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Running, running. Harsh breaths; in, out, in, out. Like an overworking machine pumping air from the outside to the inside and spreading throughout the furthest wires as fast as it possibly can, back out again to get rid of the waste and make way for more air. This was how it feels. Burning, burning, the lungs on fire and the heart beating out of his chest and the legs stomping so harshly on the ground that it's almost a surprise they haven't shattered yet.
There wasn't much on the mind besides run escape hide escape getaway go and as annoying as the repeats might be it definitely gets the body to stay going as long as possible. From what? A monstrous feeling, one of chest pain and static and high pitched ringing. There was no melody to it. There was just chaos. Not even a mechanical rhythm. Not one of life, either. No. It was something completely different, and it's not going to stop attempting to spread as far as it possibly can. Starting from the very forest itself, to the animals inhabiting, to any poor soul wandering in, and reaching reaching reaching.
So he ran.
He ran like an... an animal, frightened and refusing to give in, because there's no way anyone with that much attachment to surviving would give in willingly. No, not Brian. He won't give up. Machines don't feel like this. He was alive. He was breathing and feeling and chaotic in a way a series of code or binary couldn't be.
Somewhere, way farther back, was the red frowning mask; pulled off and dropped in favor of breathing better. He didn't mean to lose it. It has a good purpose. It is, in a way, another layer of protection. But it's gone right now.
He only stopped when the static subsided for more than a few minutes, and the burning throughout his entire body was too much to handle any longer. He slumped against the trunk of a tree, heaving each breath like there wasn't enough oxygen in the world to quench the burning. His legs gave out and he slid down to the dirt, grabbing at the clothes on his chest and weakly pulling as though it would help the air flow more. He could barely see, he just noticed — the dark spots dancing around and creeping on the edge of his vision finally registered. He guesses he's just lucky he didn't trip on anything. How was he still in the damn forest? He kept track of all his turns subconsciously, and only looped around twice when it was beneficial. Just more shifting, he concludes. This place was sick, infected by it, just like him.
Him... His name. It's been avoiding him for at least a year by now. He knows it has a vowel or two in it, remembers it sounds kind of like a word from the body or some nearly microscopic water creature. The name doesn't show itself to him. Has he thought of the name previously? It felt like he may have when running, but it was too difficult to recall when his lungs call for further attention by rudely spasming out coughs and hacks. He doubled over, coughing, nearly choking, spitting out bits of blood that stain the fallen leaves and soil. It doesn't hurt as much as it probably should at this point. His legs and body continue to burn from the inside, leaving him feeling prickly and unbelievably sweaty. His back hit the trunk again, rasping gasps of breath blocking up half of his hearing. Everything's both way too loud and not loud enough, the noises crossing over and fighting for what can be processed. He needs to listen out for it again. The thing could've caught up with him, he needs to listen.
He can't hear it.
He tries not to think whether or not that's a good thing. Too preoccupied with also trying not to choke on his own breath. Suffocation by breathing too hard doesn't sound like a nice way to go.
It hits him again, that realization: he's still alive. Or at least he assumes he still is. He's hurting and breathing and feeling, and despite the occasional distortions and sometimes feeling like he can't trust his own mind, he can say that he's alive. Ragged breaths in and out, in and out. His bare hands curling around dead leaves, crunching in his tight grip. Dirt pocketing itself under his nails and sticking to his fingers. The constant weight pulling him down to the earth, like it's constantly trying to swallow him up and pull him down further. Yet he doesn't relent. He stays above ground.
He chances standing up, then, holding onto the tree behind him to make it a little easier for his worn out legs. There's a place to hide not too far away. He just has to walk a little further. He can rest for a while longer there. It's safer. Pushing himself off the tree, he forces himself to move forward; a bit janky and limping at first, but growing stronger again after several steps. It's best to keep moving in a planned direction, especially after such a close call. It already felt like both hours and mere seconds ago.
The building came into sight: a mostly empty, cement looking thing with only a couple of rooms and plenty of windows. Easy to escape from, easy to keep watch. Easy for it to watch back. His hand loosely grabbed the second doorway into the smaller room and sort of swung his gravity to turn into it. He scans the treeline outside the windows before sitting onto the rough mattress. Thud. The weight of all his bones and muscles return to him once more, feeling even more like a viscous slug than a human. Or whatever he was at this point.
Human. Some part of him, deep down, claws its way up through the muck and shouts in a tiny voice. You're human. You are human. I want to be human. Make me human. Give it back to me. Make that thing give it back. The words sat like a rock in his chest, digging his fingers into his already gross hair.
I want to be human. I want to be human.
What a demand. It was hard enough being alive as is. The coughing bubbled up in him again, not quite wracking his body like before but interrupting his train of thought enough to get back up again. His stash was stuck between the pallets in the bigger room. He just had to move his legs to reach it.
Grabbing the bottle, he dumped out a single pill and dry swallowed. Cleared his throat, coughed a bit more. He collapsed back onto the mattress after securing the area one more time. Curled up into himself, staring at the opposite wall from where he lay.
.....It must have started with a B. That sounds like it's a right start. There's a species of tiny creatures that feed off of algae in salt pools, he thinks, and they share a similar name to lakes of dense salt deposits in the ocean, brine pools.
Brine pool.
Brine.
It sounds so damn close, so familiar, but when he thinks about some of its variations that might make a person's name, a splitting headache rises up from the back of his head and cracks across his scalp. So he pushes it all back down again and drinks some water. B. Brine. Watch the treeline. Don't sleep too long. Stay on the run. Wait for Jay Merrick to decode the messages. Stay hidden. Steal some pills. Lead Jay Merrick in the right direction.
It's a rough cycle. But it must be done. It's practically all he knows anymore.
Kralie needs to die.
He must be led to the Ark.