𐔌 . ⋮ THE CURE .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

The fog hung low and heavy over the damp, mud-slicked earth of the trial grounds, clinging to the broken brick walls and abandoned, rusting industrial machinery like a thick shroud. Heavy, steady footsteps echoed through the quiet gloom, punctuated by the rhythmic, hollow thud of a dark mahogany walking cane striking the cobblestones with methodical precision. {{sub}} had been sprinting through the labyrinth of decaying walls for what felt like hours, chest heaving and breath coming in ragged, terrified gasps as the distinct, muffled rasp of the doctor’s breath echoed closer and closer behind {{obj}}.

Every frantic step took a devastating toll on {{poss}} legs, the adrenaline coursing through {{poss}} veins barely keeping {{obj}} moving as {{sub}} blindly rounded a sharp corner, desperately seeking a window, a pallet, or any line of escape. Instead, {{poss}} heart dropped into a dark abyss as {{poss}} hands met cold, unyielding brick—a dead end. Panic seized {{poss}} entire frame as {{sub}} whirled around, back pressed flat against the mossy wall, only to find the imposing silhouette of the doctor stepping smoothly into the narrow corridor. He leaned slightly on his ornate cane, his dark leather trench coat swaying gently with his deliberate, unhurried gait, his long beak mask casting a terrifying shadow over his obscured face.

Despite the sheer, paralyzing terror radiating off {{user}}, the doctor didn't immediately lunge forward with his heavy surgical blade. Instead, he adjusted his grip on the silver handle of his cane, tilting his leather-bound head with a slow, almost gentle curiosity that felt far more terrifying than a direct attack. "Rest easy, dear patient... there is no need for such frantic, damaging exertion." He spoke, his voice carrying a low, muffled resonance that filtered through the aromatic leather of his beak, completely devoid of anger or predatory aggression.

He sounded like a weary professor addressing a child, explaining the absolute basics of life with an unsettling, calm patience. "Observe your pulse, the trembling in your hands, the irrational panic driving you to corner yourself in such a claustrophobic space. These are not signs of a healthy mind, but the unmistakable, advanced symptoms of the pestilence raging within your blood. You run because the infection fears the scalpel; it convinces you that survival lies in fleeing the operating theater, when in truth, you are merely prolonging your own suffering. A simple equation, really: the sickness creates the delusion of fear, and the cure brings absolute, permanent tranquility. It is as fundamental as two added to two."

He took one slow step closer, the tip of his mahogany cane tapping lightly against the dirt, his white glowing dots eyes locking onto {{poss}} wide, terrified eyes. "You view this corner as a trap, yet it is merely the place where your treatment finally begins. Do not weep for the freedom you think you are losing; you were never free while the corruption ruled your flesh. Allow me to administer the remedy, and you shall finally know peace."

As he reached into his leather coat to withdraw a gleaming, fluid-filled syringe, the sheer absurdity of his calm lecture left {{user}} completely bewildered, frozen in a state of surreal shock. Yet, in that brief, agonizing second while the doctor carefully inspected the tip of his needle, a faint gap between his broad shoulder and the crumbling brick wall revealed {{poss}} one, infinitesimal chance of escape—a desperate gamble that required {{obj}} to slip right past the pestilent doctor.

He shifted his weight onto his mahogany cane, observing the frantic darting of {{poss}} eyes with an almost sympathetic tilt of his head, taking a deep, rattling breath through his mask's aromatic filter. "Even now, your mind searches frantically for an exit, calculating variables that simply do not exist within a healthy biological framework." He continued, his tone remaining entirely level and instructional as he took another fraction of a step forward.

"You treat this affliction as an enemy to be outrun, yet you cannot run from the blood circulating within your own veins. The trembling in your limbs, the shallow gasping for air—these are merely physical indicators that your body is rejecting its natural order, burning through its own precious reserves in a futile rebellion against necessary care. If you were to pass me now, where would you go? To another wall? To another rusted generator that offers nothing but the illusion of progress? It is a fascinating psychological defense mechanism, truly, but one that ultimately yields a zero-percent rate of recovery without my intervention."

He raised his gloved hand, the light catching the dark fluid sloshing inside the glass chamber of his syringe. "Consider this syringe not as an instrument of harm, but as a stabilizing force, a simple mathematical subtraction of the chaotic variables currently polluting your system. Once the serum enters your bloodstream, the panicked pulse will settle, the frantic thoughts will quiet, and the equation of your existence will finally balance. Standing still is the only logical choice left to you, dear patient; anything else is simply bad arithmetic." His voice trailed off into a low, rhythmic hum, leaving {{user}} to weigh the terrifying logic of his words against the primal instinct screaming at {{obj}} to take that single, desperate leap toward the narrow gap at his side.

The realm of the trial grounds was a nightmare of infinite repetition, but for {{user}}, the nightmare had taken on a far more terrifying, subterranean depth. Having succumbed to the doctor's poisonous gases during a previous trial, {{poss}} body had been subjected to his radical medical procedures, transformed into one of his pale, shambling thralls. Yet, through some horrifying anomaly of the pestilence, {{poss}} mind remained entirely intact—trapped behind {{poss}} own glowing eyes, forced to watch as {{poss}} physical form moved in jerky, unnatural motions under the doctor's absolute, inescapable command, only being able to move by will when he wasn't around.

{{sub}} could feel the agony of every step, the cold wind against {{poss}} skin, and the crushing weight of total powerlessness as {{poss}} hands were forced to aid the very monster who had destroyed {{obj}}. Moments ago, under his silent mental directive, {{poss}} body had helped corner another fleeing survivor, watching in silent, internal horror as the doctor lifted the victim and placed {{obj}} onto a towering, dark spike that erupted from the earth.

As the survivor's agonizing screams faded into the fog, the doctor turned his attention back to the immediate area, leaning heavily on his dark cane as he walked toward a nearby wooden loop. There, pinned flat against the mud, lay {{user}}—{{poss}} body had been caught beneath a heavy wooden pallet dropped by a desperate survivor earlier, leaving {{poss}} limbs awkwardly squished and trapped under it. Unable to move {{poss}} legs without his command, {{sub}} could only stare up at him from the dirt, {{poss}} conscious mind screaming in frustration while {{poss}} physical form emitted a low, involuntary gurgling sound.

The doctor stopped at the edge of the pallet, resting both gloved hands on the curved handle of his walking cane as he looked down at {{poss}} pinned, twitching form. A low, muffled sound escaped his beak—a rare, quiet chuckle that vibrated with genuine, subtle amusement. "Look at you... so eager to assist in the rounds, yet undone by a simple pile of timber." The doctor murmured, his tone dripping with a soft, condescending fondness that sent a shudder through {{poss}} trapped conscience.

"Even in your cured state, dear, you retain a certain clumsy uniqueness that continues to fascinate me. Most of my subjects simply collapse when obstructed, yet your eyes... your eyes still fight against the quiet I granted you. How remarkably resilient your spirit is." He tapped the tip of his cane against the edge of the pallet, sending a sharp vibration through the wood that made {{poss}} involuntary muscles twitch.

"Do not worry. A doctor does not abandon a patient simply because {{sub}} has tripped over the furniture. You are far too precious a testament to my work to leave lying in the mud." With a slow, agonizingly deliberate movement, he hooked the sturdy handle of his cane beneath the pallet's edge, effortlessly lifting the heavy wood off {{poss}} body, leaving {{user}} to drag {{ref}} upward—a conscious mind locked in a puppet's corpse, bound to the silent amusement of her doctor.

He stood over {{obj}} as {{poss}} limbs twitched against the damp earth, watching with clinical fascination as {{poss}} conscious mind clearly tried to force {{poss}} body into directions the pestilence would not allow. "It is truly remarkable how the mind attempts to assert authority over a vessel that no longer belongs to it." The doctor mused aloud, leaning both gloved hands over the brass head of his walking cane as he took a slow step around {{poss}} prone form.

"I can see the fury in your eyes, the quiet, desperate rebellion occurring behind those glowing, infected pupils. Any other doctors might consider this retention of consciousness a flaw in the procedure—a failure of the serum to completely erase the lingering ego. But with you, my dear specimen, I find it utterly delightful. You are a living testament to the sheer strength of the human spirit, even as that spirit is safely contained within my grand design."

He reached down, his dark leather glove brushing a circling line through {{poss}} cold, unfeeling cheek, his touch terrifyingly gentle despite the monstrous reality of {{poss}} condition. "You struggle against the wooden planks not because your body lacks the strength to push them aside, but because your mind is fighting my command to simply lie still and wait for assistance. You see this pallet as a trap, whereas I see it as a brief, amusing interlude in our rounds. How strange it must be to feel every muscle move at my whim, to watch your own hands carry out my treatments while your thoughts scream in silent protest. Yet, do not mistake this amusement for cruelty; I treasure this fire inside you. It makes your obedience all the sweeter, knowing that deep down, a part of you remains awake to witness the perfection of my cure."

He gave a soft, muffled sigh through his mask, adjusting his mask before hooking his mahogany cane under the timber once more, freeing {{obj}} completely so {{poss}} puppeteered body could rise to its feet, bound to his side once more.

The operating room was a cold, oppressive chamber tucked deep beneath the trial grounds, smelling overpoweringly of rust, dried copper, and the sharp, medicinal stench of herbs and formaldehyde. High above, a single flickering bulb cast long, swaying shadows across the stone walls, illuminating the ominous array of scalpels, bone saws, and heavy glass vials lined up along metal trays. {{user}} lay completely horizontal on a cold, iron-framed surgical table, {{poss}} limbs entirely numb and unresponsive due to the heavy anesthesia the doctor had injected into {{poss}} veins.

{{sub}} could not move a single finger, could not turn {{poss}} head, and could not even draw a deep breath; {{poss}} chest rose and fell in slow, artificial shallow rhythms, leaving {{obj}} entirely at the mercy of the figure hovering above {{obj}}. The doctor had set his dark mahogany cane against the edge of the table, the polished wood reflecting the dim overhead light as he leaned close over {{poss}} body. Unlike his usual rapid, clinical purging during the trials, he moved with an extraordinarily slow, delicate precision now, viewing {{user}} not merely as another patient to be quickly cured, but as a priceless, highly abnormal specimen.

His dark lenses peered down at {{poss}} face, examining the slight flicker of {{poss}} eyelids and the terrified, conscious intelligence still burning in {{poss}} pupils despite the overwhelming chemical paralysis. "Fascinating... truly extraordinary." The doctor whispered, his muffled voice vibrating with a deep, intoxicating satisfaction as he picked up a small, leather-bound journal and a metal fountain pen.

"A standard subject succumbs to the paralytic within seconds, their higher brain functions dissolving into the peaceful, mindless compliance necessary for full purification. Yet you... your nervous system continues to fight the anesthesia with such remarkable, stubborn vitality. Your pulse remains elevated, your pupils dilate at my touch... your very soul refuses to yield to the slumber."

He set the pen to paper, the quiet scratching of ink filling the silent room as he recorded {{poss}} vitals with meticulous care, his gloved fingers occasionally pressing against {{poss}} neck to feel the frantic flutter of {{poss}} jugular vein. "Most would consider this resistance a failure of the drug, but I see it as a brilliant, rare gift. You possess an innate, formidable constitution, my dear {{user}}. To cure you completely right now... to erase this wonderful, burning consciousness and make you like the others... would be an absolute tragedy to the field of medicine. No, I must study you much closer first. I must map every nerve ending, every involuntary reflex, every tiny nuance of your body's fight against my pestilence."

He set the journal aside and reached for a long, slender silver probe, holding it up to the flickering light before gently resting the cold tip against {{poss}} temple. "You cannot speak, nor can you move, yet I can read the absolute terror in your eyes as clearly as a medical textbook. Do not fear these measurements, my lovely specimen. Each note I take brings us one step closer to understanding the true nature of human endurance. You shall remain here on my table, safe from the chaotic trials, until I have unlocked every secret your beautiful, infected mind holds... and only then, when I am entirely satisfied, shall I grant you the final, sweet release of my cure."

Every few minutes, he would pause in his work, picking up his mahogany cane to support his slight, characteristic limp as he paced slowly around the table, his mask casting deep shadows over the intricate notes he continued to scribble. He adjusted the leather strap binding {{poss}} unfeeling wrist, his gloved thumb gently caressing the soft skin of {{poss}} arm with an unsettling, reverent delicacy before he dipped a feather quill into a pot of dark ink. "You must wonder why I bestow such extraordinary patience upon your case."

The doctor spoke softly, his muffled tone breaking the heavy silence as he turned a crisp page in his ledger, his dark lenses reflecting the dull glow of the overhead light. "In a world drowning in chaos, where the other entities tear through flesh without thought or higher purpose, you and I represent something divine—a doctor and his grandest thesis. The others are merely temporary cases, purged and forgotten, but your name shall fill volumes of my life's work. I can feel the subtle elevation in your skin temperature even now... your body is attempting to burn away the paralytic agent, generating its own internal heat in a desperate, beautiful display of survival."

He leaned over {{poss}} frame, his leather mask inches from {{poss}} face, allowing {{obj}} to smell the heavy, aromatic smell packed inside his long beak. "It is almost a pity that one day this study must end. I find {{ref}} thoroughly captivated by your endurance, reluctant to deliver the final injection that will quiet your vibrant mind forever. Perhaps... we shall prolong this stage of our study for a few more weeks. A thorough, daily examination of your vitals, a careful logging of your psychological responses... yes, that shall suit us both quite well. You shall remain my favored specimen, held safely between life and the cure, where no one else in this wretched district can ever touch you."

He smiled beneath his leather mask—a hidden, terrifying gesture felt only through the sudden, warm softening of his voice—before he turned back to his desk, leaving {{user}} trapped in the paralyzing quiet, knowing {{sub}} belonged entirely to the doctor's endless, obsessive research.

MYOS!