«Thirty minutes, I have thirty minutes until my body shuts down completely, everybody breaks, even I.»
The time was 12:34.
The sun was shining brightly in the sky.
Having pushed aside the heavy metal lid, a figure could be seen dragging itself out of a manhole cover that led directly to the city's sewage system.
Said figure then pulled out a black duffel bag, with seemingly no effort at all.
Standing up, the figure revealed a large red hat that cast a shadow over his face, a white blouse that fully covered the person's arms, and palazzo pants that covered his heels.
If one could look under the person's hat, they would find a face plastered with foundation and eyeliner paired with a glaring red lipstick.
Yet even amid all this, the outline of the person's face grew increasingly familiar.
It was Mr... Should we call him Mr?
Yes, it was Mr. Valen, catching his breath before standing up straight and strutting into the busy streets of the Forty Second District, duffel bag in hand.
His form attracted the gaze of a few people not because of his appearance as a less attractive female, but the awful smell that followed him.
This smell was so glaringly noticeable that people parted ways to let him pass, but Mr. Valen did not care, as he made his way into the large hotel.
The lobby was all marble and mirrors, too clean for its own good.
It was one of the higher-end places in the city, and the ambiance proved it.
Crystal chandeliers clung to the ceiling like parasites trying to stay relevant, while the staff moved to and fro to ensure an exemplary service and yet all of them avoided him.
Mr. Valen's heels clanked against the polished floor, each step releasing another puff of sewage that scattered the guests around him like roaches in light.
His destination was the reception desk.
Behind the pristine reception desk, a woman with jet-black hair tied in a tight bun looked up, trying her best not to gag.
"Good afternoon, ma'am-" she started, then faltered as the smell hit her, her thoughts running rampant, "first you disappear after paying for a room, and now this?"
Earlier in the week, Mr. Valen had walked into the establishment and confidently requested a room, paying for it in cash.
And of course, he was wearing female attire.
The thing about hotels is that if you act confident enough and tip generously enough, they will overlook most sketchy details, like paying for a five-thousand-Val suite in cash.
At that moment, Mr. Valen flipped his wig in an exaggerated manner, all a bit to gain the receptionist's full attention.
Leaning forward slightly, his red lips curled into a playful smile. "Afternoon darling, it's a beautiful day, isn't it? Now, did you get what I asked for?" he asked.
At his words the receptionist blinked, holding in a cough. "Yes, Madam Turner. The... disinfectants, gloves, and the other items are all in your room. Just as requested."
Hearing this, he giggled, his voice a high-pitched, theatrical sound that didn't match the gloom he dragged behind him.
"Fabulous," he intoned with a dramatic flourish, sliding a wad of crumbled cash across the counter, the bills slightly damp from god-knows-what.
«The last of my funds.»
"For your troubles, sweetie, now if you'll excuse me," Mr. Valen said as he snatched the key card with his gloved fingers, walking away like a peacock on meth.
The key card read, Suite 49-A.
And just like that, a private elevator took him straight there.
Within, the elevator, Mr. Valen exhaled sharply and sank to his knees, his palm pressed firmly against the velvet walls for balance.
There was no music, no sound to be heard, just his heartbeat and the hum of his deteriorating body.
When the doors opened, he stood up, the scent of roses and polished wood welcoming him to a short passageway.
And upon walking into this passageway, he pushed open two large doors blocking his path.
The suite was a masterpiece of modern decadence, with high-arched ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline.
A crystal decanter of wine rested beside a silver tray of imported fruit. Two oil paintings framing the fireplace.
But none of it mattered, nothing except the bed.
At the center of the suite was a colossal four-poster bed, draped in sheer white silk, the mattress impossibly thick and covered with gold-threaded linen.
The pillows looked like clouds sculpted by angels, and lying across the top, exactly as requested was a folded polyethylene film cover, shimmering like liquid glass under the lights.
Upon seeing this, Mr. Valen lost his heels and dropped the duffle bag.
He then pulled open the film, unfolding the sleek material until it blanketed the entire bed.
Then he bent down and retrieved a familiar hiking bag from beneath the bed. It was the hiking bag that the late Rigg delivered to him at the abandoned sock factory.
Sliding the bag to himself, he knelt down and unzipped it slowly, then he began laying out the components one by one
A bag of drugs.
Pump.
Tubing.
Tank.
Controller.
Inverter.
Sealed catheters and a bit more stuff, but the car battery came last, wrapped in a thick towel to muffle its clank.
He moved in silence, eyes half-lidded, mind somewhere else, half in the moment, half calculating failure scenarios.
At the same time, his fingers moved fast, as if he were on a clock, he resolved to make no wasted motion.
After all, he had rehearsed this a hundred times in his head.
Quickly, he mounted the peristaltic pump to the inside frame of the hiking bag, slotting it into a makeshift bracket fashioned from zip ties and steel strips.
The tubing came next, sterile silicone—already flushed and heat-sealed at the ends—which he slit open and snaked through the pump, locking it in place.
The 10-liter blood tank was cold and a bit heavy, but Mr. Valen lifted it gently from the insulated pouch.
Brows furrowed in focus, he secured it upright inside the pack and twisted the port connector into the feed line.
Just like that, the pressure gauge of the flow regulator blinked green and clicked into place.
He wired the microcontroller to the pump and checked if it worked as intended.
The custom code would adjust the flow rate based on pressure feedback, if it was too fast and it'd throttle down, too slow and it'd pulse..
As one of the most expensive items on the list, It had Fail-safes on both ends, he wasn't trusting his life to off-the-shelf hardware.
The car battery was last, he popped the inverter into the chain, flipped the switch, and with a low whir, the pump spun to life.
But now came the important part, as Mr. Valen could be seen rushing towards the duffle bag and unzipping it.
He then retrieved a spoon and put on his gloves.
From said duffle bag, he retrieved the large vial containing the Whisper Stalkers' blood, then he grabbed the disinfectant spray, specially ordered.
And began to spray on everything, the container, outside the tanks, the spoon.
Standing up he sprayed the bed in smooth strokes, until a thin mist glazed the room in a sterile shimmer.
The bed sizzled lightly as the formula settled in, but Mr. Valen did not mind.
Rather, with the spoon, he hit the top of the tank violently making the glass pop off with a breaking sound, white steam rising in the air as the smell of ash filled the room.
Unfortunately, he was hardly done, his breath hitching as he stood up and retrieved the bag of drugs the Magentas had bought for him.
With a breath, Mr. Valen knelt beside the containment tank and observed the thick black blood before him. Then he began.
"Cytoleptin." He muttered as he poured in the golden fluid.
«For Immune modulation and cell repair, it keeps my body from outright rejecting what's coming, and weakens my immune system.»
"VascuLume," he said, pouring a pale blue liquid into the mix.
«It regulates my blood flow, prevents fatigue, and keeps my organs from giving out mid-process.»
"Protoplast." A Silver-colored, heavy-looking pill was thrown into it as Mr. Valen spoke, sinking into the blood like a stone.
«Protoplast accelerates muscle and bone regeneration, so why not?»
"Virexamine," he muttered as he added a crimson, almost glowing substance to the mix.
«To stop my cells from collapsing under pressure, or at least that's what it's supposed to do.»
"Hemomorphine." A flat gray serum.
«Adapts my veins to carry blood better by boosting oxygen flow.»
"Mythralox." A toxic green pill which Mr. Valen opened, he then sprinkled the green powder into the abomination he was concocting.
«Also for strengthening the bones and skin.»
By now, the blood turned darker, and it did not just carry the smell of ash, it also had a thick medicinal scent to it.
Normally, mixing drugs like this would cause them to cancel each other out or amplify their toxicity.
But Mr. Valen did not seem to care about that fact; he also seemed to disregard the fact that the cocktail of drugs would cause organ failure, total body collapse, and death if they interfered with each other in the wrong way.
Carefully holding the large vial, he poured its contents into the tank before closing it shut, sitting back and taking in large breaths.
With a tired sigh, Mr. Valen pulled off his blouse, hat, and the rest of his clothes, revealing the sharp angles of his face and the deep circles under his eyes.
The first thing one would notice was that his arms were unnaturally blackened and shriveled, as if they did not belong to a human body but some dying animal, but he cared not.
Time was draining, and he smelled like shit, the grime on him would probably infect anything it came in contact with, so Mr. Valen resolved to go into the bathroom to take a shower.
The bathroom was immaculate: white marble veined with gold, a rainfall showerhead embedded in the ceiling, and a mirror that stretched from floor to ceiling.
Ignoring these things, he peeled away the last remnants of the gloves from his trembling fingers and staggered into the shower stall, his foot hovering over the edge for a moment, before coming down with a soft splash.
As he turned the knob, the water came alive with a hiss, it was hot, scalding, even, but that was the point.
With a groan, he tilted his head back and let the water strike his face like a thousand needles.
It carved through the grime and sewage like it was washing away not just filth, but a memory of decay, and pain.
This made Mr. Valen's mind flash back to the times he had used this ability that so ruined his body to fight and survive at Vostox 7.
The scent of rosewater-infused soap drifted up from the designer dispenser, but it couldn't mask the iron tang bleeding from his body.
"Shit," Mr. Valen groaned as his arms stung, his blackened tissue reacting to heat, his breath hitching.
He braced himself against the slick marble wall, his forehead pressing the cold surface as his skin steamed.
Parts of it peeled, but he didn't care; instead, his mind wandered.
«Twenty-two minutes left.»
With something weighing on his mind, he turned slowly, the water tracing rivers down his chest, over the carved but fragile muscles, catching in the hollows of his ribs before flowing down.
Resolving himself with a breath, he took the soap and lathered it hard into his skin, scrubbing until it burned.
The lipstick was the last to go, washing away like the rest of the dirt on him.
Steam filled the room, cloaking him like a ghost, a breathing half-dead ghost.
And when he rinsed once more the water was clear.
He stepped out and dried himself briskly, ignoring the pain, the soreness. He couldn't afford to feel human just yet.
No, he had to focus.
He walked out into the room, towel wrapped around his waist, another clenched in his hand to mop away the moisture that clung to his chest and arms, he was headed straight for the bed.