FaultLine: A Call Of Duty Zombies Fanfiction

THIRTEEN

I want to thank all of you who are still reading this story, I know I've been late at updating but from now onwards I would try my best to finish this. Thanks a lot again!

3rd Person Point of View.

It was very out of ordinary to meet his other self, the Doctor pondered and it was just obtuse to get the blood vials, but he knows that what he is doing is right, but still, why couldn't he look at his self in the eyes...

He was afraid.

'Yes, it's all your fa—

He clenched his teeth shut, tossing away the voices aside.

The voices have begun hampering him almost all the time, most of this is the effect of 115 but... The frequency of the voices has increased to an alarming level, he feared for how much long his mind could take in.

He exhaled, calming himself

Till now he had met many different types of people, many of whom were cheated or killed by him, he never felt guilty because none of it matters, this him, his body, all of it would soon be gone. Richtofen wouldn't change a single thing though; it was all exactly the way he wanted.

He can't help it; it's his destiny, an unfair sacrifice, a burden.

The Doctor turned the faucet on and cold water flowed like a silver strand of ribbon, his hands cupped to collect water and it stung the small cuts that adorned his filthy hands, he despised it. Slowly and carefully he rubbed his hands together to scoop out dirt and blood from the crevices between his fingers. His hands were bony and tanned, knuckles white as he clenched and unclenched his hands, feeling in the rigidity of his callous fingers.

Richtofen was inside his tiny lavaratory, a tiny shelf and a whole piece of glass with a single crack stared back at him. The bath had a shower which seldom needed fixing and chipped tiles coated the womb of the room. He was in his light blue shirt with a few buttons opened. The season seemed never to change but he was not complaining he loved lightning; it was a wonder in itself.

With calm hands, clean of any blood or dirt, he swiped the blade above his lips, carving away any stubble and creating a perfectly trimmed pencil moustache. He cleaned the blade under the faucet and was back at sculpting his facial hair. He checked his handiworks in the mirror and judged his face, with his tired and weary eyes he stared at his self; a generous forehead, hair cropped at the sides and swiped the top back with hair wax. The wax was rationed with his other scavenged supply, a toothbrush, a steel comb, some rubbing cologne etc His face was fine, as he assumed, a cold exterior to a disturbed mind.

Oh how his face betrayed his being...

The sound of the faucet bleeding heavily and the sound of his own breath were unbearably loud.

'Look at you! So ugly...' He stood there, cold in his tracks, unable to ignore the voices in his head.

'Pathetic...'

'Weak...'

Richtofen clasped his hands on his ears, the voices becoming louder than ever.

'KILL HER.' It was so simple, so effortless... he could do it.

He could finish her...

He should finish her.

Did Anya think she could keep secrets from him? Oh, no...

He can read her like an open book.

He knew... He knew she was from another reality, very different than his, very different. It scared him yet made him angry for she could ruin his plans, a hindrance to the cycle.