Past Wrongs

In the shadows of the high rise buildings, a fine rain shower hissing against the heated pavements, a stranger cloaked in a russet coat is shrouded in a hazy mist. Their coat scrapes against the floor, billowing in the slight breeze. They watch the crowds, silent.

A mixture of smells wafts from the set of nearby street stores. Spicy, tangy, a complete assault of the senses, and the stranger scrunches up their nose, dismayed.

“How long till the meeting?” they mutter. Static responds.

A little irate, the stranger shifts from one foot to the other, rolls their shoulders back. It’s not a concern, not yet, but…

An alarm sounds. Shrill, quick and repetitive; the breep-breep coming from somewhere to the figure’s left. They tense, but the trouble they await never comes. Eventually the alarm clicks off. No one in the crowd seems to notice, they just continue about their daily business after it’s a common occurrence.

The stranger remains frozen though, staring now at something in the alley they occupy. A shadow at the opposite end - Dreggan, from a quick glance at their hulking form - but something isn’t right. “One warning, friend, back it up or get a bullet in the head.”

The Dreggan doesn’t respond.

Nerves frayed, the stranger reaches backwards, hand closing around the gun concealed at their hip. That gets the Dreggan’s attention. A barely there head tilt, but the Dreggan doesn’t seem to be inspecting the gun and the stranger doubts they’ve even noticed it. They’re inspecting the stranger, the sudden movement, drawn to it like a predator stalking their latest prey.

The stranger hates that comparison, but it’s the only one that seems appropriate in the moment. Still, they’ve given the Dreggan their warning. The stranger stays true to their word, gives the Dreggan ten seconds to walk away, but when the timer is up and the Dreggan still hovers down the back end of the alley, the stranger shoots.

Flickering movement, shot taken from the hip, expertly hitting the Dreggan straight through the forehead. It lurches forward, head bowed. The stranger expects them to drop but two seconds later they look back up. A thin line of blood oozing down their face.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” the stranger mutters. In part, they already know.

A disease spreading through the city. People rampaging like things possessed.

The Dreggan shifts position, bouncing on the balls of their feet, flexing out the muscles in their arms. A warning sign, one the stranger gladly follows. In the blink of an eye, the Dreggan surges forward with insane speed, aiming for a tackle that would have hit the stranger square in the stomach had they not tucked and rolled to the left.

Instead the Dreggan dives out into the street, hitting an unfortunate passerby. They scream, the stranger goes to call out but decides against it, biting their tongue. Just as well. They watch the Dreggan quirk its head at the new target, hearing the low groan from its chest. Then it swings. Once, twice, three times, a never ending torrent of punches square to the poor Terran woman’s face. More people off the street try to pull the Dreggan off of her, but the stranger knows it's impossible. Someone afflicted by the Piper’s Madness won’t stop until they’re dead.

The stranger knows because they’ve seen it first hand on Gossamer. They’ve watched countless, bed ridden and terminally ill patients stand in unison, bloodlust blazing in their eyes. Unable to stop. Moving like puppets on strings, tuned to the whims of someone - or something - else entirely. They know because they started this; a top secret project a decade ago, which seems like a lifetime now.

The same project that led them here.

A setup then, the stranger thinks as they scramble to their feet. If I’m lucky I might make it back to the Hyacinth. If not… guess I might be a deadman…