[Arknights] The Originium Gambit

Part 12: The Devil Incarnate

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

I'm editing this on my phone rn because I closed my laptop and don't want to bother opening it back up.

This chapter is supposed to be published last night, same time with my new story (you should check that out) but fate had other ideas and decided to throw me more excel spreadsheets i need to tinker around and i am slowly going insane notice how I'm not capitalizing the 'i'?

Anyways, what's that new story? Well let me make a plug about my other story in the beginning of this chapter.

It's my take on Earth meets Arknights, except instead of the futuristic Earth from the 2040s or whatever, it's in the middle of the Cold War. I want to tell you more but you should check out my profile for it.

It's called '[Arknights] INTERSTELLAR COLD [Pilot]'

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Hopeless and stranded-a feeling that gnaws deeper than loneliness, deeper even than the shadow of death. It's a peculiar emptiness, one I suspect you're all too familiar with.

Sigh...

Do you know what I'm talking about? Really know?

After what felt like an eternity of Silence poking, prodding, and testing every inch of me, she handed me off like a package marked "Handle with Care"-except this time, it wasn't my body under scrutiny but my mind. Psychological evaluation, she'd called it.

And here I am, an hour deep into this sterile purgatory. Yes, you heard me. An entire hour.

I glance at you, my expression deadpan, weighed down by boredom. First, they made me jump through their medical hoops-testing my blood, scanning my arm, MRI scans, scrutinizing every crystalized imperfection like I'm some prized artifact. Now, it's this.

A single fluorescent light hums overhead, casting its harsh glow on the room's clinical gray walls. The table in front of me holds a stack of forms, a pen with a cap chewed to oblivion, and a clock that ticks so loudly it feels like it's mocking me.

You'd think a cutting-edge landship could spring for better accommodations-or at least a coffee machine.

I lean back in the uncomfortable metal chair, idly tapping my fingers on the table. "Psychological testing," I mutter under my breath, voice dripping with disdain. "What's next? A séance?"

The door slid open with a hiss, and in hobbled a Kuranta who looked like he'd just crawled out of a dumpster fire-and decided to stay for breakfast. His disheveled coat clung to his lanky frame, and the cane in his hand clicked against the floor as he limped in with the energy of someone who resented the very concept of movement.

His gaze swept over me, a masterclass in disappointment. He didn't just look at me; he assessed me, like a bargain bin item someone regretted picking up but couldn't be bothered to put back.

"Why are you infected?" he asked, voice as flat as the floor he was so begrudgingly walking on.

"Originium exposure," I replied, matching his disinterest with my own.

He rolled his eyes so hard I half expected them to make a full lap and roll back into place. "Oh, brilliant deduction, Captain Crystal Arm. What's next, you gonna tell me water is wet? Try again."

Before I could respond, he dropped into the chair across from me, propped his cane against the table, and raised four fingers. "How many fingers am I holding up?" he asked, his tone practically begging me to punch him.