level_main_13-01_beg

It's hot.

The sun is burning. I'm burning.

Is that the exit?

A few steps further.

Just put one foot in front of the other. Maybe the fire, the anger, the pain, and the regret are all just figments of my imagination.

Or maybe the exit is. I don't know.

But they're watching behind me. Those eyes... are they judging me? Or just waiting to see how I'll carry the burden of their deaths?

They were great men, with tremendous accomplishments.

My commander, and the legendary Sarkaz scout... and the Captain, the last pure-blood Wendigo.

They're all dead, before me, behind me.

All that's left is sad little me, worthless me. They died so I could live.

What did they expect of me?

I can't think about it... I can't.

I can't let their deaths be meaningless.

I have to face the sun, even if it burns me.

Burn me to cinders, so that in their mighty company, I shall not be ashamed.

Ugh...

You really do have a knack for waking up right at shift change, don't you?

Is this the result of all that hard training, Guard?

...Percival.

I stretch, as much as I'm allowed to. I did not sleep particularly well. On top of that series of nightmares, the old wound in my leg aches.

We almost ran straight into the Victorian battle lines in order to catch up with Nine.

The Infected I'm in charge of are used to being spat on, used to not having hope, but they've never been on a real battlefield.

They were scared headless. I was one of the better ones... and I hate that I'm used to it.

It took a lifetime's worth of good luck for us to make it to the camp in one piece.

Just too hot, even at night.

How long until the shift change?

Fifteen minutes. You can sit a while longer.

I'll go wash my face.

What's with your leg? You're limping.

...Have the crystals spread?

No. Not yet.

Give me my towel, Percival. It's to your left.

The floral pattern?

...Yeah.

Percival raises an eyebrow. I want to say it was a gift from the owner of that County Peninsula textile factory. Red has one just like it.

The old man had creases all over his face. He was lucky that his crystals grew on his belly, so all he needs to do is wear a shirt. Hopefully, he's still hiding them.

Never mind.

You brought back more hands than expected. Looks like the situation in the provinces is deteriorating, even before they turn into war zones.

The impact is bigger than I thought, the nobles are turning a blind eye. Pretty much as expected.

Those towns made a living trading with the caravans. They're left hanging with the convoys to Londinium stopped on account of the war.

The Infected are always the first to get hit when things go south. They used to be able to plant a few crops on the edge of town, and villagers were willing to trade with them here and there. Money is money, after all, whoever it's from.

It's easy to do the respectable thing when life is decent.

Things are different now.

It's almost time for the bean harvest. These Infected spent the last season watering the fields, caring for their crops.

But they've chosen to run off and join us now, abandoning the harvest that would have been waiting for them in a few months, and those to come in the future. They would rather leave.

They must be desperate.

We Infected may be used to this kind of 'deprivation'.

But we can't come to the same conclusion every time.

Are you still resting, sir?

I hear voices. You're awake.

You again. I said—

Are you taking the night shift now?

Supper? I have canned food from Victoria. Not the best in terms of taste, but convenient.

Cigarettes, wine, a bit of a pick-me-up in the middle of the night? Pretty clean, all things considered. Razors, Arts Units, you name it.

What about you, Percival? Would you like some hair cream? Not easy to find this stuff these days. It's usually only the officers who carry it, after all.

Officers don't die so often?

No, just harder to dig them out from the heap. They're usually at the bottom, you know.

You need medicine again?

Well, I haven't been feeling my best... a lot of pain, the occasional hallucination... I'm scared that the rocks could start growing into my brain.

It's not going to get any better if you keep digging in those dusty craters.

The best we can do is basic medicine that slows the progression of the condition. Don't expect it to save your life.

I know, I know, I—

I know you're re-selling our medicine.

This bunch of Infected told me that they bought Oripathy meds from a Sarkaz on a motorbike, and that they 'worked okay'.

Well, but—

Made some decent money, didn't you? How about we decide your punishment based on how many coins you have in your pocket?

I was just, er, making sure that stuff got where it's needed... there's a war going on, after all.

You won't get another warning.

But at least the meds made it to them, when we don't have enough Messengers to deliver to everyone.

It won't happen again, I promise! Just a little bit... a few pills! I've been running a fever for days.

Guard?

Put in a form for him. Make sure he's registered this time.

Th-Thank you!

Don't thank us. Thank the doctors.

They went from elite to pariah when they contracted Oripathy in their labs and their companies didn't want to pay the insurance. It's not an easy change to accept.

Fortunately, they heard of the Reunion and came looking for us.

What about your old stomping grounds?

I'm more than just grateful to them, but they'll never forgive me... I chose this path on my own.

We just don't have the same grade of equipment that Rhodes Island does. Well, we're not really developing medicine either.

Right... we don't take medicine to get well, just to live a little longer.

There is no medicine that will cure Oripathy.

I still remember the operators hurrying around Medical, and the sight of Dr. Kal'tsit in her lab when I was at Rhodes Island.

If there is hope for an Oripathy cure, then it's at Rhodes Island.

I still feel a sense of pride for having been part of it... even though I have no right to, because I chose betrayal.

But when will the day come when a cure for Oripathy is found?

Fifty years? A hundred years? A thousand years? And what do the Infected do before then?

Oripathy is no longer just a condition.

It is a symbol of hatred, victimization, blame, and alienation.

Everyone here has a story, and they are all alike.

What good is medicine in the face of all that?

It is like rowing against the tide. This land is not a glorious one of morality and kindness.

That's why we can't turn away from violence, shameful as it is, it's powerful.

But, maybe... no, that's something for the distant future.

What's your name?

Me? Oh...

Erm... 'Medicine Peddler'? 'Man On Bike'? I'm not the kind of guy anyone needs to remember.

That's not a name.

Ok, let me think of a cool one—

Wh-What's going on?

Shouting, and the sound of weapons clanging.

Go hide in the back, Sarkaz.

Percival, go and reassure the civilians that just joined us. They're scared enough as is.

I put a hand on the sword on my belt. It is always at the ready.

Hrrh— hrrh—

You really want me to kill you? You men are in no shape to fight.

Our warriors surround a group of bruised and dirty Victorian soldiers. Their sergeant is panting, with fresh wounds on his body.

Was this really an attack?

What's going on, Nine?

They sneaked into the village from the north. Romanich took a bolt. The doctor is taking care of him now.

They're out of their minds, trying to attack our camp with just twenty-one men, including a handful on stretchers.

Ha! Look at what we have in the heartland of our country, a stone's throw from our great capital!

A swarm of damned Reunion Infected! Come! Kill me if you dare! Or I'll kill you all!

Conspirators, agitators, rioters, murderers... a blight! You're a blight!

No wonder the war is going badly! Those barbaric devils could never beat us! The real enemy is among us, behind our backs!

Wherever there's disorder, you Infected are never far away!

Looks like you just came back from the front lines.

Low morale, poor organization, hastily wrapped wounds, obsolete equipment... you don't look like professional soldiers. Conscripts?

We're from the Duke of Fife's Fourth Battalion... what's the name of the company again? Blackstream Squad and Eastham Squad. Do you have a doctor here?

Shut up, soldier, and ready your weapon!

But Sergeant, Victor...

This is an order! Ready your weapon!

Keep your voice down, Victorian. There are civilians sleeping in the camp.

Victorian civilians.

Civilians? Victoria would have given them the life they deserve, if they didn't join you to become criminals and malcontents!

Why are all the scum in this land Infected?

Why is every gangster, bandit, devil, and Reunion traitor an Infected?

Why is the honorable Duke of Fife not Infected? Why was His Majesty Frederick III not Infected? Why are honest and upright folk not Infected?

Do people become despicable because they're Infected... or do they become Infected because they're despicable?

What about you?

Is despicability infectious too?

How dare you—

Enough!

The Victorian sergeant's eyes widen as he turns to one side, trying to hide his arm from my sight.

His lips tremble, but no words come out.

We're all despicable scum now!

...Aren't we, sir?

I...

I'm different... this is an honorable...

Your arm.

I can see the crystals protruding from it. Your condition is progressing rapidly.

I'm fighting and killing Sarkaz for my country! I just got a bit of dirt on it... maybe devil blood...

What did you learn in boot camp? Didn't they teach you anything about Active Originium Zones?

The instructor just told us to aim and pull the trigger... that's what we spent our two weeks on.

I take it you weren't issued any inhibitors, either.

Er... inhibitors?

Nine, I think they're all Infected.

I-It can't be! I just got a physical one week ago, and I was in perfect health!

One week... could be a rapid onset. Or they lied to you to keep you on the front lines.

Shut up!

How long have the ones on the stretchers been unconscious? They're in critical condition.

Wh-What?

Death and disintegration from acute condition is dangerous to both you and us.

You were right to have the unconscious lying face-up on the stretchers, to prevent suffocation.

But... did you check their backs?

Suddenly silent, the sergeant walks towards the stretcher, as though trying to turn the man lying on it over, but withdraws his hand as soon as it touches the soldier.

The sergeant looks helpless, like he's facing a deadly tuskbeast that could spit lightning and poison, one that could leap at him at any moment.

But the man is his comrade. Before they were comrades, they might have been cousins, tilling the same piece of land together.

I sigh and sit the unconscious Victorian soldier up.

There is no need to remove his jacket. Originium crystals have pierced the clothing on his back.

Heavens...

Victor! Damn it!

I shouldn't have taken him along... his dad would kill him, then kill me, if he learned that his son was Infected!

Those Sarkaz used witchcraft to infect us! I knew it! It's the devil's curse!

It's not enough that they defiled our land, now they want to defile our souls too!

That's enough.

Sarkaz are naturally susceptible to Infection, and their soldiers are overwhelmingly Infected. When you kill them, or when you get Infected and they kill you...

If there's no one to clean up the bodies...

I said no more. I heard a sound.

It's a familiar sound, whether in Rim Billiton, Rhodes Island, or here and now.

The sound that every Infected fears most.

The sound of us shattering.

I've heard... sounds... in the trenches...

You told me it was artillery, Sergeant!

It <i>was</i> artillery!

Our enemy will use anything and everything to destroy us and our country, including their own deaths!

Devils, bandits, Tarans... there was none of this crap during His Majesty Frederick III's reign!

We... we must expel this scum from Victoria... we...

We...

What can we do? Can we save Victor? We... we dwell in the blessing of glorious Victoria...

What an idiot.

I'll say this again. You're an Infected. Very Infected.

In case this isn't clear to you, like us, like everyone else here...

You're going to die.