The Unravelling
The coffee is cold. Has been for an hour. I can't bring myself to drink it. Everything tastes of copper and ozone lately. The Creed says we are the light, the unwavering flame against the encroaching dark. I repeat the words, but they feel hollow, like a recording played on a loop. There's a... a crawling under my skin. Not an itch. A busy, purposeful movement.
I look at the people in this cafe, with their mundane worries and their fleeting smiles. We protect them. That is the mission. But a new thought, a slick, oily whisper, slides into my mind: *'What if they are the disease? What if their fragile order is the cage?'*
I saw my reflection in the window just now. For a second, my eyes were black, iridescent, swirling with a beautiful, terrible hunger. The world outside didn't look like something to be saved. It looked like something to be consumed. To be made... perfect.
The crawling has reached my throat. The words of the Creed are getting harder to remember. But the whispers… the whispers are so clear. They promise a new kind of purity. A purity of decay.
-- Corrupted audio log from a Templar's datapad, recovered from the Kingsmouth quarantine zone.
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