They're moving closer to me, steadily. Midas, the one I recognize, the one I know. The one I share some sort of... father-son bond with, or I did... he is calling the shots. Of course he is. My body is so weak, I know they are coming for me now but I stand there still, now trembling. My body is drenched with sweat, and with a SPLAT I hear some of the skin from my ribs fall to the cave floor. Were I in my previous, non-infected state I may have retched from the disgusting sound and view. But nothing is in my stomach, what's left of it. I heave, and thick streams of blood exit my mouth. Many carnivores - and even some twisted herbivores - enjoy flesh, but no one really enjoys the rotten stuff.

He speaks to me, the golden one. He tells me to hold on. To.. to walk to some place with water. The water. I do not know what the water is, but my diseased blood screams in rejection. I pin my ears and screw my eyes shut. Inside me, my blood is boiling, and I feel like the remaining bits of my internal organs are being stabbed repeatedly with a jagged knife. My infection knows what I do not, and it is struggling. Struggling against my weak body, and trying to use pain to motivate me to fight the good guys. Midas tries to reassure me that my death is not necessary. I'm not sure that's a possibility. The red hybrid that is assisting Midas does not seem to think that it is a possibility either.

In a faux display of might, I spread my spindly wings out as much as the cramped space allows me, as if to fight. But no matter the internal pain I am suffering, no matter how much the infection tries to get me to fight this new fate, I have not the will to resist. My wings fall to my sides, drooping limply to the ground. I take a small step toward Midas, my head down, blood still dribbling from my lips. "I will not fight. End my suffering, I beg." The step, one more to follow. But my legs are trembling and I stumble, falling to my knees, cutting them on the rough stone of the caves. I cough and more blood comes up. The infection, so cognizant of the world and of me, seems to realize that I am no longer able to fight and defend it, and it begins to attack me harder, out to kill me instead of motivate me. I reach out a hoof, trying to gather strength to stand again. I heave for oxygen, hoping to bolster myself. Barely, just barely, I managed to get to my feet again. I whisper. "I don't think I can make it." Another step and I worry I will fall, and not be able to get up again.

Walking "Talking"

Satanic Silk