Nearly a day without sleep now; same location as before. I am well enough to be on the move again. Why am I staying here, spending precious time and effort building and rebuilding this clinic's tattered defenses, to defend these people who seem to not be taking any initiative to defend themselves, when I could be running the streets again on my solo quest to save the city?
It is senseless on the surface, yet I feel compelled to stay and help them. Why? Guilt over their plight, guilt by association with my employer? Or do I stay awake out of fear of going to sleep and waking up ... altered; arising as something unnatural, not-me?
My original mission, before I started writing, before I was actually hurt by one of my targets, was to act as an agent of change, "armed" (as it were) with syringes full of the roiling golden chemical compound that my employer assured us was an effective antidote to this plague. I am only now realizing how far I've strayed from that purpose -- gone to ground, when I obviously function better running free.
Reminded of my own mortality, fearing the change, I am already changed.
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