Something is wrong. You are not sure what it is, but you also are not sure of anything at all.

You are surrounded by bright cysts. Their swarm of blinking diodes form the only illumination in the little dead room— no, no, there is some moonlight passing through the glass block windows that sit hugging the yellowed crown molding; the fluid that dribbles down your palms glints pleasantly in that albedo— and you are surrounded by bright cysts.

Their million eyes in green and blue stare at you, and you stare back at their indiscernible purpose. You are sure they are important, but their meaning has escaped you and you know only that something is wrong.

Something is wrong.

You realize now you are low, low to the ground, and you move to right yourself, and you scream of pain you have not felt in many years, but you are nonetheless successful. You stumble to the desk (it should have been neatly kept, but because something is wrong, the Pilot Precise V7 rolling ball pens are scattered as bowling pins and an empty mug lies on its side, corpselike) and plant your claws on it for support.

What is wrong?
You want to lie back down next to the thing at the foot of the operating table, but you know you mustn’t.
What is wrong?
You think you can hear God laughing.
What is wrong?
A diode blinks at you. It ain't no rat.
What is wrong?
Your breaths were heavy, but now they are sharp and short, little ha-ha-ha in/exhalations like a rough road under their tyres.
What is wrong?
The cold is biting.
What is wrong?
What is wrong?
What is-
Breathe. You are thinking in spirals. Pointless.

Your claws are slipping on the laminate. You focus on repositioning them, finding just the right way to align them like so, matching them along the faux wood grain like so, and eventually your exhalations are not feeling so malignant.

Oll korrect.

Gingerly, you seat yourself, and the room begins to exist as a scene again and not a deluge of junk visual data.
The bright cysts– servers– against the far wall are in disarray. One of the shelves has toppled, its rubber connective tissue stretching taut to its sisters.

Ah, there, a gouge. Your eyes trace its path from the servers, through the wall of meticulously arranged tools, and down to the thing lying at the foot of the operating table.

The utility golem sits collapsed next to it, half-sludged. There is no life in its form, and you are relieved at this for reasons beyond memory.

God, this is a mess. So much time spent perfecting this layout... You... You need to start somewhere. Start fixing it.

The mop and broom are upstairs.

Oll korrect.

You rise from your seat and feel your socks absorbing the warm fluid that has pooled beneath you. It is scented of iron.

You step over the thing lying at the foot of the operating table and begin your ascent, and every step is a death, and whether blinks or hours pass you do not know, but you remember where you keep the Mistolin, and eventually you are back in the dead room with your tools of sanctification, and you will fix this.

Servers are righted, cables carefully replaced and reattached; breakers are flipped and fuses replaced; little white shards of ceramic and collagen are swept up and collected; pens are returned to their cup.

Surfaces are sanitized, floors are mopped, and with some effort, the remains of the golem are interred in a Hefty Ultra Strong trash bag,
and yet this place has not been restored, and your heel hits the thing lying at the foot of the operating table, and you are beset with a loathsome clarity, for you have dusted and polished and rearranged and fixed, but you cannot clean this.

You cannot return it to its proper place.

Its head is deflated, membrane collapsed under its own weight. It was hit with such force...

Something is wrong.

Where is the mindcore? If the mindcore persists, then there is a chance. This can be fixed. This can be oll korrect.

The cavity is empty, but...

Something warm-wet rolls down your forehead, and a horrible thing happens then, for while you do not remember, you begin to wonder, and so you raise a claw to your temple, and you do not meet hair or skin, but something smooth and slick, and it comes away coated in blood.
In blood.

It is scented of iron.

Faintly, you hear a knock at the door.
You need to go:
something is so
very,
very
wrong.