Chapter Text
0600 3/22/26
RHODES HILL CHRONIC CARE CENTER ASSIGNMENT
Urgent: Classified Material <KEYWORD>[REDACTED],Elpis,[REDACTED]
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The world you once knew disappears with a finality as you open the heavy, ornate doors of the Care Center. The intricate design of a sun, moon, and star within the carvings of the wood mock your opportunistic look on your investigation into Elpis.
Run, run, while you still can, they chant.
You do not listen.
Pushing through to the foyer, silence greets your entrance, mixed with the pungent smell of decay. The room before you is a grand statement of Spencer’s past success and his dying legacy. Everything seems quite orderly despite what you know has gone down here. A beautiful mask to save face for an ugly, rotting thing.
An elegant marble statue stands at the left wall, a woman elegantly posed against the wood. Her head is partially missing; a jagged crack tells you where the left half of her face fell or broke off some time ago. Your gaze meets her right eye and you notice her gaze is solemn. You push forward despite the sinking feeling in your gut. You step quietly on the polished marble floor beneath your feet, though your steps feel loud when no one is around to attack you.
“You have a location on the files yet?” You speak quietly into your radio. An intense, focused voice responds. “Nothing yet. Searching the west wing. You?” It’s your partner, Liam. You’ve worked with him before on a few missions; you exchanged pleasantries, but mostly just focused on work. You always wanted to try to talk more, but it feels awkward when you’re just there to get a job done. Plus, his voice is a bit energetic and intense for your taste. But now isn’t the time for dwelling on preferences.
You respond curtly. “I’ll go to the east wing, then. Report back to the foyer if you find anything.”
You push through a heavy door leading to the east wing, searching through the waiting room area intently. It’s closer quarters than the entrance, with a smell of rot that builds as you intrude further. There’s a small burgundy sofa in the center of the room, but it is ripped open so the stuffing is spilling out. A desk sits back toward the further wall from you, scattered with papers and files. Around the feet are fallen pens and file folders with various papers inside. All three walls you can see are shelved with books, pictures, and what, when you peer closer, seem to be awards and certificates from doctors. The decay within the room withers further as you dig through drawers and shelves, unfortunately to no avail. Only a few creepy pictures of men in white coats and a few slightly interesting reports on laboratory results. Then, you find a ripped page under a folder on the desk.
○ ○ ○
[1/05/26 REPORT]
We may have found what we need to continue our research. Most of our links to the t-Virus outbreak have been dealt with, so that shouldn’t be an issue any longer.
Additionally, the Director says to keep an eye on the Bureau. Especially this one:
(A picture is attached to the ripped page, partially torn in the same manner as the report. But enough of it is visible for you to see your face, blissfully unaware someone had taken a photo of you as you were walking home from work.)
She may know more than we anticipated. At least, that is what he claims. Doesn’t look like much of a threat, but I’ll see what I can find on her –
○ ○ ○
The note cuts off at the ripped edge of the paper. You curse under your breath, and your heart starts to pick up speed. Someone is onto you, and it’s clear no one at the Bureau was aware. How could that be? You were always keen to watch your surroundings. You have been vigilant since the day you had something to prove to Headquarters. You start to panic, trying to imagine what HQ might say if they found out you’d been so careless. This could be the last of many mistakes you make. This could be the end of the line for you. How can you even begin to explain this–
“You there?” Liam’s voice startles you back to reality. “Yeah,” you reply, swallowing down a familiar bitter taste. “Yeah, I’m here. What’s wrong?”
“Something’s not right over here. I think someone is following me. I swear to god, I’m hearing shit, but…” The voice trails off for a moment. Then another. You open your mouth to ask if he is still there when he speaks again. “Did you find anything yet?”
“Actually, yeah,” you hate the way your voice wavers as you look down at the note you had found. “I found a report in the waiting room. West wing. It’s… it’s a picture of me. The Care Center… whatever’s going on, they know about the investigation.”
“Oh fuck–” the voice cuts off.
“I know. Should we report to HQ?” You ask reluctantly. You wouldn’t opt to do that unless you were really fucked, and right now could be one of those cases.
The radio goes silent.
“Liam? Hey, you there?” Your voice trembles slightly. So do your hands, so you quickly set the report back on the desk. Did you say something wrong? Fuck. He’s going to report back to headquarters to get off the investigation. He’ll explain how you are too clumsy. You can’t cover your tracks. You can’t possibly be a real agent, the way you handle yourself in the field.
“Look, I’m sorry, okay?” You begin to ramble. Your heart beats faster, trying to explain its nervousness through frantic pulses. “I didn’t know– I don’t know how I could have fucking known… Are you listening to me?” Don’t leave me like this, you think. If this is a prank, it isn’t funny.
…
You slump down onto the ground, sitting with your back against the wall as you begin to accept defeat. You’ve failed yet another person. And this time, you’ll most definitely be on your supervisor’s last nerve. You’ll lose your job and, consequently, the respect of your family and friends. You can’t bear to see the condescending pity on another superior’s face as they dismiss you. It hurts more than anything, you realize: seeing someone lose their faith in your ability to function. You promise you can be good. It doesn’t have to end so terribly. Right? Just answer me, and this will all be fine.
The radio crackles to life again. You should not have wished for an answer.
“I’m listening,” A smooth, deep, unnervingly intimate voice speaks from the radio.
That is not Liam.
Air sticks in your throat. You try to breathe, but your throat feels like it is closing in on itself. Breathe, please god, breathe. What about Liam? How are you going to move past this? And what is this person doing with Liam’s radio? You finally cough up a few words, your voice trembling even more. “Who is this? Give the radio back,” You demand, mustering whatever courage you can gather.
“Back to whom?” You can practically hear the smile in his voice. “If you’re referencing your partner here, he’s simply been… put out of his misery.”
No. Nonono. He said that like he was putting down a fucking dog. “What…? Who the fuck is this? Where is Liam?!” you demand.
“Ah, my apologies. Who am I to speak without proper introductions? I am Dr. Victor Gideon.” A pause. You know that name. He’s the director of the Care Center, though the guy was said to have gone rogue on his delusions of grandeur. “Please, don’t worry about your… Liam. He will serve a better purpose here. For me.” A low, sinister purr punctuates his sentence.
This guy is a lunatic, you think. Could he really have killed Liam, just like that? No. He’s just trying to get you to lose hope. “Tell me where he is,” you demand, your voice quivering like a taut string. You are terrified, but you pray he hears anger. “You are interfering with a federal investigation!”
“Mm. Cute, truly.” He murmurs. You open your mouth to demand Liam again, but he beats you to it. “Come up to my office now, and we can talk about all this. Your partner included.”
The chill of fear mixes with boiling anger. You want to kill him for how arrogant he sounds. How can he talk to you like that and get away with claiming to have murdered your partner? You jump up from your seat on the floor and head out the door of the waiting room, vowing to blow this fucker’s head off once you get there. This is your ticket out. Your way to save the day. You don’t have to mess things up if you can fix it all. You head through a hallway to the foyer, looking around. Your determination dies slightly as you attempt to navigate the way to the west wing.
“The door is to your left, little one,” Gideon’s amused voice rumbles on the radio again. You whip around and slam open the door, heading up the levels of the west wing to Gideon’s office with your loaded pistol in your hands. This is more like it, you think. This is how it was supposed to go. It’s almost like nothing ever happened, except…
You can only hope Liam is alive.
A trail of blood streaking the walls and stairs leads your feet to the third landing of the west wing. As much as you want to believe the blood isn’t Liam’s, rationality tells you it seems like the only explanation for fresh blood leading you exactly where Gideon wants you.
Victor Gideon’s office is beautiful. The floor, where it is not stained with blood, is checkered with black and white marble squares that reflect the moonlight streaming in from the large window at the back of the main area. There are shelves on the right hand wall, lined with textbooks and photos of scientists you’ve never heard of. Then you see him: Tied up with rope in a chair in the dark corner of the office is Liam. His hair is matted and bloody, and there is a gash on the side of his skull. Your mind races. Check for a pulse, get him the hell out of here. You move closer, pressing your fingers to his neck. A delicate rhythm thumps against your fingers. He must have been knocked unconscious. Your hands grasp his shoulders, gently jostling him. “Liam,” You breathe, reaching for the knife at your belt. “I’m going to get you out of here. Don’t worry.”
Before you can sever the thick ropes, a dark wooden door opens from beside you. Your heart nearly forgets how to move. Slow, steady steps move closer until someone is right behind you.
“Here you are,” a deep, soft voice washes over you. The hairs on your neck stand at attention. This is bad. Very bad. Every bone in your body is screaming for you to leave Liam and just run for it, and you beg your legs to move. But you are stuck. You turn around slowly, expecting a face. Instead, you are looking at his midsection. Your eyes travel slowly up the large, terrifying figure until you meet his face.
He is huge.
Gideon stares down at you, but you cannot discern his expression. The mask covering his eyes is even more unsettling than you imagined. A metallic visor covers his forehead and eyes, with a lens on his left eye that reminds you of those creepy lenses the optometrists use to poke and prod you about your failing vision. But your eyes do not fail you here. His face, where you can see it, is covered with scars. Not to mention the long, jagged one that runs down his chest, presumably where his primary transformation occurred. You take a step backwards as your legs finally decide to grant you mercy, but his large hands are quick to follow you. The cool metal rings on his hands brush against your skin when he holds you steady by the shoulders, making you shiver and jolt as you try to stumble backwards.
“Are you scared?” He inquires. You cannot answer. Yes, yes, of course you are scared. But you also have to be brave. For Liam, for yourself, and for the FBI.
“I… I’m with the FBI. This is a classified investigation, and you physically assaulted an agent,” You manage, your eyebrows lowering into more of a scowl.
He smiles. You expect rot or decay within, but his teeth are capped with gold. Yet another shiver prickles down your spine. Everything about him feels… intimidating. But you are the federal agent here. You should be assertive. Forceful. “I–”
“You can’t save him, you know.” Gideon’s head tilts smoothly towards Liam, still slumped in the chair. You glance at him for a moment, your face scrunching in confusion. “What?”
“He’s already been infected. His bloodstream…” Gideon reaches into his pocket, pulling out an empty glass syringe, freshly used. “...is swimming with the virus. His body reacted poorly, like most.” His head shakes in slow disappointment. He moves past you, tilting Liam’s neck back with a gentle brush of his fingers, exposing the rapidly spread greying of his skin. “Another one liberated from the constraints of your little world.” He whispers, his head turning back towards you.
He can’t be dead. You felt his pulse. He was alive. You can still save him from this. There must be an antidote, or something…
You have to run. You have to survive.
Your legs move.