Reynard wanted to die. But the tech wouldn’t let him.
He had seen Scott. He had acquired Scott’s fluids, and the tech would be able to reproduce it, so that he could put it in a weapon or device, and use it against him and his damn husband. He already had plans for a drone on his desk that would hunt down Scott and stalk him merely by his scent.
Scott had found the implant, it seemed, because he wasn’t as receptive as he was a few weeks ago. Obviously Grimaulkin didn’t find it, because he was scared of tech. Someone new must be on his team who knew tech.
And Reynard didn’t get to where he was without knowing things.
The vomiting started three days after seeing Scott. At first, he thought it was bad food. But the vomiting didn’t stop.
Then, the diarrhea. He took the day off of work and went to his own workshop. He plugged in the tech he kept to help with diluting viruses and other parasites in his organic parts.
Then, the smell.
He noticed his skin had been turning blue, meaning blood wasn’t getting to the surface. He saw on his arm dark splotches. His hand wouldn’t close, it was swollen. He plugged in a tech in his palm, and it spat out pus that smelled like rotten cabbage.
He vomited again.
Thornblood was no help. His spells were simplistic, his tinctures archaic. Reynard believed that the man didn’t want him to heal.
Nearly bedridden, his extremities swollen with pus, he kept desperately plugging in the tech that would heal him from this virus. Instead, the tech kept him alive, in pain, and slowly, ever so slowly, organically turning black.