This is either the beginning of something or the ending of something.
It all depends on how you look at it.
I can't find the voice to tell her No, to suggest this isn't a good idea, to say Stop or even Max, think this through.
This was my plan, after all. Perhaps because of that I don't get to try and take this back.
This was my plan, and to put it charmingly, it's a flop.
Big time.
You did this, she says, and by this she means the impossible fire and improbable devastation that surrounds us. Why are we alone?
They're dead, she says, voice choked. You killed them.
Now, that's just not true. They are still alive.
The professor's experiments are, anyway.
Because I have a sinking feeling that they caused all this... mess.
And where the hell is he?
Probably dead.
The Remnants did this, I say.
Her eyes narrow. Who are they?
I wave my hand. It would take too long to explain.
Fine, then.
With no further ado, she pulls the trigger of the gun she's been pointing at me for the last five minutes.
It's so like her to only now get down to brass tacks.
It's also like her to be completely unable to aim, and so when I drop to my knees, the pain on my face is mostly an act, feigned for her benefit. I can live through this, especially if I get the benefit of one of the little first-aid tricks I've come up with, given Hojo's help.
God, I'm going to miss that man. Horrible human being, but a brilliant scientist. May he rot in hell forever -- but before that, a long, fulfilling life.
Perhaps I'm just confused.
I'm certainly bleeding. Damn. I've just gotten the last stains out of this labcoat, and now I'll have to wash it again.
Funny.
Cold water really does take out blood stains.
With me collapsed on the desert floor, Max has jumped to another conclusion: I'm curled up in pain, therefore I'm dead as a doornail.
Ha.
If that were true, I'd have to have more lives than a cat does. Hojo would be nigh-immortal, and Reilly, well-known for being the indestructible lab tech, would be a God.
She lifts off, wings working against the hot, dry air, and for a moment I almost break my disguise. I can't help it. I have to watch her, and if this means possibly revealing myself as not-quite-dead, so be it.
I like to watch my work in action.
As she wheels away from this scene of destruction, I can't help but wonder how I got here in the first place.
Certainly it's not the healthiest of endeavors that have put me here, bleeding a stain into my last clean labcoat and wondering where my colleague of the last few years has gone (hell, wondering if he's gone and gotten killed again).
Perhaps I should explain, then.
If nothing else, it'll pass the time.
And I've got nothing but time at the moment.
So let me talk your ear off.
Or, more accurately, let us talk your ear off.
After all.
Hojo didn't work in a vacuum.
Kyle was smoking at the time.
He hadn't even known there was a new guy. They weren't commonplace. People left, sometimes, but seeing someone arrive -- well, that was rare.
And fascinating.
Seeing Reilly visibly upset as he stormed out of the main building towards the smoking area -- well, that just made the prospect of a new employee doubly interesting.
Reilly sank onto the bench next to Kyle, hands shaking. "So guess who the new guy is?"
"There's a new guy?"
"I had to show him around. Go ahead. Guess."
"Jesus, right? Second Coming and all."
Reilly looked tongue-tied for a moment, then spat, "Hojo."
"You're shitting me," Kyle said flatly. "Must be a lookalike -- it can't be the Hojo."
"The Hojo." Reilly started giggling uneasily. "I'm gonna put in for a transfer. This can't end well."
"What the hell is he doing here?" Kyle said, attempting to forestall some sort of nervous breakdown on Reilly's behalf.
"Well, there are these kids tagging along with him, and… I just figure it's going to end in pain and death for somebody, and that somebody is probably gonna be me."
"Which is a pragmatic assumption." Kyle shrugged. "But considering where you work, since you're not dead already, you're not likely to get dead, know what I'm saying?"
"Yeah," Reilly said shakily.
"I mean, I know you have scars. Just… think of it as the prelude to a fuckload of free drinks ten or fifteen years from now."
"If I survive it." Reilly breathed deeply, then said, "Give me a cigarette."
"Sure." Kyle did -- he was a friend, after all, and if Reilly wanted emphysema and lung cancer… so the hell be it! -- and lit it for him, too, holding Reilly's hand steady.
Reilly hadn't smoked since he started working at the School, so far as Kyle knew -- he'd picked up the habit for a while in college, but had never really taken to it.
"Kyle, you don't get it," he said.
"What don't I get?"
"I mean… sure, I've been mauled here before. OK. Cool. Par for the course, right?"
"Right."
"Hojo… well, you know him. He kills people. Working around him is a death sentence."
"Dude, that's what you said when you got the internship here," Kyle pointed out.
"Maybe." Reilly sighed. "Maybe I'm just making a big deal out of nothing here, but…"
"You've got a bad feeling about this."
"Right on."
"You know," Kyle observed, "I never even liked those games." He dropped a wink in Reilly's direction. "But I think I could learn."
Reilly's unspoken Ew was payment enough for Kyle's first investigation into this whole Hojo matter.
Of course, there would be more reward later, but seeing his friend grossed out -- well, that was always fun.
Kyle was looking forward to this.