Chapter Text
6.
—
In fairness to Ryan, the request for a glass of water had been genuine. Her mouth was incredibly dry.
Besides that, the Doctor couldn’t help the faint twinge of guilt in the pit of her stomach, as she made her way unsteadily down the east wing’s corridor. She didn’t enjoy misdirecting her friends, especially when they were only trying to help, but it hadn’t really been misdirection. It made sense to split up. They could cover more ground this way. She could cover more ground this way.
She took a deep breath and tried not to pick at the nutrient patch still stuck to the front of her hand. It was just that she was faster on her own. Faster without anyone trying to look after her. Faster without hands at her elbow and questions she didn’t know how to answer.
Besides that, she hadn’t lied to Ryan about the capacity of her brains to hold their own against psychic invaders. Whenever she caught up with this one, she was fairly certain it would have no idea what to do with her. She could use the surprise to get the jump on it, and then she could figure out exactly what they were dealing with.
In the meantime, they had both only caught the edges of each other. It was enough, she thought, pressing onwards, that she could sense it faintly now. The psychic energy, gathering. It was feeding.
It was feeding nearby.
She forced her legs to move faster, one hand trailing against the wall for balance. That was the other advantage, to being alone—there was no one to pretend for but herself.
“Brave heart,” she whispered, and rounded one last corner. The corridor opened onto another small patient lounge—and Horus, sunk down into one of the chairs. Alone.
From a distance, his stance was almost innocuous, but his face was twisted with pain. His walker was abandoned beside him, on its side. The only sound was the agonizing whistle of his breath.
“Horus,” she breathed in horror, darting towards him. The mire of psychic energy became thicker, as she approached. Stickier. But whatever Horus was seeing was his own personal hell—the space in front of him was empty to the naked eye. “Horus, it’s me.”
“Annabelle,” he rasped, a tear leaking from the corner of his eye. That was enough.
“What are you?” the Doctor wondered coldly, pressing her fingers to Horus’ temple. She closed her eyes, searching. “What kind of psychevore? Fendahl? The Mara?”
She felt the weight of the being’s attention fall to her.
“Let him go,” she told it, her fingers still white against Horus’ head. “And you can have me, instead.”
It obliged.