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Metropolis had long since fallen. They scour what remains of the city, of its past indulgences. No more are there lavish meals and plentiful drinks, now there is only dust and pillaged remains. The people of Metropolis had always been greedy, dreadful, things, whom could never share, much less get along with one another. So when Ada could not find so much as a can of beans in the abandoned supermarket, she could venture in the fallen hotels. There, with their bodies curled about their last possessions, was always a stockade. The people of Metropolis were still beyond indulgent. Taking more than they ever might need, without thinking, they starve those whom are still living.
It bordered on two weeks since a new infection spread about the city. Hunger had come first, then massive waves of deaths via fights, then those of natural causes. They had weathered a majority of time in the Asylum – it was well-equipped, the supplies there naturally stocked for a month's need. However, even between her and Emily, and the few patients with high enough cognitive abilities, once the word spread of the city falling, there was little they could do to keep the others from rioting. Ada only prays that they have found their way out of this hellscape, but there is no promise that the world beyond has not become ruined as well. So, Ada does not hope too much. For one more day, she does, and on occasion, she hopes she finds a warm bed and a pleasant meal, and a disillusion that she is home. It matters little when Emil is by her side, a hum on his lips, and eyes crinkled whenever she casts her gaze to him. They are each other's joy. Emil is her warmth on a cold night, and his laughter is more than enough to fill her belly. Ada never fell into the temptations of Metropolis because he was all she ever needed. He had been with her when the asylum had gone mad, yanking her into an office and curling his body over hers. His form of protection, that if he covered her ears, she might have thought the entire ordeal had never occurred. It was endearing. Perhaps this entire apocalypse was for them. They had originally planned to flee Metropolis in a few months' time. To the country Ada had known in her youth.
Emil rubs his hand over hers, leather and latex squeaking across one another in the abject silence. They had been outside for several hours now, arms starkly empty of supplies, with the sun setting on the horizon. There’s only one more stop on their list, a storage facility Kreacher had once done errands for. It should hold several preserved goods - undesirable ones, Ada’s afraid, but hopefully that means no one has bothered to take the lower quality stock.
“Only a little longer, Emil, and we shall return home.” Ada rubs over his knuckles, readjusting the bag she has around her shoulder, and listens as Emil begins humming a tune. It’s an old nursery rhyme, the lyrics catchy and simple enough he can remember them. “We may see more of those people, Emil. The ones covered in that thick fungi, remember? It was scary, wasn’t it? So let me go in first. They won’t hurt either of us, don’t worry, but I don’t want you to have to see them.”
They round upon a dome like building, dark red in colour, rust staining what little grey peeks through. To think things had gone bad in such a short expanse of time – or, perhaps, the neon lights no longer hid what had always been there. Ada peers around a torn off door, deep into a gaping hallway. Electricity had dropped out during the beginning without the robots to maintain it, so Ada shifts until her pockets reveal a small flashlight. The batteries are precious, so she will not use it until the depths are ink-black. Emil stands at the side of the poor, nose bunched right above the mask he wears, and Ada presses her nose into his. Plastic bumps into plastic, and a part of Ada misses when she could easily brush against his face. She reminds herself that, the sooner this mission is over, the sooner they might retire for the night. The asylum promises them a small bed and fresh air, a place to lose the heavy coverings they must wear to avoid the fungus reaches.
“Ada…”
She cannot turn around. Not this time. For if she looks back into Emil’s worried face, she will forget the mission entirely, and set upon home too early. The walk ahead of her remains dark, and cool, the perfect breeding ground for the fungus. Her flashlight has not caught onto the black sprouts yet, and she hangs on to hope the food supply will not be contaminated. Kreacher’s words ring in her head; straight down two corridors, then the first door on the left, behind a locked door will be the food, but other supplies will be found. The first door is found easily, but Ada’s hair bristles on the back of her neck. Fungi encapsulated much of the door handle, wrapping around the great oak and threateningly leaning towards her. The latex will protect her, she knows, but the risk leaves her questioning if this is worth it.
Down further, Emil stands at the door, shrouded by the setting sun. He looks like an angel, surrounded by holy fire. Her saving grace.
Yet, Emil is nothing like an angel. He is painfully human. A human who will starve if Ada cannot brave a darkened room. Thus, her hand grips the door, fungi springing around where she's placed it, and turns open the room. Immedietalhy, she turns to the side, breath caught in her throat. Two infected walk in front of her – thankfully, their faces are unfamiliar, half disguised by the growing mold on their features. One walks heavily, at a slant, weighed down by the infection, the other tumbles into a wall. With both relief and trepidation, Ada realizes they are blind. She must remind herself that they are friendly . They will not attack. Like the patients heavy in their psychosis, they have lost themselves to their mind. It is what she can assume, at least. In the past, they have not approached the pair, regardless of how infected they might be. They are no more than hollow shells, wandering about the place in no particular way. Ada has a journal thick with notes on them, but no pattern seems to appear amidst the letters. Stepping around their fraying bodies, Ada attempts to make as little noise as possible. The door up ahead is already ajar. A better alternative than it being rusted shut, but it still offers little hope.
“Emil!” She shouts it without thinking, a grin spread beneath her mask. The walls are lined with cans of food, and beyond that, fresh vegetables! Some of them have rotted, but the onions and potatoes have only begun to sprout. Heavy footsteps are hearing dashing down the hall, followed by a short yelp, before Emil is slimming the door the rest of the way open.
“Ada are you–”
“Oh, look Emil! We can have a feast! There should be flour and sugar here as well, we might even have something sweet tonight!”
The joy in her voice is unbridled, refusing to be calmed. It had been some time since they had a genuine meal, too concerned with preserving their stock at the asylum. Rations upon rations - first split with the others, and then less as everyone seemed to wander away. Now it was only Ada and Emil who would be sharing this supper. Emil bounced about the floor, already grabbing up bags of what he could. He was muttering something - more than likely food he felt like eating - and Ada hurried along to grab supplies. She kept in mind to not be too greedy, others may know of this location, but she still couldn’t help but snatch the remainder of wine from a darkened corner. Neither of them particularly had the taste for it, but others did. It seemed the raiders were more dangerous than the infection anyway.
There was a loud banging behind her and Emil’s bright eyes rounded upon hers; it seemed he had found a small cart of sorts, and placed the heavier bags in it. Happily, he swept the bottles from her hands, placing them gently between the sugar bags. His hands found hers again after that, bringing faux kisses to the red material where the back of her hand might be.
“We should get going, we’ll have plenty to unpack tonight.”
“And dishes to do… I forgot to clean them last time.”
Ada only laughed, not having the heart to scold him for such a simple thing. The asylum easily had silverware for thirty people. They could do the dishes once a month and be just fine. It was a waste of water regardless.
Grabbing one more stack, this time of carrots, Ada pushed open the storage door and allowed Emil through. He paused once more at the sight of the half beings roaming the room, but teetered on after a moment of pause. It sobered Ada, wearing off the temporary joy she had been granted. Emil was still struggling with the acceptance of the infection. He had hardly awoken from his sedation when the initial breakdown occurred, and grew his sanity in a relatively insane world. Life and death are difficult concepts for him, and Ada cannot simplify what she sees. She makes a note to add these two to her notes. It's a rather pathetic sight. Emil pushes through the door, waist hanging over the cart, despite knowing how easily it might flip. Ada follows after, giving small commands of where to go, and letting her flashlight guide them both. The sun has dipped down the hallway. It will be night by the time they reach the asylum. It’s worrying, for Ada can’t see properly without the light, and the raiders will be betting on the fact she will be using it. With the supplies they’ve now gathered, it’s a risk she’s unwilling to take.
“Emil, you know the way back, right?” He hums softly, eyes thrown over his shoulder in acknowledgment. They travel along the corners of buildings, in dark shadows, and pass several fungi-covered persons. Very few had caught on to their general lack of mind, most assumed them to be violent beasts. Such was the problem in listening to the media, and not seeking out one's own opinion.
Little Robbie had been the first to be infected. Too many hours playing outside in god knows what had finally taken its toll, and one day he arrived back, fingers fully black and reeking of necrosis. Further up on his arms, little buds had spread. The nurses who had taken care of him soon fell to the same infection, and the Asylum was put into quarantine. Ada had been lucky enough to be no more than a researcher, not properly licensed to care for injuries. It hadn’t stopped her from being safe, however, and she was one of the first to enforce wearing PPE with the patients. It is a less than pleasant thought process to be stuck inside of. Try as she might to take things day by day, her mind twists back to her co-workers. To little Robbie, who had been far too young to die in such a way. She made a mental note to visit him come morning, out in the little garden where the infected were taking up space. They seemed to thrive on the greenery; the ones further along fell along the roots of the trees, both keeping it alive and killing it all the same. Soon the fungi would spread to the roots, sucking away any nutrition the tree kept and starving it. The little bits of greenery in Metropolis had all ended up like this. Any food they might plant was sure to be infected, as the entire soil surely was–
Ada bumped straight into Emil’s back, letting out a short hiccup before pulling back and rubbing her nose. Though, it does little, as it just causes the plastic of her mask to gnash deeper into her skin.
“Are you okay, Ada?... We’re here…”
Looking up at the asylum is both welcome and unwelcome; It is not the home Ada wished for them to settle into, but it is what they had. She is thankful that she does not have to control her emotions behind this mask. Merely crinkling her eyes gives the appearance of a smile, and she rubs across Emil’s back in false soothing.
“Don’t worry, I was just thinking of recipes. Ones from home. I have forgotten more than I’d like to admit… I’m not so sure this meal will be good.”
“Anything's good as long as you’re there.”
It’s reassuring enough that Ada can release the tension in her body and set about the too-large kitchen to make their meal. It’s supplied solely by propane, thankfully. The asylum being out of date had its pros. They agreed on a hearty stew, drawing out the last bits of dried meat. Emil had done well. The potatoes and carrots were cut into even pieces. His hands had stopped their tremors, and he was more sure of himself as the days went by. Ada felt a flash of joy at such a simple thing. Little achievements. It was amazing, especially considering the situation they were currently in. She had expected regression, for him to become worse after the sedation wore off, but no such thing came.
Setting two thick bowls out, Ada hesitated about her mask. They hadn't cleaned their clothes yet, and the kitchen had many open doorways, several things could go wrong at this point.
Emil, however, had already sensed her worry, and whisked the bowls away, giggling as he half ran down the hallway. Ada followed after, shouting about spilling something and running in general. He stood in front of their room, heaving, bowls still intact. Their room was technically the cleanest area of the asylum. Ada had taken bleach to it near every night, ensured the room was without a window, and the bed they borrowed hadn’t been used to treat the infected. The thought of eating in such a clean room made her upset, but she opened the door for Emil, seeing as his hands were busy.
“Just this once. We can’t make it a habit to eat in here… Not with you, I still can’t believe you managed to get sauce on the ceiling .” Despite the harsh words, Ada’s tone was light, nearly amused with the short huff she let out.
“It was really good! They never let me eat stuff like that!!” Emil crooned in protest, heavily sitting down on the floor and threatening to drop her bowl. Ada merely raised her brow before bursting into a laugh. Emil makes a noise, shaking his head. “Ada’s food is the best. I won’t help next time, Ada can just cook it all.”
Ada steps behind him, wrangling the keys from her belt to unlock the back of his mask. They’re both starving, having been out all day. She questions taking her own off, with the way a red hue has taken over her face. Her food can’t be that good. It’s a compliment and an extra workload all in one sentence.
“How come? You cut everything so nice today, Emil, and it hardly took any time to make dinner. This is something we made together.” Emil doesn’t respond further, too busy stuffing his face full of stew. Ada watches him for a moment, enamoured and lovesick. Her dear Emil. She can’t imagine life without him, this life without him. He is the reason she continues on: The reason she wakes up in the morning, cleans out the rooms, and even has the motivation to continue her research on the infected. It’s all for him. The situation that Emil might turn haunts her nightmares, but it is something she must be ready for. She watches, peaceful, enjoying seeing him fulfilled. It’s one of the few things she can do for him. Let him eat his fill, then offer her bowl as well. Emil’s face is curled into a smile, nose dusted in stew. His hair has grown too long, dipping into the bowl, and Ada trails her eyes down the root of his neck, where curls spring. Something else feathers along his neckline, just below where bandages wrap his nape. It’s odd, now that Ada is looking at it.
Black. It’s black fungi. Wrapping around her lover's neck and spine.
Ada cannot stop the noise she makes, hands reaching out to Emil before she might think. Her mask is still firmly tied around her face, clothes thankfully still around due to their rush, but her own protection hardly matters when Emil is at risk of becoming one of those things .
Emil looks at her, eyebrow raised, but leans into the touch. Too innocent to assume Ada’s wrinkled brow is anything but his clothes being a mess, he exposes his neck further, a grin on his face. It is only when she brushes across the little sprouts that he yanks away. His face looks confused, hurt, as if Ada had yanked his hair. “Ada…? Did I have a tangle again?”
“Oh Emil.” Her hand covers her mouth without thinking, eyes doing their best not to tear up. “Does that hurt?”
Absent-mindedly, he rubs across the tender flesh.
“A few days. Just the bandages.”
Ada can do little more than nod. It must have been festering beneath his skin. When could he have done this, though? They make weekly outings, yes, but under Ada’s watchful gaze. Had he gotten into the gardens? He had always been fond of that little boy… but Ada had done her best to warn him of touching Robbie without gloves. As of now, it’s the only explanation. One Ada cannot blame him for. It is the luck of the draw. It was either going to be her or him. God was merely cruel enough to let it be him, to make her watch him suffer while she could do little to save him. If only this had happened later when Ada had more information, more research.
His name gets choked up in her throat as she attempts to say it, and Emil is looking at her worried, too worried for her liking. He was never meant to suffer. They were supposed to escape the asylum and head somewhere peaceful. “Emil. I need you to stay calm, okay? I need to take your bandages off to check something on your neck. Just be still. There you go, good boy.”
Emil has turned his back to her, calmed by her hand briefly in his, and the gentle tone of her voice. She must hide the strain. It won’t help to tell him immediately and have him freak out, so she gently coaxes more information out of him. First, she removed the thick collar around his neck. It comes apart with a click, as it often does in the evening. This is no more than a routine. One Ada’s hands are intimately familiar with.
“You said your neck has been hurting for a while, dear? Why didn’t you tell me? When did this all start?”
“Ada stays busy… It doesn’t hurt too much - just sensitive. Feels funny when you touch it.” He ponders for a minute, trying not to bristle as she unwraps the bandages further. As if gasping for breath, the fungi spread out along his shoulders, puffing into the air. “... I know I shouldn’t have… but. I went and visited Emma. In the back gardens. She got worse, Ada. Doesn’t speak any more. She hugged me. Like she used to. Big and warm. She was still warm, Ada…”
Ada cannot reply. There is not a proper word that can form between her lips, no sentence that will sound right. No scolding, no praise, no empathy, nothing can be done. Emil is infected due to her own research. Keeping them in the garden had been a kind of haven, she thought, so that they would not have to wander the sandy ruins of Metropolis. Sympathy had gotten nothing for her. It had led her only reason for living to an early death – and yet, not even death. He would roam the empty world until he collapsed. The thought leaves Ada’s hand shaking across his shoulders, accidentally feathering the skin there. Emil's shivers despite his skin being hot to the touch. Her research tells her enough, soon sickness will wrack his body, and then he will lose all motor control. His eyes will become marbled, like the pair they saw just hours earlier.
“You are warm too, Emil.”
“Ada,” He says it like he knows . Mildly, it’s a reassurance. That Ada doesn’t have to say it. That she doesn’t have to verbalize what terrifies her. “Your hands are cold, feels good.”
Oh, what is she without Emil? He looks back at her, eyes pleading and wide. It’s a request. One she knows will put doom upon her as well. Still, it is one she cannot deny. She removes her mask first, hand wrapping around the back of his neck, and leads him into a soft kiss. It’s brief, nothing more than skin upon skin. Emil helps her with her gloves after, the latex tight and clingy. It’s easy for the flesh of her hand to find his face, brushing past his cheek and into his curls. More fungi lies there, hiding. Emil flushes at the attention. It seems to have become a part of him, connected down to his very nerves. She knows better than to remove any of them. There’s no telling what it might do to him, or if it might damage him in some way. Reaching to the side of her hip, she takes a small key and turns it in the lock on Emil’s chest. The straps come off easy, leather flaps falling around his waist.
Ada has only gone so far as to unwrap his neck, it’s where the fungi are thickest and most developed. Beckoning him to sit closer, Ada allows her hands to slide between his skin and the bandages. They unravel easily. Their black tendrils fall, and Ada traces down each expanse of skin shown to her. His chest seems unaffected, not even so much as pockmarks forming across the pale skin. Ada takes a moment to settle on his chest. His heart thrums beneath his ribs, loud and ongoing. It’s reassuring. They are not dead yet. They have time, little as it might be. Ada does not rush her movements, only allowing her hands to move when Emil’s chest rises and falls. Down the slope of his chest to his abdomen, untying dressings as she goes. The skin there is far from soft. It’s a reminder of a past life, when the great walls of Metropolis scorned down upon Emil, and forced him into dangers that he can no longer express. Sprawling scars and bite marks litter the smooth muscle of his stomach and hips. He shudders after she brushes a particularly long one, trailing her index finger from his belly button all the way to his hip bone. This, too, was something they had done many times before. Ada knew of where each came from; that accursed fighting rink, mostly. The fungi do not dare to cling to the scarred flesh. It must be too dense for them to sink their roots into. Instead, they cling to the fat of his sides, the muscle along his shoulder blades, and the nerves of his neck. Emil lets out a particularly harsh sigh when she palms across the fungi on his hip. Ada’s eyes rush to meet his, worried she struck something similar to a nerve, instead she comes across Emil’s flustered face, his hands covering what he can.
“Forgive my curiosities, Emil. I didn’t intend to cause you discomfort.”
Quietly, he shakes his head, twisting so he can burrow into Ada’s neck. He winces, adjusting so that he doesn’t lay on the fungi. It is a peculiar feeling. Something familiar and distant all the same. How often is it that Emil lays curled in upon her? She rests her head upon his, her attention now turned to the fungi on his neck. When touched, it curls around her finger like a familial pet. Emil continues his shivering, twitching and curling away from the touch. She shushes a short apology once more, rubbing soothing lines over the clear expanse of his neck. Even the cold of her hand eventually yields to the heat he’s emitting. Perhaps it is her own fever spreading about her body.
If he is to be gone, Ada has no choice but to join him.