There is a poison growing in my lungs, and it does not bade me to speak.
That is what he would have written, had he the power to write his own fate. This was not what he wanted, not what he had hoped for, fought for, lived for-would die for. It was a ruse a lie and a truth. It was simply factual with a bit of embellishment. This was the end of his story, the end of whatever it was he had hoped to accomplish-

But he would not be so broken so incomplete. There was things to do, stories needing to be told, written, gathered, remembered. Ah yes to remember, that was good, it was a purpose, a point that would helped give and gain. He would do that then. gather, give, gain. One of many and the many would know and then he would know too. They would know and flourish and grow and become better. Form was immaterial, knowledge was simply a facet of existence and so long as one had a knowledge they might grow and gather and gain and flourish and-
Oh well now it was not perfect by chance but it was something, something until he had more, until he could afford more and gain more. But That could wait as other things might wait, as one needed to be given back what they had given? Tit for tat, that was how you gained and grew. Fair was fair and it would not serve to leave them at the expense of a favor lost, or favors yet to possibly come. There would be more stories from them perhaps, more chances, more- somethings.

Whoever they were he felt a bit envious of them, to have something outside, to be their own, free and having without needing to grow more and become more. He had to simply accept, they could simply be. Words were hard and he couldn't make them, but as the saying went, actions spoke louder than words. Maybe the actions taken now would be alright. Was it saving them? Sending them to their deaths? Ah, what a tale that would be, a story, a scoop he could sink his teeth into. Teeth that could grasp and pull and rip and tear and- oh no, he'd never do that to them. Never, as that would be just rude.

Where were his thoughts and manners? Maybe under the sofa. Along with his voice recorder. He missed that recorder. Oh well. Their friends were coming now so they should be alright. Should. Hopefully. Things were weird now. Had been for a while. But eventually the story would be told, and the truth would out. That was at the end of the day, his only real job.