Welcome to Gaia! ::

The last thing he remembered was being off island. Some random patrol that ultimately led him to stumbling upon a group of Horsemen. Outnumbered, Zascha had put up as much of a fight as he could. Barely making it to a nearby outpost where he had finally collapsed from his injuries.

From there it was brief flashes of conciousness. Unfamiliar voices. Bright lights. Pain. A flood of medicine to dull it.

When he was finally able to open his eyes long enough to get a glimpse of the room he was in he sighed heavily. Everything hurt. It hurt to breath. It hurt to just lay there. Someone was there though, he could tell from the blur in the corner of his eye. "Harlow...?" His voice was hoarse and dry.

A frown tugged at the corner of his lips. She had probably been here when he was unconscious.

His head was still ringing. And the room seemed to begin a slow spin as his brain tried to put together the words being spoken to him. Zascha couldn't help but laugh. A painful laugh. "Death Division. Only slight ironic."

But it was to be expected. To answer questions of this nature once he had regained enough life back in him to do so. "Zascha Firsov. Moon division. Trainee."

"Hard to kill I guess." Leaning on his left arm, Zascha moved to position himself in a sitting position. It hurt like a b***h but he preferred not to have this conversation laying on his back.

An eyebrow twitched at the 'Mr.' part tacked onto his name.

He tried to recall just exactly what happened. Bits and pieces came to him but the entire situation wouldn't play out. "As far as what I remember....I was on patrol. And it would be my luck to stumble upon a group of Horsemen. We fought, I was outnumbered. They beat the crap out of me and I somehow managed to evade being captured like some poor sob. After that all I remember is brief moments of consciousness and bright lights." It wasn't easy to admit he had gotten beaten up pretty bad by the Horsemen but he wasn't going to sugar coat it. It was what it was.

He was a trainee after all.

"No names. From the way they looked I would assume War or Famine. I don't know a lot about them." Which was probably a bad thing for Zascha. He had never interacted with them before.

The most he knew were vague notes and references.

The way Ripley glanced around was a bit suspicious. But when he drew the privacy curtain a red flag flew up in the back of Zascha's mind. He didn't like this feeling at all.

Sitting up the best he could, he stared at the Death hunter. Green eyes focused only on him. He didn't want to be suspicious but this was a person from the Death division. As far as Zascha knew when they were around nothing good particularly came from it. Especially if they were at your bedside.

"No...." He had a few friends around in Deus but nobody worth bothering to tell that he was in the infirmary.

Perhaps he had misjudged Ripley's motive. Whatever motive it was. For a second the alarm bells were ringing in his head but he was probably just being paranoid.

Narcotics tended to do that to you.

Still, there was something in the other Hunter's voice that was a bit concerning, but he didn't fight when the needle was stuck into his arm. He'd rather the pain go away. He'd rather sleep.

His body twitched slightly as the sedative began to take its hold. Eyes lidding half way as his muscles began to relax, his mind clouding. But a fire burned in the back of his mind. A distant scream that clawed at him. "Shut up Gothsmog. I'm trying to sleep."

Zascha collapsed, no more than a puppet, convulsing. For a moment perhaps, he had fleeting thoughts, escaping memories of what he might have been - and then nothing.

From the mask, green tendrils began to expand, outwards, burying into Zacha's back, arms, legs, almost parasitic in nature. They squirmed, digging deeper into flesh, before disappearing entirely under the skin, as the mask simply dissolved.

The vessel opened his eyes. They seemed lackluster. Dead.

"This body is weak." It was said in a monotone voice, addressed to Ripley. "I need something stronger." He raised one hand: it was already beginning to decay, turning a grotesque black, flesh rapidly dissolving into bone.