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It has been about twelve hours, and the discolored patch of skin on Herbert’s hand has only gotten worse.
Herbert himself claims it’s fine, of course, though Dell knows full well and good that’s mainly an excuse to go off and study himself without interference. Because when Merasmus yells something in a mixture of pseudo-Latin-Scots Gaelic and sends a blast of light hurtling towards you, things ain’t fine. You ain’t fine.
The flesh has become a sickly color, a sort of grayish-pale, and the veins have bulged and blackened like they’re thin mechanical fibers (Dell reckons he’d much prefer it if they actually were). The nails, too, are browned and a bit too long, untrimmed, a little gnarled. Herbert is, if nothing else, a man in the habit of tidying himself as much as he can (he does appreciate looking presentable), so this is more than uncharacteristic.
It is, by all accounts, a problem. Dell knows it. Mikhail knows it. Everyone else knows it. Hell, even Herbert himself probably knows it. But he waves Dell’s attempts to help away with I’m alright and I’m sure I have the capability to cure this whenever I would like, even though Dell suspects magic ain’t quite so cut-and-dry.
There must be an end goal with this curse here, at least; Merasmus, for all his faults, does often seem to have a specific result in mind. The question is what. (Dell’d like to find out sooner rather than later, though. It is somewhat problematic for your singular medical doctor to be confined to quarantine.)
As it is, Herbert does not come down to eat dinner with the rest of them, much to Mikhail’s disappointment. But the general consensus is to leave him be for now. He could be volatile, quite likely (although only Doe theorizes the curse could be contagious), and he’s already stubborn enough as is. Even Mikhail agrees it would be better to wait to console him. Just a little bit, really.
But if Dell wasn’t curious…well, then, really, what would he be?
🕊️
After dinner, Dell slips down to the medical office before anyone can even notice his disappearance. He carries with him some meager scraps of beef on a plate; better than nothing, he reckons. He don’t know what condition the doc’s in now, but part of him thinks he’s got enough tools at his disposal that maybe he’ll actually be alright. Maybe.
Dell knocks three times. “Howdy, doc,” he says. “Y’wanna open up?”
There is no audible response, but after a moment, the door does creak slightly open.
The face that greets Dell as it peers through the gap in the doorway is pale, the olive turned ashy. Very pale. And Herbert’s pupils are blown wide, giving the impression that the irises have become entirely blackened. Blotches of mottled, fleshy colors swarm eagerly about his cheeks, his forehead, his eyelids…his curls cling to his temple, greasy and sweat-slick.
Feverish, the first word that comes to Dell’s mind is. Oh, he looks real feverish. Something’s all wrong with this face — too inexplicable for him to put a concrete name to it, but enough that it’s edging towards unrecognizable.
The hand that snatches up the plate and then holds the door open is wrong, too — all bony in places it’s never been before, and the nails look like they’ve just gotten longer.
Dell swallows. “I, uh…just came to check on you,” he says, trying not to fixate his eyes on Herbert’s neck, where there is definitely a sea of strange little growths that look like they want nothing more than to push themselves out of the skin. And Dell’s certain they would, given the chance.
This is not good. This is very not good, he decides. Although, then again, a merciful bullet to the head would do a good job of fixing it with little hassle for both parties. But Dell knows full well Herbert’s too stubborn to ever agree to that. He’d much rather waste away in his own self-imposed isolation if it meant he’d get to take a few notes.
“I’m alright,” comes his voice, one which is faint and thin and decidedly does not sound alright. “Much as I appreciate the concern…it— it is not necessary.”
“Really?” Dell asks, with some amusement. “Because I can see the imprint of somethin’ tryna force itself outta your skull. Now, would y’call that ‘alright?”
Herbert’s shoulders sag with defeat. Is that— are those scales on his breast? “No. It does actually hurt quite a lot. Very much, in fact. But this is the opportunity of a lifetime, you see—”
“Y’know, Mikhail’s just been worried sick ‘bout you ever since you refused to come down for dinner…”
That gets Herbert to drop the act. His deceivingly pretty eyes go soft, like some kind of fucked-up and evil stray puppy, and he lets out a great big sigh like one, too.
“Oh, my Misha…I don’t want him to see me like this,” he murmurs. His voice sounds more strained now, like it’s getting difficult to force it out, or maybe like he’s just a little verklempt. “But…well, before I die, can you tell him I love him?”
“You ain’t gonna die, doc.” Well, alright, maybe he is, but that issue would not exactly take very long to fix itself. And Dell’s pretty certain that everyone (not least of all Mikhail) is fully aware of Herbert and Mikhail’s infatuation with one another. Much as they might not want to know.
“Well, I certainly feel like I am.” A pause. “But don’t you worry, Conagher. Before that day comes, I will…I will make the most of this situa— coo!”
Both of them freeze. Neither one of them says anything for a long time.
“It’s a bird curse,” Dell says eventually. Of course it is. The growths under his skin — it’s plumage, ain’t it? “He gave you a bird curse.”
“It’s fine,” Herbert insists, even as everything points to the contrary (and even as he himself admitted earlier he was not fine). “I am…I am alright, understand? I have a firm grip on myself. One must, in this line of work. Even when it comes to…uh, bird curses.”
“And how’s your research treatin’ you, huh?”
“Well.” He inclines his head sadly. “Archimedes…admittedly will not look at me. I’m not even sure if he entirely recognizes me. And…I ca – coo, coo – cannot figure anything out about the patterns or focuses of the affliction, not really.”
Dell sighs, chews at his lip. “Why don’t y’get some rest,” he says, pinching his brow. “And you’re sure you don’t want any help?”
Herbert hesitates just a moment too long. “…No. Goodnight, Conagher.”
“Yeah, yeah, I get the hint,” Dell scoffs, turning on his heel. “But I ain’t givin’ up, you understand me, Lu?”
“Goodnight, Conagher!” Even then, even when calling out, he just don’t sound right. He sounds ill. He sounds…frail.
But Dell leaves. Even when he’s far away from the medical office, though, he still can’t shake the terrible unease in his gut.
Maybe, he considers, Herbert will have this figured out by mornin’. Maybe Dell should have trusted him. Maybe Dell’s got no reason to worry.
He don’t believe it, not in the slightest, but it is a nice thought to have.
🕊️
Dell wakes later that night to the sound of distant screaming. A mournful bird call.
He clambers carefully out of his sleeping quarters and finds, unsurprisingly, nothing but darkness in the hallway. Maybe no one else managed to hear it. Wouldn’t be particularly far-fetched, not since Dell modified his eardrums to be keener.
But he knows who made that sound. Of course he does. Who else would it be? He makes sure to take his shotgun, just in case.
Dell slips down the stairs, down the hallway, towards the medical office, footsteps muffled by his socks.
The clock on the wall strikes 00:00.
And there it is. The lab door grins at him, ugly and bold, an obvious crevice in the wall. Dell steadies himself and presses his hand to the cold doorknob…
…and it gives way easily. It ain’t locked. Not anymore.
The place is a mess, to put it nicely. The lights are dim, flickering, fucked-up; Herbert’s carefully-crafted setup has been abandoned in favor of looking like a ‘nader ran through the place. It’s a scene from a horror picture, and Dell don’t even know what his attention should be drawn to first.
Well, there is a notebook lying face-down on the tile right by his feet. He picks it up and winces at the sensation of something thick and wet clinging to the pages. It’s blood, he realizes, although chunkier than it would be if it was just blood. He wipes it off on his pants. Little nasty.
Unbekannte Krankheit, the notebook reads, and then, in smaller lettering below that, Der Ausschlag breitet sich über meinen Arm aus. Vielleicht sollte ich eine Blutuntersuchung machen lassen, oder mir einfach den Arm aufschneiden? Ja, es ist ein bisschen informell, aber mein Kopf tut zu sehr weh, um die Krankheit richtig zu untersuchen.
Ich fühle mich müde und fiebrig. Ich habe pochende Schmerzen unter meiner Haut. Außerdem sind mir ein paar Zähne ausgefallen und etwas drückt auf meinen Schädel. Es wird wahrscheinlich bald vorbei sein. Ich mache mir keine besonderen Sorgen!
And then, scribbled at the bottom:
Nun, egal
כאָלערע
Ich bin so verdammt am Arsch! !!
The first few lines look vaguely like Herbert’s handwriting — the formal scrawl of a doctor — but the last look more like near-unintelligible chicken-scratch than anything (although it sure ain’t like Dell would’ve been able to understand it anyways). But it is his writing, surely, ‘cause no one else in this goddamn place speaks a lick of German or Yiddish(?), far as Dell’s aware. He may not know what it says, but he can tell that it is probably bad.
“Okay,” Dell whispers, just exhausted at this point. But, fuck, if he ain’t curious… “Alright, Dell. C’mon.”
He leans down to put the notebook back on the ground, but freezes on his way up. That’s a noise. That’s a squelching noise. Coming from the other side of the lab.
Dell hesitates, holds his breath. And that — there’s still heavy breathing. But it ain’t coming from him.
Whatever it is, it hasn’t noticed him. Not yet.
Creeeaak goes the swinging, flickering light as it creeps back and forth. Dell gets just a little closer.
And right there, right then, he can see it.
There, bent over in the corner of the lab, is a creature, noisily slurping up what look to be human intestines from a large, hulking body — oh.
Oh, that’s Mikhail’s body, ain’t it.
Oh, he must’ve gone to check on Herbert some time before Dell did. Of course he would. Of course he did. He loves him too fucking much not to. But maybe that let the thing get the jump on him — maybe he came unprepared.
Dell half-wonders when RESPAWN will decide it wants to spit Mikhail back out — he could probably use him right about now, he thinks. But if Mikhail clearly couldn’t get through to Herbert — because this is Herbert, it must be — then Dell’s got no chance in hell of it. And that means killing him will become a lot more difficult.
The thing’s sleeping robe and boxer briefs hang around it in tatters. Between the mangy feathers, Dell can nearly make out the protrusion of its spine in the little gaps of pale flesh. Its skin is papery now, sure, but at least it hasn’t quite lost Herbert’s muscle.
Dell steps closer, holding his breath —
— and hears the distinct crunch of glass under his boot.
The thing snaps around in nearly an instant, a horrible sound like a mournful, hungry cry coming from its beak. A beak that protrudes from a half-man, half-bird sort of skull in a way that looks about as excessively painful as possible.
“Good Lord,” Dell breathes. Oh, fuck. Oh, what the fuck?
The thing looks vaguely like Archimedes or any of Herbert’s other doves, save for the patches of black and gray curls poking through the feathers. And the sheer size of it. And the human(ish) arms attached to the wings. And the face-flesh its beak is pushing out of.
And the broken pair of eyeglasses lying on the ground, crushed beneath its talons. Of course, doves ain’t supposed to have talons, but, then again, doves ain’t supposed to be the size of men.
And then again, doves ain’t supposed to be men.
“Doc.” Dell tries to say it steadily, but finds little success. “Herbert, c’mon, reason with me here, partner.”
The thing that used to be Herbert does not oblige.
At least he’s still got his eyes, Dell reckons, maybe a little deliriously. He can’t read anything in them, and the pupils are still blown wide as can be, but they’re a person’s eyes, no doubt about it. Little creepy, maybe, but it’s better than seeing nothing but beady bird eyes.
But what he don’t have is his voice. And, fuck, he might not even have his mental capabilities.
“I got no qualms ‘bout using this, doc.” Dell raises the shotgun. “And y’can either cooperate, or make this a li’l more difficult for me.”
That gets it angry, whether it’s the last bit of Herbert’s pride grasping for control or just the animal’s fight-or-flight. It opens its beak and lets out a strange sound, guttural and wailing. Then it braces itself —
— and lunges.
Dell ain’t entirely ashamed to admit he yelps like a dog when the Herbert-thing jumps on top of him. All the both of them are for a moment is a mess of scrabbling limbs, Dell fighting to kick it off of him and maybe to properly secure his gun, and the creature fighting to gnaw at him with teeth that very much should not be inside of a dove’s beak.
Dell gets to the shotgun first. But not quickly enough.
He manages to get a shot in smack-dab in the center of its head, although not until after it swings down, snarling, and tears off an entire chunk of his face. The thing is fast. Fast like the Willis kid, though stronger than he is, given that he is rail-thin and all. But it can’t dodge a shotgun blast.
There’s blood everywhere. Dell’s face is cold and wet except for the part where it ain’t anything at all because the nerves have been ripped away from him. Around the edges of the wound, though, it sure hurts like a bitch.
The Herbert-thing seems to have gotten it the worst, though. Blown back by the force of the shotgun, it lies drooped against the wall, its chest heaving up and down, up and down. The only thing Dell can make out about its head is that it’s now an ugly, gory mess, a blob of feathers and sinew and muscle that looks more like chewed-up gum than anything else. Unfortunately for the creature, he somehow didn’t manage to instantly kill it.
Satisfied, exhausted, Dell slumps down, too. A laugh bubbles up from his throat, along with a few gurgling spurts of blood. Maybe he could patch himself up — this is a medical office, after all — but his limbs are too heavy for that right now, and his head is too murky. He can’t bring himself to get up.
And that’s alright by Dell. He’s content to lie here and wait in the hopes that RESPAWN will fix Herbert sooner or later. He did what he needed to do; now the both of them just need to die quickly.
Bleeding out seems to go a lot slower when you’re willing to let it happen, huh? But not too slowly. His vision’s goin’ already, ain’t it.
As Dell slips away into darkness, he can just about make out something. The dove-thing splits open like the shell of an egg, and a slimy, viscera-soaked arm tries to manage its way out, but it, too, fails. It droops down and stills, and then there ain’t no more movement.
That’s fairly convenient, Dell reckons, because now he can’t see much of anything anymore.
And he…
…well, he lets death take him. What else can he do?
🕊️
Dell wakes in RESPAWN with a kink in his neck and a cold, soft weight against him.
He blinks the sand from his eyes, stretches the shoulder that ain’t currently being used as a pillow, and looks to his left.
There is Herbert, now very much alive and very much human. Groggily, slowly, his eyes open, too.
“Ach, kann ich nicht wieder einschlafen…” he grumbles, body shifting around. Then he seems to realize where exactly he is. “Oh. Oh, scheiße.”
“You okay, doc?” Dell asks cautiously. “Uh…what d’ya remember?”
Herbert moans and buries his eyes in his hands, which Dell takes to mean everything. “Oh, G-d,” he says, half delirious wail, half cry of joy. “A choleryeh af dir, wizard…if you are to give me such a horrid body, you could at least give me the ability to be cognizant enough to have control over my own hands, to study it…”
“Hey, look, you’ve got hands again,” Dell says, very helpfully. “They ain’t talons.”
“Ah.” Herbert looks at his hands, then at his feet, then reaches up to touch his face again. He laughs, genuinely laughs at the sensation, which is a good sign. “I do! Yes, this is wonderful.” Then he keeps giggling, wrapping himself up in his own arms, touching every area of bare skin he can reasonably find without it being awkward.
After a moment, he stops and turns to Dell with a sheepish expression on his face. “Apologies for, ah, mauling you. It was unlike me. I am usually more…precise than that. And have more discretion.”
“Ah, ain’t nothin’,” Dell says, waving a hand. “Besides, I’ve had worse.”
Surprisingly, it ain’t a lie. Worse, in this case, is the one time the BLU Medic caught Dell and decided to try his hand at flaying him. That was a much longer and much more painful experience.
A loud thud slams through the room as the metal door is hefted open like it weighs nothing. And there, slightly out of breath, is Mikhail.
“Engineer!” he calls out, with some relief. “You are alright! Could not find you.”
Then his eyes catch on who exactly is huddled against Dell. “Доктор!” His voice has hardly ever had such intensity outside of battle, but here it is. He runs forward and nearly crushes Herbert to a paste as he scoops him up in his arms.
“Hooh!” Herbert cries. “Misha, Bärchen, hello! Sorry for eating you!”
“You are self again!” Mikhail laughs boisterously. “And we will kill колдун later, да?”
“Yes!” Herbert’s face lights up with glee. “Oh, yes, Misha, of course we will.”
Dell sighs, stands up, and dusts off the legs of his pants.
“Yeah, you two do that,” he says, scratching at his head. “I reckon I just might need a beer.”
And boy howdy, after all this, he needs one bad.