chapter five: foreboding
"Entering the tower of my fears
I shut my doors on that dark guilt
I bolt the door, each door I bolt
Blood quickens, gonging in my ears;
The panther's tread is on the stairs
Coming up and up the stairs."
--Sylvia Plath
Mike kicked the door of the specimen room shut behind him, whistling in a cheerful, tuneless undertone as he turned to the rack of cages. In all honesty, though, good cheer was something he was dangerously and atypically low on these days. It had been several months since the incidents around the company ball, and several also without a single death, a fact that was slowly letting the members of the Jenova Project relax again and begin to dismiss the whole thing as simple coincidence; but tempers were nonetheless strangely short in the basement, and Mike didn't like that atmosphere at all. Not one bit.
He talked nonsensically to the animals as he made his rounds, checking food and water and general cleanliness; it seemed to calm them sometimes, as well as himself. The rats' water bottle looked a little low, and he opened the cage to reach in and retrieve it, casting a critical eye on the rodents themselves as he did so.
Mike knew Ellis checked them out on a regular basis, and that so far they had come up okay every time -- including the one that had died. He also knew Ellis was trained as a physician, not a veterinarian. Mike himself had spent his whole life around animals, from the stable his parents had owned and in which he'd worked for most of his youth -- he was looking to become a veterinarian himself, in fact; it had been his reason for seeking out this internship -- and he knew when something was wrong with one. And something was wrong with those rats. He was sure of it. Maybe they weren't sick, but they were restless, edgy. Strange. More than once he'd walked into the room to find them fighting with each other -- not seriously enough to do injury, but enough to make a scuffle -- like competing males, which they certainly weren't. Other times, more disturbingly, he'd discovered them simply staring at each other from across the cage, hugely and with what looked entirely too much like terror, as though the other had suddenly begun to change and threaten, and was not to be trusted.
It was, simply put, as if these two lab rats were going mad.
But try telling that to Ellis, or Gast, or any of the others. Try telling that to a team of pure biologists, with charts and statistics for every incident and heads that could be as hard as the science they pursued. Try telling that to one's employers, without a strange look and the suggestion that maybe a little vacation -- or a very long one -- was in order, or without simply being dismissed as that eccentric, who spent all his time with the animals. Try --
"Ow! Goddammit!"
Mike jerked his hand sharply back from the cage, dropping the filled and almost-replaced water bottle on the wood shavings and banging his knuckles on the wire door in his haste, and cradled it disbelievingly to his chest. The rat that had bitten him looked at him for a moment in what almost seemed to be surprise -- oh dear, so sorry, was that you? clumsy of me -- before baring its teeth in an apathetic warning squeal, and retreating to a corner of the cage to eye its surroundings suspiciously. Mike looked down at the blood oozing from his index finger, and closed the cage mechanically.
I need to go disinfect that, he thought numbly. Fast. Maybe even do something for rabies, though I don't think it's likely...
Oh, hell. They're getting worse.
"What's wrong with you?" he asked, staring into the cage, and jumped a little at his own dull, slightly trembling voice; he hadn't even realized he was going to speak. "What the hell's wrong?"
The rats seemed to have no answer, and at last Mike turned and left to see to his wound. He had spent his life with animals, after all, and knew the proper procedure; and had no reason at all to think of any threat greater than rabies from a bite. What could be worse than rabies?
Behind him, the rats shifted restlessly in their cage, crawling silently across each other's backs, watching the door intently. They never even seemed to sleep anymore.
*
The silence of the afternoon laboratory was shattered by hard and almost stomping footsteps, and the slam of the door, as someone banged into the room in a complete void of tact, grace, or good humor. The same someone stormed to the cabinets, snatched a hypodermic needle and a flask of prepared cell culture, and then slammed those doors as well-- a little more softly, in concession to the glassware stored within, but not much-- and then that someone marched dourly back to the table, preparing an injection of Jenova cells with a peppering of dark, muttered curses.
The someone was Hojo, and he was not in a good mood.
He'd been turned down for the grant. Even with all his careful overtures, his own decidedly unique work to support, and the prestige of his path to his doctorate, he had still been turned down for the grant. It was maddening. Apparently the esteemed scientific institution represented by that ingratiating oaf from the ball had more important endeavors to look after than his, his that was only a revolutionary use of new biological findings that could change the whole course of modern life... But at any rate, he was denied, no questions asked and none expected. We are sorry to inform you that your work does not suit our interests at this time; now go on home, son, and be sure to come back and jump at that brass ring a time or two more, you hear?
It's nothing but an elitist snub. Hojo scowled at the hypo, where the cells were simply refusing to settle right, and gave it a firm rap on the side, perhaps harder than he should have. Pure high-handedness. After all, a prestigious flock of pompous academics can hardly be expected to give credence to a young upstart using methods they were never taught, can they? They throw out everything they don't understand, and contrary to what they'd have us believe, that's quite a lot. That they disregard my research should be proof that it's worthwhile, in all truth...
And that wasn't all, oh no; not enough that all immediate hope of working independently from the Project had been shattered, but that injury had to be compounded by insult. For no sooner had he complained to Gast of the matter than the older man had told him, in effect, that it was Hojo's own fault for refusing to play the game by the proper rules.
"You know as well as I do how these things go, Simon," Gast had chided him, infuriatingly, as though he were a little boy who was throwing a tantrum. "Most of these men don't know archaebacteria from eubacteria, and they necessarily hand out money based on what they do know; basic, solid, dependable projects, with concrete goals, and which translate well to the layperson. And furthermore, to tell the truth, that sort of thing is a better investment than the type of work you've been doing, just because it's less likely to cause any trouble, put anyone in danger, or suddenly veer off and fizzle out halfway through. That doesn't necessarily make it better; just more comfortable. To tell the truth, the traditional path is usually more comfortable for the scientist, too. It's not wild or exciting, granted, but it's work, and work with many advantages. You've always spent a lot of time and energy out on the fringe, and that kind of vivacity is a nice thing; but it isn't often permanent, and it might let you down in the long run. I think you can see as easily as I can that your choice of subject doesn't seem to be the best thing for Lucrecia, at the very least."
And then Gast had looked at him, with an absolutely intolerable little smile, and delivered the killing blow: "Maybe it's about time you grew up, Simon."
That was really the cause of his abuse of the lab and its various components, and the temper he seemed to be locked in; that Gast would say that about Lucrecia-- it wasn't as if he wasn't aware of it, but he was working on it, damn it; he was looking into the problem right at that very moment-- and then follow it with a comment like that...
Well, it was far beyond what Hojo could accept.
He rubbed his forehead with the heel of one hand, the hypo still held loosely in the other, and closed his eyes. A driving headache had struck him suddenly, as though something were trying to drill its way into his skull from the outside; he supposed it was simply the toll to be paid on such a potent and sustained rage.
There must be some better way, Hojo thought at last, in almost-defeated frustration, too absorbed to hear the strange, slithering rustling sound from the back of the lab, where the specimen lay covered. There must be something I could do. If I had more experience, more education, I could persuade them to see reason. If I could just learn more, learn everything about my topic; if I could just come by some knowledge that would lead me to the breakthroughs; if I could hold all the answers--all the important ones--like why Lucrecia's health has begun to decline--and do something about it instead of just eternally looking into it; if I could just
(but you can)
find a project like no one else's, like nothing I've even done, and more projects, a hundred... If I had my own prospects, instead of tagging along after Jeffrey, playing with his toys... If I were to make them play my game instead of trying to play theirs, if I could manage to
(but you will)
do that--well, for one thing, I'd be a hypnotist, but
(we will help you)
imagine, if it could work,
(it can work. it will work)
what I could accomplish... I'd certainly show Jeffrey
(you don't need him; he is nothing, it is you who is great, you we want)
what I'm truly capable of, at least. If I could--
(you can)
I would
(you will)
...I would...
(you would be better than all the rest of them, better as you know you are, know you can be. you would never have to be second again, never have to smile indulgently through another's triumph when you have worked so hard for your own. you already begin to make perfection with your own hands, from your own seed; you could be perfection, and watch it grow from you, watch what you'd created blossom in strength and be eternal. you would. you could. we can help. let us guide you. let us)
be in me.
I can. I will. She will help me. They will help me. We will guide me.
Yes. No need to worry. No need to want. Everything's fine. All
(all is)
all will
(can be)
will be
(all's)
soon
(will be)
well.
Everything's fine. I'll be fine. Lucrecia will be fine. We're fine. Everything's...
...just fine.
When he opened his eyes, Hojo saw that the needle of the hypodermic was embedded in his arm. He frowned at it for a moment; it didn't seem like that should be there... He couldn't remember if he'd filled it; it was empty now, however, so he assumed he hadn't, and his concern was not too great. He must have just slipped, that was all. A damned good thing it was empty. The idea floated into his mind that a hypo could be empty because, being full, it had been emptied; it found no purchase, and floated out again.
He'd just have to be more careful in the lab, Hojo told himself, but without any real conviction. It seemed like a silly thing, really. Strangely, his previous rage had evaporated like smoke, and he suddenly-- and for no reason he could discern-- felt good. High-spirited. There would be other grants, and if one approach to bringing himself to attention didn't seem to be working, well, he'd try it a few more ways. Wasn't that what science was all about, after all?
Now, he had to prepare that injection. Lucrecia would be down any moment, and there was no need to hold up the experiment just because she'd gotten a little pale. He was suddenly, in his new-found good cheer, certain there was not. In fact, he thought she would be... just fine.
So Hojo set about filling the hypo, looking beyond the traces of the first batch of Jenova cells as if they did not exist. To him, they quite honestly didn't; and so there was no real problem, was there?
In the back of the lab, something shifted again, and then was still.
*
It's just too goddamn weird down here.
This Megan thought to herself, a bit irately, as she pushed open the lab door, wrinkling her nose at the faint, inexplicably scientific smell she always picked up from the basement. Nonetheless, she stepped inside, propping the door open to leave a broad arc of light from the hallway rather than fumbling for the interior switch, and swept the dark room swiftly with her eyes. The careful observer might have heard a tiny sigh escape her as she fumbled out a pack of cigarettes. The docs went nuts if anyone smoked down here... which was, of course, why she did it.
She'd never come down to the lab much before, and would have been perfectly content to keep it that way; but Vincent, for reasons Megan could only assume were obvious, didn't want to take the area anymore, and had entreated her at great length to check in for him tonight and every night. She could hardly say no, really, since he had offered to swap for her duty of exec-babysitting... But that didn't mean she liked it down here. Not in the slightest. And it wasn't just the decidedly funky odors, nor the smoking ban, nor the too-clean conditions, nor the usual denizens; there was some bad shit down here. Not the viruses or the rats, but something else entirely, something formless and nameless, a subtle threat she could just brush with the tip of her subconscious. Evil spirits, the elders back in the desert might have said, but she didn't buy that crap; the spirit world didn't carry a lot of weight in her line of work. But there was some bad shit here in the laboratory, and that was all she knew. And for Megan, that was plenty.
The cigarette butt dropped carelessly form her fingertips and ground to dust under the toe of one anonymous low boot (while its owner permitted herself to entertain the decidedly pleasing image of what the inevitable reaction would be to her leavings). And with that, Megan gave the lab one last scan to satisfy herself all was in order...
And stopped. Because all was not.
Back in the shadows, something had moved. She had seen the light shift, seen the shadows rearrange themselves just slightly; there was even a tiny rustling noise out of the darkness, as something changed position back there. There shouldn't be anyone in here tonight. Shouldn't. But, as the elders of her desert community had also said (with a great deal more practicality, she thought), uninvited guests rarely knock.
Both her knives were in her hands before she even thought of them, and Megan advanced slowly back through the lab, suddenly cat-silent, still not bothering to hunt for the light switch. Silence -- and then she heard it again. Louder this time, and slower, lingering. Almost as if wanting to be heard.
Won't be that cocky for long, she thought distantly, letting the almost-peaceful blanket of adrenaline envelop her. Now where--
There. Another shift -- on the left side this time, not the right. Shit -- that was fast. Who the hell...? Her teeth caught her lip unconsciously, senses sharpening to razor edges with battle-fever. Behind her, the sink was dripping softly, metallically. The door creaked slightly; she could hear the rats scuttling, distantly, in their little room. The laboratory smell seemed to intensify.
Light shifted again, giving the first impression of shape. And Megan stopped her slow, steady predator's stalk, and only stood as here eyes went involuntarily wide.
Whatever she was hunting, it was big. Much too big to be human.
The door swung neatly, abruptly shut, drowning the lab in darkness.
Training and wit outmatched her instinct to whirl toward it; that was surely what her quarry wanted her to do, and to lose focus now might cost her her life. Still, she could hear her breath quicken, and fumbled out one hand -- now white-knuckled around her knife (and how had it moved so fast?) -- to reach for the edge of the central lab table...
...and it brushed something cold, wet, yielding, and utterly alien.
Her teeth clicked against a cry of surprised disgust, and instead of obeying the impulse to withdraw in revulsion, she struck like lightning with both knives at what she had touched.
The blades cut harmlessly through only air.
A sound -- an almost-touch.
Behind me--
Megan swung around, a little wildly, and shoved her back up against the table, aiming a deadly kick out into the darkness. Nothing -- and the motion unbalanced her. She scrabbled for the edge of the table, dropping a knife; it clattered on the floor, and she yelped shrilly, involuntarily. Her breathing was loud, far too loud. She wasn't the predator anymore, she realized too clearly. Now she was the prey.
Fuck, fuck, they don't train us for this kind of shit -- get me the hell out of here -- Backup. Dammit, I need backup, right now--
She fumbled the little pocket radio out of her jacket with her unarmed hand, kicking herself mentally for forgetting it this long, and stabbed the talk button with her thumb. "Zafara, hailing Valentine, come in. Valentine, you there? Over." She couldn't seem to fight off the note of hysteria in her voice, however she tried.
After a moment, Vincent's voice -- suddenly enormously reassuring in its normalcy -- crackled out from the speaker. "I'm here, Zafara. I copy. What's going on? Over."
"I need backup, Valentine. The basement. Yesterday. Over."
"What?" Bewilderment. "Megan, what in the hell-- "
"Just get your ass down here, Vince," she snapped, turning her head from one side to the other, trying desperately to see in the darkness. "Now." She clicked off the radio before he could protest, forgetting even proper protocol for the transmission's end -- and then another sound rustled out of the blackness, nearly sending her through the ceiling.
"All right, I'm done with this shit," she croaked out at last, a bit waveringly, clinging to the tabletop behind her with hands like claws, still gripping her remaining knife with one, trying to edge toward the door. "Who the hell's out there? Who -- who is it?"
For a moment, there was silence -- and then, from almost at her ear (and, it seemed, in her own head, somehow), came a single wet, thick, gurgling chuckle.
That was quite enough for Megan.
Not bothering to think about what might happen, she pushed off from the tabletop, propelled herself across the lab, flung the door open, and fairly leaped out into the hallway. She grabbed a spare knife out of her boot, held both up in attack position, backed up to the hallway wall, and waited for whatever it was to come out the open door.
Nothing.
She waited.
Nothing.
Finally -- gathering the last tattered shreds of her courage -- she took a wavering step forward, fumbled a hand into the doorway, and found the light switch at last, flooding the lab with sane, normal fluorescent light. Then, with a deep breath, she stepped back inside.
There was absolutely nothing there. The lab was perfectly normal, pristine, in total order but for the knife she herself had dropped. Numbly, Megan picked it up, and moved to look into the specimen room and library, but already knew what she would find: nothing. Everything was undisturbed, exactly as it should be.
Except, she saw suddenly, that the specimen Jenova was now only half-covered.
Megan backed very slowly out of the lab. Then she turned, and sprinted down the hallway at full speed. She got as far as the foot of the stairs before crashing headlong into Vincent, as he descended same, nearly knocking him down. He made an indistinct little grunt, then regained his balance, catching his panicked partner by her shoulders.
"Megan, what the hell--" He stopped, gave her a closer look. "God, what's wrong? You look like something's chasing you, or something--"
"Something did chase me, you asshole," Megan snapped back at him, the edge of hysteria honed to a fine point. She stabbed a finger back at the lab, pulling brusquely away from his grip. "That thing. It slammed the door and gave me a run around the lab. And you took your own sweet time getting down here--"
Vincent regarded her bemusedly. "Meg -- what are you talking about?"
"Jenova!" she fairly screamed, aware of the sound of her own panic and hardly caring. "Are you deaf? Should I sign? Jenova just came after me!"
Vincent was very quiet for a moment.
"Megan," he said at last, patiently, "Jenova is dead. Very dead."
"I don't care," Megan growled back at him, teeth gritted. "It still chased me. See for yourself."
And without another word, she led the way back to the lab, marching grimly down the hallway, and Vincent had little choice but to follow. She reached the door, looked in -- and stopped.
"It--" She began backing away, shaking her head slightly. "It must have pulled it up again -- it was off, the cover was halfway off it, I saw it--"
Vincent stepped around her, and looked inside.
Nothing. Everything was normal. Jenova lay flat on its tray, covered by its plastic sheet. After a moment, he stepped back, and awkwardly laid a hand on Megan's shoulder.
"Maybe -- you need a little more rest, Meg," he said, as gently and helpfully as he could.
She turned, but did not answer, choosing instead to favor him with a poisonous glare and a rude hand gesture.
Then she stalked off, leaving him with nothing to do but turn out the lights, and follow.
*
The centrifuge clicked to a stop, and Ellis drew the slender, red-filled tubes from their respective slots, ferrying them briskly across the lab. It was, he reflected, in some ways highly convenient to perform physical examinations in a laboratory; and it might be more so if it weren't for the threat of the various potential contagions flying about. For one thing, there always seemed to be a microscope at hand...
The subject of his examination came up behind his shoulder as he looked over the sample, having dressed again already, and moving with a careful, almost ponderous stride that Ellis silently approved of. Somebody's got to watch out for her now, he thought with a touch of exasperation, and it might as well be herself...
"Well?" Lucrecia inquired, a bit dryly, breaking through his thoughts, though not interrupting the investigation. "Am I anemic?"
Ellis half-smiled slightly, drawing back slowly from the eyepiece to look up at his superior. "Not so far as I can tell at the moment," he replied. "Though most patients wait until after the analysis is done to make their inquiries." He attempted to frown at her sternly, and was rewarded with a laugh.
"Then you've clearly never had a scientist or a pregnant woman for a patient," she returned cheerfully, turning back toward the lab to settle her coat over her shoulders, "and certainly not both."
Well -- she sounded cheerful, at least. Indeed, Lucrecia's manner was as light-hearted and summery as Ellis had ever seen it. So much that it began to seem forced. With the advent of spring -- which was swiftly giving way to early summer -- she seemed to have recovered her health noticeably from its state back around the incident at the ball, at the close of March... but he still remembered just how bad it had really been then, even if everyone else seemed inclined to forget it, and it preyed on him. And she was still complaining of dizziness, and the occasional fainting spell; and Ellis thought he might take this test for anemia quite seriously, if it was all the same. He had never known such an eventful first trimester as Lucrecia was winding up, and it didn't help to ease his conscience that he had been asked to perform this examination mostly due to the fact that she was also an experimental subject...
"You're still having trouble with dizzy spells?" he asked aloud, turning his attention back to the microscope. He could almost feel Lucrecia look back to frown at him.
"Yes. Now and then. I suppose that's something to make a fuss over, isn't it?"
Ellis's mouth quirked, and he glanced back at her with something too exasperated to be amusement, and too amused to be reproach. "It is indeed." He returned to the microscope, trying to be nonchalant and casual with his next comment. "I know both you and your husband are likely to throw conjugal fits at the mere suggestion, but I would feel a lot better if I could get you out of the mansion for a few weeks, just long enough to get out of the sticks and do a cephalic X-ray. Maybe a CAT scan."
Silence for a moment; then, at last, a sigh from Lucrecia. "You're right," she said, considerably subdued. "We would have fits. And with good reason." Ellis turned to argue, and she sat down on a stool next to him, cutting him off almost entreatingly. "Really -- it can't be too unreasonable just to let it go... Surely some level of balance upset is to be expected in pregnancy."
Ellis only shook his head, tautly. "Not this much, not this soon," he replied bluntly. "I think something really is wrong, Doctor."
She sighed again, and sat back, closing her eyes. "I know," she conceded quietly. "And I think I agree. And if it were just me, I might... But Simon couldn't possibly let me go for weeks without injections or charting the process; it could blow the results to pieces."
Ellis felt his frown deepen, and he did try to stop himself from interfering where he had no business -- with no success whatsoever. "I would think his wife's health would be of more concern to him than his experiment," he stated, blandly, but with a small tinge of acid. Lucrecia opened her eyes to glance at him, and offered him a weary smile.
"It's a fair assumption," she allowed, in a small voice that set off all kinds of alarms in the back of Ellis's mind. "A month ago, I would have agreed with you..." She stood, abruptly, and wandered away, as if trying to disguise something: a shift in emotion, perhaps. He turned to watch her, silent for a moment, before finding the proper words.
"Is something wrong, Doctor?" he asked softly, letting a depth of meaning lie behind that simple question.
She turned slowly back toward him, with another small smile. "Lucrecia," she corrected amiably, "and -- no, not really. I don't think."
He hesitated for a moment, then said carefully, "Well... if you do find that something is troubling you -- physically, or otherwise -- I do hope that you know there are people you can talk to, at any time. Myself included."
Her smile grew, became a little more real. "They do train you well in med school, don't they?" she asked ironically. he chuckled slightly. Lucrecia paused for a moment, then added, "Thank you, Ellis. I'll remember that."
And with that, before he could say another word, she left him to study her blood samples alone.
And to deal alone with his bewilderment at what he found.
*
JOURNAL -- DIRECTOR MIKHAIL COLBY
Something's wrong.
Three of my men are dead. Johnson put a pistol in his mouth early last week; there was a note, but it was just a jumble of garbled ranting. Something about the creature we dug up. Harris cut his wrists in the showers about five days ago. And last night Elvorez dumped a full can of gasoline over his head and lit a match. A few of the men came over and saw him flailing at the end, but by then it was too late; they just barely managed to save the tent. All three of them helped pull that thing out of the ground, and most of the rest of the team have started complaining about strange things. Hearing voices when no one's around. Seeing things. Bad things. And everybody's having nightmares, including myself.
I haven't notified the tower yet, though I know I should. I suppose I just can't get used to the idea. I've never lost a man before, and certainly not three; and they were good men. We're all reeling a little -- a lot. We just never expected this, and we had no reason to. They were stable, reasonable, intelligent, content... It makes no sense.
And it all started when we dug up that thing.
I know it's ridiculous; but I can't help putting the pieces together. There's something about that creature. That monstrosity. Ever since it's been in the camp, things have just gotten stranger and stranger. People are edgy, more than they should be. They hear whispers. Have dreams. And now they're killing themselves. How long before they're killing each other?
But look at this garbage -- I'm paranoid. We've been in the north too long, and I have a dose of cabin fever. So does everyone else. It's nothing but a dead, petrified organism the Science Department can't wait to get its hands on.
But personally, between me and this journal, I'll be very glad when it's in their hands, and not ours.
*
JOURNAL, cont.
It's getting worse.
More dead. I've lost count. Everyone's afraid.
We've lost contact with the tower. No reason, we just have. It's her, of course. She's cutting us off. We'll never get out of here. Half the men are dead. Half going crazy. Some already gone. Maybe me too.
I've started hearing her, now. There are sounds in the walls, and I dream of fire.
I woke up this morning with a knife in my hand. Couldn't remember where I got it. I can't trust anyone. Even myself. Especially myself.
It's getting colder, starting to blizzard.
I'm very afraid.
*
Ellis frowned deeply into the file for a moment, and then closed it, slowly, as though fearing it might bite. The official reports had dwindled to nothing, leaving only a few more pages of increasingly disquieting journal entries in this perplexing source. Strange enough that what this voice from the recent past had been describing sounded uncannily like what was happening already on the Jenova Project; stranger still that it seemed only to confirm his own wildest suspicions of what was really going on, and he was beginning to wonder if this report had been misshelved by accident at all...
Paranoid, he scolded himself sharply, rubbing at his aching forehead. Worse than that poor delusional miner. All that's at work here is neglect and ethical breakdown, and you know it well.
Yes. Perhaps he did. And if he did, he certainly charged himself with at least a portion of those offenses.
First Kal. Then Ruth. Now Lucrecia? He propped his forehead on his hands, staring down without seeing at the words on the paper before him, letting them blur. Damn it, regardless of extenuating circumstances, it is my duty to do all in my power to save lives. And while perhaps I couldn't quite have been expected to be much help to the first two, what do I think I'm doing now? Being judiciously neglectful? Looking on indulgently while Dr. Hojo slowly turns his back on his wife's health in the name of science? For God's sake, that isn't science; it's abuse. And I know something's wrong, something I should be investigating, and yet I can't bring myself to interfere.
And thus am I a perpetrator myself. Do no harm to anyone, indeed. Bravo, Dr. Maseke. Oh, pardon me -- I'm not even that much.
Ellis sighed, getting heavily to his feet. He had no reason to worry about otherworldly influences causing trouble on this project, he reflected with a bitter, humorless smile; human influences seemed to be making all the trouble they could handle and then some.
So there was no reason at all to dwell on that image that had struck him out of nowhere back in April, bare weeks after the deaths: of Ruth cleaning the floor by the specimen tank and suddenly dropping the mop's handle, of her staggering backward as though drawn by some unseen force, of the terror in her face and of her hand clawing out to grab at the wall, her nails digging into it, dragging gouges through the smooth white as she was pulled inexorably downward...
Ellis shook his head. Stop it, he told himself fiercely. Just stop it.
He made his way out of the library at last, leaving the mining report carelessly on the desk and cicking off the light as he went. He glanced at the clock on the wall as he stepped into the lab, noted the hour as "ungodly" -- and then stopped. There was someone out here, though as far as he knew he should be alone; he could hear soft breathing, and almost smell an immense, sickening sense of fear. With a frown, he peered around the table -- and saw Mike, curled up in the corner by the specimen room, staring vacantly across the lab at the tank containing Jenova.
Ellis stepped over to the other intern, clearing his throat slightly; Mike had been a little -- odd, lately, and he wasn't entirely surprised. Mike did not even look up, however, though he seemed to relax his tensed posture just slightly at the approaching steps. The younger man opened his mouth for one of a dozen inane questions -- but Mike cut him off, without even seeming to realize his presence.
"Something's wrong, Ellis," he said simply, his voice dull and low. "Something's wrong with the rats, even though you don't believe me. And with me. I don't know what." He pulled his knees up to his chest abruptly, resting his chin atop them.
Ellis's frown deepened, became more alarmed; Mike sounded frighteningly unlike himself, almost regressive, and a dim memory of Kal flashed unbidden through his mind as he crouched awkwardly beside the other intern. "What do you mean, Mike?" he asked quietly. "What -- sort of problem do you think you have?"
Mike shook his head slightly, his eyes remaining fixed on the tank. "I don't know. I just feel... weird. Bad. I don't know." He scrubbed a hand roughly across his eyes, averting them at last. "But I'm scared, Ellis," he almost whispered, so softly Ellis could barely hear, his voice rasping slightly. "I'm really scared -- and I -- I don't know what to do."
Ellis laid a hand on his shoulder, and Mike looked up at him at last, his normally dancing brown eyes sunken and haunted. "Why don't you get some rest, Mike?" he suggested gently, even as foreboding -- an old, familiar unfriend now, foreboding -- gnawed at his heart. "I don't know how long you've been down here, but... everything seems a little off in the lab, lately. And a little sleep couldn't hurt." He patted Mike's shoulder reassuringly, then took his arm to help him up; the young man leaned heavily on Ellis for a moment, as though unable to find his feet.
"Thanks, Ellis," Mike said ruefully, holding a hand to his forehead and trying to steady himself... and sounding a bit more like the Mike Ellis knew. "I... I guess I will."
Ellis smiled at him, guiding him toward the door. "Good. And--" He attempted to adopt a joking tone, but it sounded a little flat even to himself. "And Mike, for God's sake, if there's a problem, please come talk to me before you do anything -- rash. All right?"
Mike half-smiled, then seemed unsure how to finish the job. "I will," he answered instead, simply and sincerely. "Trust me, I'd... really prefer that."
They made their way out of the lab together, and left it empty... but Ellis did not turn out the lights.
He did, however, shut the door firmly behind them.