The hush of the hallway pushes down on them, decades of rot and the tang of green in the air. It's impossible to see out of the closed windows, because ivy has crawled over them, making a curtain of soft jade light. The hallways stretches out before them, the surgical suites of a hospital.
It's quiet, but the lights are on, and down the hallway there is the stirring murmur of indistinct voices. The smell of chemicals.
There are x-rays illuminated in a light box on the wall. The skull of a young teenager, growths all over the brain. Circled, notated. Papers with test results, and pictures and diagrams of a bitten arm, covered with spores. The words that jump out are mutation and removal of specimen and vaccine and cure.
Ellie is suddenly barefoot, looking pale and small in a faded green hospital gown -- younger, muchyounger, much less scarred.
Her arm. Her x-rays. The ring of teeth marks is right there on her otherwise unscarred, un-tattooed forearm, surround by a halo of spores and growths.
"It's your choice," says a soft voice at Ellie's side, thick with emotion and an edge of Texas twang. It's low, older, a bearded man with salt and pepper hair and a gruff bearing. Fatherly. He reaches both hands out to take her by the shoulders, look her in the eyes. "But you don't have to do this. You know that, right? We can tell them to find someone else."
"There is no one else," Ellie answers him, her voice quiet, but firm. It breaks only at the edges. "It has to be me."
The edges of the man's mouth tighten, devastation in his eyes -- there is no doubt about what this means. Whatever this is, Ellie is not coming out the other side of it.
"It's my choice," she says again. Her voice is brittle. "You can't take that from me, Joel."
Her hands close on the front of his shirt, and the look in her eyes is not a little girl's. Her eyes are her own, the Ellie of Riftwatch, of Thedas, the Ellie who has lost. Who carries unfathomable anger and grief, and keeps going anyway.
"Not again."
The edges of the room flicker, and fracture and reform. Ellie pulls away from him, wraps her hand around his and holds tight.
Joel's eyes change -- something softer, and suddenly far more sinister.
"It's your choice, babygirl," he says, as Ellie turns to lead them down the hallway. He keeps his hand wrapped around hers. The words seem to reverberate around them, a whisper of unreality.
Ellie's Dream
The hush of the hallway pushes down on them, decades of rot and the tang of green in the air. It's impossible to see out of the closed windows, because ivy has crawled over them, making a curtain of soft jade light. The hallways stretches out before them, the surgical suites of a hospital.
It's quiet, but the lights are on, and down the hallway there is the stirring murmur of indistinct voices. The smell of chemicals.
There are x-rays illuminated in a light box on the wall. The skull of a young teenager, growths all over the brain. Circled, notated. Papers with test results, and pictures and diagrams of a bitten arm, covered with spores. The words that jump out are mutation and removal of specimen and vaccine and cure.
Ellie is suddenly barefoot, looking pale and small in a faded green hospital gown -- younger, much younger, much less scarred.
Her arm. Her x-rays. The ring of teeth marks is right there on her otherwise unscarred, un-tattooed forearm, surround by a halo of spores and growths.
"It's your choice," says a soft voice at Ellie's side, thick with emotion and an edge of Texas twang. It's low, older, a bearded man with salt and pepper hair and a gruff bearing. Fatherly. He reaches both hands out to take her by the shoulders, look her in the eyes. "But you don't have to do this. You know that, right? We can tell them to find someone else."
"There is no one else," Ellie answers him, her voice quiet, but firm. It breaks only at the edges. "It has to be me."
The edges of the man's mouth tighten, devastation in his eyes -- there is no doubt about what this means. Whatever this is, Ellie is not coming out the other side of it.
"It's my choice," she says again. Her voice is brittle. "You can't take that from me, Joel."
Her hands close on the front of his shirt, and the look in her eyes is not a little girl's. Her eyes are her own, the Ellie of Riftwatch, of Thedas, the Ellie who has lost. Who carries unfathomable anger and grief, and keeps going anyway.
"Not again."
The edges of the room flicker, and fracture and reform. Ellie pulls away from him, wraps her hand around his and holds tight.
Joel's eyes change -- something softer, and suddenly far more sinister.
"It's your choice, babygirl," he says, as Ellie turns to lead them down the hallway. He keeps his hand wrapped around hers. The words seem to reverberate around them, a whisper of unreality.
"It's your choice."