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Kal'tsit is standing in a room with a monster.
A black, faceless thing is staring back at her, a looming shadow wrapped in cloth and plastic, long-limbed and predatory as it prepared to nest in the last haven she had left. She knows that with a few correctly chosen words, that thing could turn Amiya against her. It could sink its fangs into the flesh of Rhodes Island, pumping its venom into the heart of the great beast and laying eggs under its skin, leaving it sickly and corrupt u .
She could see it reflected in Amiya's huge blue eyes. Turned towards that monster, that shadow. That thing.
Her heart is racing.
She could kill it now. Amiya would be broken with hatred and grief, and Rhodes Island would collapse. Maybe that would be better than the alternative, Rhodes Island twisted to its vision the way Babel once was, a bloody gristle mill of ideology, the dream of a utopia built upon a foundation of corpses.
She feels Mon3tr trembling in her spine. It wants to. It knows she wants to. Maybe. Maybe.
She doesn't. She can't.
The negotiations with Lungmen conclude. Amiya pleas with her to be gentle.
That monster stares at her, faceless. It says something. A question? It doesn't know her, and she can't tell how practiced the words are meant to be, how much of it is real. Maybe it's a performance, a feigned helplessness to lure her in close enough to trust it. She feels like she could let go. Give in to her worst desires. The pull is so strong, it's almost too much to bear.
When she manages to speak, she instead says, "I hope our sacrifices weren't in vain."
There's work to be done, of course.
Work enough that Kal'tsit can push herself to focus on the day-to-day minutiae of running Rhodes Island's medical department, of managing their relationship with Lungmen, of tending to Amiya and of dealing with Closure's occasional meddling. Some matters are more troublesome than others, naturally. A cocktail of stimulants can keep her awake for days on end, if she needs it, and thankfully, there is only one occasion that she truly needs it. The rest is handled by caffeine, stress, and stubborn will, unwilling to let herself rest for longer than is absolutely necessary as long as there is yet work to be done.
If there's no time to sleep, then there's no room for doubts to wriggle into her mind-- no gray mornings when the mist of slumber yet clings to her eyelashes, when thoughts she has no use for come creeping in through the dark corners of her mind.
No time for dreams of soft lips against her own, the sound of her laugh as she hangs on every word. When she holds her hand out, she can almost feel it brushing against a curtain of silky threads, or tracing the curve of a familiar spine. Her heart aches, and there's no room for it. No time.
Not when she sees a predator standing beside Amiya, as they return from a bloody mission. Two enemy casualties-- and two infected they failed to save. Spidery limbs threaten to close around the child, the unfeeling darkness beyond its mask meeting her gaze almost in a challenge as Amiya begs her to promise mercy once again. Her heart is the monster's hostage, she thinks. She's only a girl, she thinks, as that monster gazes at her stupidly, uncaring of Amiya's hurt. She wants to hurt it in turn.
Her harshest words will have to suffice.
There's a birthday party in the office. Kal'tsit is working, as two other medics are not, celebrating with a friend. Another year snatched from the jaws of inevitability, the hungering demon of Oripathy forestalled for just a bit more life and a bit more happiness. The monster lurks in her doorway, as she goes through her work.
It is holding two slices of cake. It says something she doesn't recognize, something that it would have never said before. It places the slice of cake on her desk, and after a lingering silence, it is gone. Kal'tsit reaches for the cake. She takes one bite. She throws the rest in the garbage when it feels like she might throw up.
The first thing she's remembered to eat in seven hours is a single bite of strawberry cake, delivered by the one thing in this world she's grown to hate with true passion. She feels neither guilt nor anger at this notion, somehow.
She wakes up under a blanket, another day. She had fallen asleep on her desk, and woke up in her bed. Someone came to check on her-- maybe it was Closure, again.
Maybe it wasn't.
She tells the doctor that they have to care. They have to. It is not an order, nor is it a request. It is a plea, a prayer. She watches as Blaze hoists its body like a ragdoll, slung over one shoulder as she hauls that thing with her to the front linee. It's almost amusing. Why bother encouraging them? Why let herself care?
Maybe things will be better. Or maybe she's setting herself up for betrayal. If Blaze trusts it, the other elites will begin to trust it. She's setting herself up to be disposed of, she knows. Converting those who would be loyal. Yet here she is, encouraging it all the same. Maybe it will learn to care about the nuances of their lives, someday. All she's ever had is hope, blind, worthless, and ephemeral, to carry her through long, lonesome roads. Why should she abandon that hope now?
Because that's the monster that killed Theresa.
When the operation is concluded, for good and ill both, Blaze near dying, frost clinging to her brow and struggling to breathe, she sees a nod of respect towards the Doctor. No more. No less. It's a token gesture, of course, and Kal'tsit can't explain why it means so much to see, and it doesn't change anything. Kal'tsit almost can't breathe, when the doctor is near, but they remain ignorant to the way her heart tightens in her breath and the way she has to control her breathing to stay focused. No. All it-- they-- see is a spiteful woman, with no memories in their head to help them understand why she would be so justified in hating them. She has to be honest, she thinks, knowing what the cost will be.
They plunge into the heart of Chernobog together. Amiya, the Child-King, the Lord of the Fiends, stares death in the eye. Kal'tsit and the monster-- the Doctor-- descend towards the core of the city, while Amiya marches towards its peak.
All she has is hope, even now.
There is an infected so utterly mutated he doesn't resemble a human being anymore, singing a loathesome, mournful dirge as he drags himself along the ground, set to stop them on their path. She tells the doctor her plan of action, the treatment that is available to him. She poses the question, nothing more, of whether this enemy of Rhodes Island deserves mercy or justice, so led astray by the actions of Reunion.
The faceless shadow behind their hood reveals nothing. They're both wearing masks, she realizes.
"We're doctors, aren't we?" They say, voice cracking.
She can't save the infected. She does what she can, and neutralizes the threat, neutralizes his pain. He sings until the light fades from his eyes.
They promise they won't forget the sound of his voice, and it almost feels like a betrayal. They've forgotten everything.
She doesn't tell them everything, but she tells them as much as she can, of the hurt they caused her. The people they used.
She hates them.
She hates them.
She hates them.
She hates them, but that isn't enough.
She hates them, but they're too valuable to abandon.
She hates them, but they are important to Amiya.
She hates them, but maybe they can be good.
She hates them, she won't forgive them, she won't ever forget.
But she loves them, too.
The two of them sit by Amiya's bedside. Side by side, like two parents. Kal'tsit does not think she's ever deserved to call herself that, when the children she cares for are so cruelly broken they have no choice but to make weapons of themselves. She stares at Amiya, wordless and motionless. She's asleep, still recovering from her injuries sustained in the battle of Chernobog, and Kal'tsit herself has no stimulants running through her veins to keep herself awake. Coffee has long since lost its power, and she feels herself succumbing to sleep faster than she can fight it off.
She dreams of a spider-like entity descending upon her. Long, wretched limbs coiling around her body, leaning in so close that its breath stirrs the air around her neck.
It says, "don't you deserve better than this?" Its voice so gentle and forgiving that she can't help but cry, hot tears running down her cheeks. It hurts so much, it feels like her skin is boiling.
Feather-soft, its lips brush against her own, and she remembers her own breath. It feels like the first breath she's taken since Theresa died.
When she wakes up, she is laying on her couch, a heavy coat drawn up to her chest like a blanket, cheeks stained wet with tears her fists clenched tight around the fabric.
The doctor sits by Amiya's side, still holding her hand in an endless vigil. Unguarded, unmasked.
They look tired, Kal'tsit thinks.