchography. Wonder how many transparent imaging tablets were left in the kit.
The Order Officer watched his actions with a frank, natural curiosity, devoid of squeamishness.
Kantinians couldn't be denied robust health and strong nerves, nor their frequent lack of imagination, which often bred a startling lack of empathy.
And above all, an unparalleled depth of stubbornness.
…In which Amelia differed little from her fellow citizens. She would certainly argue that point. Stubbornly. And quite vociferously. The girl despised her native city with a passion. In moments like this, the Primian could almost grasp why.
Carefully packing the last sample, Kyle involuntarily allowed a small smile, recalling the fiery Ami once more.
Wish he could reach her somehow… but communication had become problematic lately… Messages flowed only one way, usually via her direct superior, Finnian, Head of Omill's Witchery. Amelia clearly wanted her boss kept informed while the restless young witch traipsed across the Mainland.
Annoying, but he had to commend her thoroughness. As a field agent, she was very capable. And would be even sharper after finishing her advanced courses in Prime. They said she was impulsive but fundamentally sound.
He hadn't heard directly from Ami in too long. Had that hyperactive whirlwind gotten herself tangled in fresh trouble? Investigating now felt perilous. That strange case in the Mist had nearly claimed both their lives. Would the less experienced Ami vanish from the face of the Mainland even faster than Inga?
…That prospect felt unbearable.
No. She was likely just swamped. Thinking otherwise… was distinctly unpleasant. And unproductive.
Firstly, Amelia had repeatedly demonstrated an almost supernatural knack for wriggling free from catastrophic binds.
Secondly, while unofficially a rookie VST field agent, she *was* actively assisting in investigating this sprawling, strange case and the search for Kyle's missing colleague.
And serving as Finnian's indispensable "hands and eyes," fulfilling her primary duties. She was undoubtedly swamped. The young witchling's workload must be crushing…
The "angry Ami" was right about one thing at least: not all Kantinese were cast from the same mould. But right now, he had to deal with the ones who were.
- Who had direct contact with the deceased? - he directed the question at the local officer.
- Practically… no one. 'Cept… Marla. She poked 'im with a poke. Scared out her wits, see… Bloke looked like a risen ghoul. So… we didn't hold it against 'er. - she snorted pragmatically.
- Did he… manage to reach her?
- Dunno proper… Doubt it. A poke gives ya reach.
- Definitely. Still. Find Marla and bring her to the Management. I'll be there shortly. - Kyle swiftly packed the vial with the sample and stowed it, wiping his hands meticulously with a disinfectant wipe.
- Why for? - The servicewoman eyed him with renewed suspicion.
- Just. In. Case. - Kyle enunciated the words with deliberate patience. - I'm not certain yet. But. If an epidemic or toxic poisoning *is* at play… Caution isn't merely prudent; it's essential.
He levelled a serious gaze at his interlocutor.
- So…
- So Marla could be as much a danger as anyone in your cells or anyone who's dealt with these afflicted people. See the potential chain? Trace the contacts… For the sake of your city.
- So, them northerners coulda *planned* this… - the order-keeper's brow furrowed in dark realization. - T'ain't just some elven curse… Or *only* an elven curse… *Knew* it! Them pointy-eared bastards!
The Primian squinted incredulously, shifting his sceptical gaze fully onto the speaker. A… "version"?
- I beg your pardon?
- An elven curse, - she repeated, lowering her voice conspiratorially. - Elves are behind everythin', mark my words. Obvious they want our lands… An' them empty-headed Youllians musta trespassed on theirs. Paid the price, course. Cunnin' tree-lovin' vermin. Cursed 'em proper. So… now them idiots run rabid 'cross the Wasteland. Then they fetch up *here*. Simple as mud, that is. No need fer fancy theories… Youllish weren't never too bright, ya know. Needed us to survive way back. Lost their chance. Now they're proper ruined. An' the elves prob'ly hope we'll get riled an' finish off them northerners fer 'em. Do their dirty work. But bald ghoul take 'em! Stupid elves. We ain't liftin' a finger. Just chased the riff-raff off, we did.
The Kantinese woman fell into a gloomy silence, apparently contemplating the ramifications.
- "Chased" away? - Kyle clarified, keeping his tone neutral.
- Yeah. - The officer nodded with grim pride, scratching her ear. - Just recent, a whole crowd o' 'em stumbled through… Filthy, starvin', shakin' like gnats in a gale. Where'd their high-an'-mighty airs go then, eh?
She snorted contemptuously.
- So you prevented another attack.
- Weren't no attack proper. They just run like scared jackrabbits. We always took in them northerners afore. But even *our* patience wears thin.
- And… they didn't even… attempt aggression? - Kyle asked, surprise evident.
- Nary a peep. Who'd let 'em try anythin' else here? Mad 'uns babbled some gibberish in their fool tongue. But who'd listen?
Indeed. Who needed the only potentially dangerous, yet immensely valuable, source of firsthand information.
- Did you recover any weapons from them? Any weaponry at all?
- Weapons? What weapons?.. - The officer looked genuinely perplexed. - Had nowt on 'em worth callin' a weapon. Just rags an' desperation.
So. They drove out the living ones and looted the dead ones. Efficient scavengers.
- The kind of weapon that could cause *this*.
Kyle indicated the torn wound on the man's shoulder. The Kantinian winced.
- Nothin'… Nothin' like that. An' this… Linda said they had *bites*. Well, bites. Like in a common tavern scrap, ya know.
What remarkably amiable tavern scraps they must have here.
What if… the injuries on this clearly aggressive individual weren't the *cause*? What if the disease were airborne?..
…No point panicking prematurely.
If it spread that easily, everyone would be attacking and gnawing by now… Then again, who knew? Maybe it was still incubating. What *was* the incubation period for this… whatever it was… Three lights, they said. Hmm.
- I see… So, the groups are gone. To where? - the VST agent enquired.
- How in the swamp should I know… - The orderist chuckled, a smug glint in her eye. - We ran them stupid gits clean outta the city… Don't need their kind here. Got problems enough o' our own.
True enough. But no attempt at interrogation. A wasted opportunity.
- Was it the first such group?
- Nah. There was two… or three. Not rightly sure. Not on my watch.
- Noted… Three groups.
He frowned. Definitely needed to inform Sandra. How… inconvenient.
- We need no more o' them devourers here…
"Devourers", huh? Bestowing catchy nicknames—a hallmark of local wit. Kantinians were truly unmatched in that. Their attention to detail, knack for spotting nuances, and innate cunning cleverness were undeniable assets.
- …Let the stupid Youllians stew in their own swamp now. An' no elves'll threaten us. Won't dare poke their pointy noses here. We ain't some lily-livered, witchy weaklin's.
The local woman warmed to her jingoistic theme, while Kyle shook his head slowly, his expression deeply sceptical.
- Elves are formidable. If they desired… well, any lands, they could have claimed them long ago. In the blink of an eye. Without subterfuge. - he remarked with calm reason.
- Must be scared o' us proper, else they'd showed by now. - his companion retorted, lips pursed stubbornly. - An' them swampy northerners… Best keep 'em far off. Nothin' but grief from that lot.
Practical Kantinese bog-wisdom in full flow. Amelia might grudgingly appreciate the pragmatism, if nothing else.
- Alright. However, I reiterate: keep a very close watch on anyone who had contact with… ahem… the suspects. We'll need to carefully examine the victims for common signs of possible illness or wounds… even if you insist no weapon was found.
- No weapon… Look. Takin' the mickey? Gather everyone who swapped a 'good light'? We'd have to round up the whole bleedin' Kantine! Our folk are mighty sociable, ya know.
- There's a clear and present danger. - Kyle reminded her, his tone firm but weary.
The Kantinese officer scratched her head, genuinely bewildered by the scale.
- I hear ya, but… An' them… violent 'uns. How d'ya even *examine* 'em? Who's fool enough to crawl into their cages? Ours have already barricaded 'em shut tighter'n a drum with cabinets from the Archives… We ain't stupid. Let 'em cool their heels 'til they simmer down.
…No comment.
No treatment. Left to die behind furniture. Exemplary care.
Officially, he had no further questions for the Kantinian authorities regarding their attitude.
- Very well… Examine them once they've "simmered down". - The investigator sighed, conceding the point. - One way or another. Look for anomalies. Pay particular attention to unusual wounds. Cuts, suppurations, rashes, punctures. I won't presume to tell you how to perform your duties.
…My role is to render an opinion on the incident. That's what I was summoned for. I'm finished here.
Kyle decisively stood up from the ground and brushed the dirt from his trousers.
- So. Done here? We… clean up? – the officer enquired with matter-of-fact pragmatism.
- Yes, - the VST agent confirmed with a nod.
Sighing deeply, Kyle turned and walked thoughtfully toward the makeshift field lab allocated to him within the Kantine Temples complex.
He would definitely need to take his own safety precautions very seriously. Because if the general security of this investigation rested with the Kantinese orderers… everyone involved was standing on perilously thin ice.
It was probably best to depart the city swiftly once the medical expert arrived. Analyse the situation from the relative safety of the VST office and thereby complete the assignment. He had, frankly, little concrete to accomplish here alone.
Likely poisoning or disease, yes. Though its precise nature remained frustratingly opaque, he'd gathered useful data. The expert would elucidate more.
No systematic tracking of contacts was being implemented. But that was the locals' cross to bear. The healers at the Healer's Hut were most exposed, but they likely grasped the threat already.
And… Marla. They absolutely needed approximate contact lists compiled. Behavior monitored. Perhaps *that* would yield the key and indicate the method of infection and spread.
That would form the core of his written recommendations.
He'd pack his things immediately… were it not for the vanishingly slim chance of tracing Inga's path here…
…And the fate of the Kantinese?
Why *should* he care?
It felt profound, as if the people here themselves had no desire to confront the problem. They didn't care about their own citizens or the escalating crisis. They didn't want solutions or investigations. Their Head merely wanted to report *something* done to the populace. They simply craved a swift return to their well-fed complacency.
Even if the only path to that was wilful ignorance of the problem itself.
What could *he* possibly achieve in a situation where no one genuinely sought resolution? Again.
So… it would inevitably spread across the Mainland. Reach Prime, his VST office, Omill, and beyond… On a catastrophic scale. Inaction wasn't a viable option? And while there remained that faintest glimmer of hope to trace Inga here… He needed to think.
He *was* profoundly tired, nearing burnout, yes. But. If he stayed. Hypothetically. He couldn't allow this to be swept under the rug again. He wouldn't be sidelined this time. They *would* provide answers.
And. One medical assistant clearly wouldn't suffice. He would formally request reinforcements. Definitely. He needed a *team* here. A… new team.
Nervous insomnia and the irritability born of chronic fatigue had become his constant companions. Instead of Inga and Ami. A woefully inadequate substitution.
Whether VST would grant a reinforcement… that was another battle, but the request was essential. The matter felt lethally serious.
He needed to focus, draft a clear, compelling requisition. Not only to Prime VST. To the Omill Alliance as well.
…Because this case was inextricably linked to Youlle. It clearly originated there.
Like the prior cases. Like all the recent, large-scale anomalies they'd encountered.
There was a definite, implicit connection to past events…
This was where Kyle's weary intuition and his fatigued reason locked horns once more.
Reason argued it was enough… An overwhelming tide of frighteningly inexplicable events had crashed over him during the last large cycle. Reason was undoubtedly correct. But that persistent *feeling*.
A sense of something nightmarishly vast unfolding. Something colossal. And this was merely another small, visible fragment. It gnawed at his core with the chilling dread of something ancient and inescapable. That's what his subconscious screamed.
So. Stay. And potentially die? Was *that* the plan?
Confront something his inner vision and logical faculties were almost certainly insufficient to grasp, let alone comprehend the scale of?
Splendid. What could one say?
He hadn't recovered from the trauma of the previous case. Panic attacks still ambushed him. All this evoked a formless, groundless terror that even a preliminary analysis of one facet brought him perilously close to the edge.
He wasn't fit for this. He felt too old, having seen too much darkness.
Perhaps it was merely exhaustion painting horrors onto the canvas of uncertainty, fuelled by the assessment of his nearly depleted reserves.
Perhaps. But the desired "calm survey" of the situation felt almost unattainable.
He needed proper sleep. Just once. Not snatched during the light hours slumped over reports in a chair. That had become his only mode of shutdown lately.
In truth, this state was the result of a flawed, unprofessional approach. He shouldn't have pushed himself to this brink. Without resources, he would accomplish little. He might even create additional complications.
He shouldn't have accepted this assignment without proper recovery. Successful resolutions under these conditions were a fantasy.
But instinct had screamed he *needed* to be here. And the directive from higher-ups had sealed his trajectory toward this new abyss.
And not to mentioning that… there was literally nowhere to run from it.
It wasn't just about his mental state.
The vast, dark cloud of this enormous problem already blotted out the Mainland. There was literally nowhere left to hide. One could flee to Zeth, perhaps. Briefly. But running wasn't solving; it was merely delaying the inevitable. The Kantinian case was a stark illustration.
Amnesia seemed the only clean escape. Live quietly. Drool quietly. Wake me when it's all over.
Well, no… Thank you. That wasn't a solution he could embrace.
…He'd already skirted that Abyss in the Mist. Come perilously close. He'd glimpsed the Void itself. And found it utterly abhorrent…
They'd pored over the scant clues left after the attack on the Omill Truth Precinct. Yet still didn't know precisely what caused that outcome. Apart from the mysterious compound that had practically evaporated immediately from the rags, leaving frustratingly few traces. Like the attackers themselves.
What they left behind was a mountain of unanswered questions.
So. "We all come here to play," the saying went.
Kyle simply found he could no longer enjoy the game. Or play it with any semblance of skill. He was just bone-tired. He needed rest.
But before succumbing to lethargy or buckling under panic, he needed to draft that report to VST detailing everything. And notify the Omill Alliance – Sandra, Kiona, Finnian. The trio are directly embroiled in investigating these deepening mysteries.
Likely, the latter would find a way to pass this grim update to Ami, who was undeniably involved. A sort of bleak "greeting" to them all from their old friend Kyle.