Memoirs of a RAFian

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXX (1,420): "Everything Must Go!" -- The Giving Compulsion is cast.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWO:
Escapism and Divide

Cloak was back in his room, the one he grew up in ever since he was nine-years-old. Only it seemed more cavernous, and prison-like, almost as if it was within the Oblivion Gate. The room was wide and spacious, yet confining and oppressive. It was almost as if he was at the bottom of a deep well.

He was actually a few years younger, feeling horribly about himself. Feeling as if he was trapped, without anyway out. That he'd be trapped there forevermore, with his mother serving as his jailor and not his mother. She never had a kind word from him ever since he stopped being a cute kid -- and even then they were few and far between. He was said upon his bed, legs pressed close to his chest, with his arms wrapped around them. His head was laid upon his knees, as he sang in a quiet murmur.

"I guess I have to face,
That in this awful place,
I shouldn't show a trace . . .
Of doubt."

He lifted his head, and his feline fur was stained with tears. This wasn't a home. Especially after Sage had passed on, his mother had become more . . . harsh. She no longer had to fear reprisals from her father, who Cloak was absolutely sure would not have approved of her abusive actions.

But he still felt trapped, with only one possible, socially unacceptable exit. And it was an exit he didn't want to take, but it was the only way he saw out of this prison. The only way to escape this pain, this deep emotional pain he felt deep within his heart and soul. He felt so trapped and helpless . . .

"But, pulled against the grain,
I feel a lot of pain,
That I would rather do . . .
Without."

This room seemed to grow darker and colder. The frigid darkness seemed to be reaching within and touching every part, every facet of his being. Chilling him to his core, but this cold caused a certain lethargy in all parts of him that he touched. It was becoming more and more difficult to see a point in it all. It was making it seem like living was nothing but pain . . .

"I'd rather be free-ee-ee, free-ee-ee, free . . .
I'd rather be free-ee-ee, free-ee-ee, free . . .
Free-ee-ee, free-ee-ee, free . . ."

Suddenly, the room became a dark void, with the spot where Cloak sat was silhoetted. as Cloak covered his face in his knees again, as he uttered the last two words.

"From there."

At this point, he awoke, and kicked his feet over the side of his wrought iron bed with its navy blue sheets and comforter. He ironed his face with his hands, disappointed and upset with himself. He was supposed to be over this. He was supposed to have put this stuff behind him. He was supposed to have moved on from this.

Why couldn't his dreams let it go?

***

"The games are god awful," said a boy, about thirteen or fourteen. He was extremely salty at some bombshell news revealed about a favorite gaming franchise of his. To say he was a bit hysterical about it, even about three weeks or so after this news came out.

"The games aren't done yet," said hiss friend, who looked slightly older but not by much. He also looked a bit irritated, as this was clearly a circular conversation that they have been through several times before within the last week. "They don't even hit shelves f another four months."

"That's no excuse, Michael," the other boy replied back, waspishly. He had whipped around to face his boy with a hostility that was wholly unnecessary. Michael just looked at him with a weariness that clearly said that this friendship was on the rocks. "They cut half of the monsters in the game!"

"You don't know it's half, Dexter," Michael said, with a patience that far exceeded most people. "The game is still being worked on."

"And you don't know that it isn't half. Or more!" Dexter spat, sounding slightly hysterical. Michael said nothing, but his patience was starting to wane.

"It's a game, Dexter, it's not the end of --" Michael said, sounding older than he was. This very circular conversation was aging him, he thought. Dexter hadn't listened to his friend (a very tenuous use of the word at the given moment), and plowed straight on with his angry tirade against the game developer.

"Who knows what they're going to take away next? Breeding your monsters? Their special abilities? The alternate colorings?" Dexter ranted, sounding rather hysterical.

"You're not going to even use any of your old ones in the story of the game, they're just going to sit on their farms and --" Michael pointed out, but, again, was ignored. He was starting to get tired of this.

"And the graphics are atrocious!" he continued. And Michael rolled his eyes, but Dexter didn't see. "Absolutely unacceptable!"

"The games don't come out for another four months," Michael repeated. He was tired of having to poke holes through Dexter's hysterical theatrics. It was the kind of thing that really old, really fast. But, of course, th point was ignored and cast aside, unaddressed and summarily dismissed. "Dude, calm down."

"Not to mention that this game isn't as groundbreaking as they promised it to be!" he said, garnering some harsh shushes from the other library patrons, but Dexter was not at all embarrassed by this.

"Dude. They may have moved to a new console, but they never promised for it to be groundbreaking -- you just chose to interpret it that way." Michael said, in an angry hiss. He had finally had enough. His patience had been tried too much, had been stretched too taut, to the breaking point. And it broke. "The graphics haven't been finalized yet, so they're a little lacking. So what? They'll look different upon release. And, yes, you won't have access to all the monsters. SO WHAT?! You don't even use all of them. And, besides, there's nearly a thousand of them in any case."

"They can just delay --" Dexter said, but this time Michael interrupted him.

"No! They can't just delay the games." Michael said, not caring  he was raising his voice. "The games' release coincides with the anime and TCG. And probably other time constraints and other obstacles that you're just not privy to. But, despite your hysterics, your theatrics, and your incessant whining, I am still going to enjoy these games. I will not allow you saltiness to ruin that."

"You can't get these games!" Dexter said, forcefully. But he was pretty much a twig and his scope of threatening others was rather narrow. "That will just validate them to make more bad games!"

Michael made a muffled scream of frustration, and stormed out after informing Dexter that they were no longer friends, leaving Dexter to stand there huffing and stewing in his anger, until he disappeared into the shelves.

SOURCE SONG: https://youtube.com/watch?v=mFwR1kLlgpk

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXI (1,421): "Grimoire No More" -- The Grimoire is destroyed.

New chapter.

CHAPTER THREE:
Fuming and Infected

Dexter was idly looking at the spines of books, all with titles and no authors. "Macchiatos, Planets, and Other Alternatives to Necromancy", Popularity, My Butt, and Other Round Things, and "Cake, the End of the World, and Other Signs of the End of the World" were the only titles he read, but didn't take in the meaning of. He was just fuming so much, idly reading the names of the books around him in this dark corner of the library.

A thick book with a red spine and green lettering, "Boy Bands, Hate, and Other Skullduggeries".

He thought that Michael understood. He thought Michael was smarter than this. What they were doing with these games was completely unacceptable, and far too many people would buy the games. Which would do nothing big prove to them that they didn't need to make, in his view, quality games. His anger was now simmering, but still potent to flare up.

A thin blue volume with orange lettering, "Boys, Boyfriends, and Other Reasons No One Will Talk To Me".

He had been with the game franchise from the very beginning (or as early as he could have been, as the franchise was over twenty years old at this point) and they repay his franchise loyalty like this. They should have put all the monsters in the game. It was inexcusable not to. He would not have complained if it was just a little laggy (this was a lie -- he would have), and it should have taken advance of the full amount of allotted space. But they didn't, and they didn't because they were, in his view, lazy.

A moderate-sized yellow book with purple lettering, "Honor Roll, the Sun, and Other Loose Ends".

He was so busy fuming over this, he had never noticed the the squishy, wet thing that was descending toward his right ear on a single drip of slime. The creature was somewhere between a slug (like a Yeerk) and a nudibranch. Its body was a translucent blue, and completely slimy. And it was about the third of the size of a Yeerk. It was descending slowly, cautiously, and almost lovingly, towards his ear, and Dexter, still pouting, never moved. His mind solely on the, in his view, horrible decision of this game developer.

A tattered green book with red lettering, "Boy Bands, the End of the World, and Other Big Spheres".

He would never let it go (and never notice the soft squishing noises of the creature to  his immediate right, ever so stealthily approaching his ear). He never bothered to complete the monster index of the games, never giving more than five minutes towards the goal, but he considered cutting even one of them from the game completely unforgivable, and targeted the game's unfinished graphics as a way to justify his hatred  the games. He even took what they said out of context, parading around, acting as if he knew the inner workings of this developer's studio better than anyone else.

An old orange book with blue lettering, "Summertime, Tarot Cards, and Other Things That Are Better In Space".

He didn't realize just how entitled he sounded when talking about these things, how much he sounded as if he had a victim complex when he spoke to others about this subject. And he didn't really like how he felt that he was pretty much the only one who wouldn't condone this from the game developer. He felt that he had to stop (and harass) anyone from getting these games, resorting to childish name calling and berating obscenities when his impassioned arguing led lackadaisical, indifferent responses. This tactic was not a good one for dissuading people from purchasing the games, but Dexter did not seem that his growing hysteria and near-obsession with these games oftentimes wore on and annoyed those around him.

An ancient purple book with yellow lettering, "Cake and Other Signs of Vampirism".

A couple things then happened in quick succession, without giving Dexter the proper time to react. The creature quickly landed on his shoulder, and was inside his ear before he even realized that it was on his shoulder. It was now inside of him. But, unlike a Yeerk, it did not seize control of his body from the boy.

Dexter was confused and frightened, completely forgetting about the games that he was fuming about. He didn't even realize that he was now carrying a parasite of some sort. All he knew was that his mouth was incredibly dry and that he was getting progressively thirstier and thirstier. . . .


Book Titles (inadvertently thanks to Gazzy) --https://www.facebook.com/ForReadingAddicts/photos/a.153715111423931/2186932778102144/?type=3&theater

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXII (1,422): "Dino's Crystals" -- Dino must protect some very special crystals.

New chapter.

CHAPTER FOUR:
Thirst . . . He Thirsts . . .

Dexter was perfectly unaware that he was carrying some sort of parasite. His thoughts were no longer about whining about a game, where he believed that he had more power than he did (spouting some hashtag and disliking trailer videos) to change the game to be more his liking. His attention was, instead, turned to how dry his mouth was. He coughed.

He needed something to drink. The library did not have anything remotely like a vending machine -- for obvious reasons -- and he was just so thirsty. He didn't know why this came so suddenly, he just knew that he was incredibly thirsty . . . he quickly left the dry, dusty library. He took long strides towards the convenience store across the street. He overtly fished out his pocket money as he finished crossing the street (which was easier said than done as the drivers apparently all needed a refresher course on driving, ASAP).

He saw the price was higher than he thought, and he mumbled about the ridiculousness of this perceived price hike -- he would have expected this in a hospital or an airport, but this was absurd. But he counted his pocket money as he coughed again -- his throat felt so dry now -- and found that he had just enough. Wonderful.

He looked at the selection as he put in the bill and coins in their appropriate slots and slits. He was subconsciously surprised when found that he didn't really care which brand or flavor of beverage it was. He found that he didn't even care if it was warm -- as long as it was wet. As long as it quenched this thirst, that seemed to be getting exponentially worse as he left the library and walked in the sun, which felt unnaturally warm November Saturday. He only sought to relieve this thirst.

He thought it would be easy. Just drink this fizzy drink, and have this thirst gone. How very wrong he was.

He downed the entire bottle in a single sitting, and tossed the empty container aside. He felt what he thought was relief from the thirst, as he went on his merry little way. But then, only mere seconds later, it was back in full force. It was at this point he felt some fear that graduated into general physical discomfort. His head began to ache and he began to feel rather fatigued.

Something was wrong . . . he needed something more to drink . . . but he hadn't any spare pocket money . . . but he was still thirsty, so very thirsty . . . he needed something to drink . . . but he hadn't any money. . . .

He was becoming desperate has he heaved a dry cough. He wasn't sweating, despite it being a fairly warm day, and it was November. It wasn't supposed to be this warm, was it? So thirsty . . . something was wrong . . . he needed something to drink . . . but he had no money . . . no water fountain . . .

He would have to do something that he normally wouldn't do, in his desperation to slake this incredible thirst he felt. He would have to resort to actions many would consider improper and illegal. But his mental stability and morality was steadily deteriorating, as was his physical health, due this thirst, which, in the span of a few hours, had become severe.

He had stolen drinks, unattended and unnoticed by their owners. It did nothing to satisfy this gnawing thirst. The thirst had replaced any appetite for food, and he tried to drink anything with a sufficient amount of water in it to satisfy this thirst. He was so desperate to be rid of it . . . so desperate to free from it . . . to be free . . .

He must have drank gallons of water-based liquids . . . and still the thirst would not cease. He didn't sweat, and there was no reason why he should be losing so much water. He didn't know any of this, he just knew at he so thirsty . . . so, so incredibly thirsty . . .

He didn't realize that he was slowly dehydrating . . . to death. . . .

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXIII (1,423): "Throwing Shade Stars" -- Shinobi protects some special throwing stars.

New chapter.

CHAPTER FIVE:
Saffa's Day-Off

Saffa was sitting at a quaint little cafe in the city that she had recently become quite fond of. She appreciated both the decor and atmosphere, although some of the clientele were of questionable taste in Saffa's honest opinion. She was pretty sure she saw several Knight who were "undercover", in plain clothes -- yet did not hide the completely obnoxious swagger that they had that was not unlike Team Skull. She did nothing and said nothing, but took note of their appearance, in case they had an incident with Knights again.

Fortunately, no pseudo-covert Knights came in today. She could enjoy her fruit juice in peace. (The fruit juice was the best beverage the cafe offered, as far as she was concerned.) She was off-duty, and was intending to enjoy this Saturday. Sure, there was the odd obnoxious, whiny brat here and there, but they didn't bother her as she was on her phone, reading some memoirs.* It was very nice.

But she knew it couldn't last.

She was sat reasonably close to the counter, and could hear everything going on. She almost wished she hadn't sat here and had to hear what the large woman coming up to count, looking rather apoplectic and a plus-sized Phoebe Buffay. She carried the air of someone who angrily argue that the world is flat, pompously tout the benefits of essential oils, and aggressively assert that vaccines are poison. Saffa was not a fan of those people.

"You need to stop selling your fruit juices," she said, with an undeserved air of authority. She had no right to make such demands, but something in her head clearly made her think she was entitled to make such demands.

"Excuse me?" said the sixteen-year-old kid behind the counter. The joys of retail, right?

"You need to stop selling your fruit juices," she repeated, apparently unaware she hadn't any right to make such demands. "They all contain dangerous amounts of dihydrogen monoxide. You need to stop selling this poison!"

Saffa laughed aloud at this, but this essential oil purveyor ignored her, assuming she even noticed her.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry but --" the kid behind the counter started, trying his best to maintain his "retail smile". He was probably screaming inside at the stupidity of this woman, and her teased hair.

"No!" she shrieked, startling the boy. He clearly didn't think he wouldn't be putting up with something of this nature today. "No! You're going to stop selling this poison! Right now! Dihydrogen monoxide kills!"

"That's water, you idiot," Saffa said, before she could stop herself.

The woman turned toward Saffa, her rage finding a new target. All because Saffa had the audacity to talk back to her in something less then groveling subservience and abject compliance. Saffa wasn't remotely intimidated. She was a RAFian -- she had dealt with more intimidating things than this woman before breakfast.

"What. Did you. Say. To me?!" she demanded with an almost ursine roar.

"You heard me," Saffa said, almost placidly, pretending to go back to her phone. She knew this woman wouldn't allow her to truly do that, though. And Saffa was right, as this large, burly woman made a beeline for her and glared at her in a way that recalled those old cartoon renditions of jilted wives of men with wondering eyes. Saffa could tell that her clothes were tacky, by her tastes. A muumu-like, sunflower yellow dress with much too much frills, white wrist-length gloves, and a short-brimmed t in pink.

"How dare you take that tone with me, you ungrateful kid." she snarled.

Saffa didn't take the bait -- she knew the "ungrateful kid" was intended to get her mad. It failed miserably, because Saffa maintained her aloof, indifferent attitude. This seemed to infuriate this woman even more, that she didn't get a rise out of Saffa. It seemed to anger her more that Saffa was, in her view, disrespecting her.

"You disrespectful brat!" she snarled.

Saffa ignored her. This woman wasn't about to ruin her day off from her RAFian duties. That was a stressful enough job as it was already, and this woman couldn't intimidate her. So, she made to grab Saffa's phone, but didn't expect Saffa's prodigious reaction time.

Saffa quickly spun her phone on her palm and pocketed it before this entitled woman could reach further for it, and grabbed her drink, as she somersaulted over the woman. She finished the drink and and threw the plastic cup away. Then she calmly, almost languidly, left the cafe.

She was perfectly aware that this wasn't over. She was perfectly aware that the woman would follow her. The anti-vaxx, flat-earther woman was the type of person who could never admit fault or wrongdoing for their inordinate entitlement. She wasn't about to let this go, unless police got involved.

It wouldn't come to that, however.


*

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXIV (1,424): "The Unholy Fusion" -- Four extremely dangerous species fuse together become a dangerous plague. . . .

New chapter.

CHAPTER SIX:
Bearing Witness

"GET BACK HERE!! I'M NOT DONE WITH YOU!!" she roared.

Saffa broken her momentary silence to her, and said, "Yes. Yes, you are."

She never broke her stride, as she spoke. And yet she could still hear the plus-sized barracuda coming after her, huffing with anger. Saffa had to hand it to her -- she was persistent. But persistence did not mean she was any less annoying.

"YOU GET BACK HERE!!!"

"No."

"GET BACK HERE!! GET BACK HERE, YOU --"

The woman uttered a racial slur, a horrendous and ugly slur that disparaged Indian women, and Saffa stopped at this. Her cool was now lost. She turned around slowly, and dangerously. Her anger had easily eclipsed this woman's fury fueled by entitlement.

"What," Saffa said, her fury palpable, "did you just call me?"

The woman, apparently oblivious to the power Saffa held, doubled down and said the slur again. She wore a smug look on her face, and when she saw Saffa's hands ball into fists. The woman clearly was unaware of how deeply offensive the term was, nor did she seem to care about anything but her need to take Saffa down a peg.

But, as Saffa thought about it, as she looked this pathetic woman in front of her, a woman who clearly believed anything she read online so readily. Someone who never looks at sources, or digs any deeper than the superficial surface depth. Looking at her with her flyaway hair, her lank and limp dress, her size-too-small gloves . . . Saffa recognized the woman for the pathetic mess that she was. In comparison to everything that Saffa's done and accomplished in her life . . . getting angry at this ignorant bigot wasn't worth losing her temper. Wasn't worth losing her cool over.

She was about to turn on her heel, and walk away, when something happened.

A moderately-sized humanoid tumbled between the two, looking like a desiccated corpse in a red, short-sleeved shirt, blue jeans, and white sneaker with black accents. It had wispy hair, and appeared to male. It was like the Cryptkeeper as a kid, and Saffa involuntarily recoiled at the sight of this creature, corpse, whatever the hell it was.

The woman showed disgust, but in the most obnoxious way possible. But Saffa stopped having any concern of her, when this vaguely human thing came along. It was little more than a moving, desiccated corpse. Saffa had a professional curiosity about it -- what caused this thing to happen? Was this a prank of some sort? Were they in the middle of a movie set? And other similiar questions floated around her head as she and the woman watched this shambling corpse keel over between them.

 "Thurrrrrr . . . steeeeeeeee . . ." came out the raspy voice from it, before it stopped moving at all. It was as if were an animatronic movie prop that was just turned off. Whatever this corpse was, whoever this corpse was, they were dead now. And if there was one positive thing about this, it made the anti-vaxxer woman leave her alone.

But, due to her tenor as a RAFian, ahe knew that this was not a prank -- this was something well within RAF's jurisdiction. And she immediately called the others (hoping Kane wasn't on communications monitoring duty), and gave them all the pertinent details. She seemed to not notice the creature abandoning the desiccated boy's right ear, and speeding off elsewhere, to parts unknown. . . .

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXV (1,425): "Two Fall" -- Ysmalt and Aplexia falls to this Plague.

New chapter.

CHAPTER SEVEN:
Discovering the Blight

"This . . . I think that this is outside our sphere of expertise," said a flummoxed police officer on the scene. He addressed Saffa in a civil manner -- which relieved her, as his partner spoke to her in a manner she percieved as being unnecessarily aggressive and hostile. "I think that this is a case for the RAFians."

"Don't worry," Saffa showed her Mark, that she had hidden, as if it were a police badge. The flummoxxed officer's partner sneered at this, and Saffa noticed this, but did not comment on this. No need to unnecessarily make a bigger deal out of something, and unnecessarily antagonize some loose cannon cop. Although she did wonder how he managed to keep his badge and gun, considering how . . . hostile he seemed to everyone around him. "My back-up should be here soon."

"I'm already here," Cloak said, his cloak swishing with his strides. The hostile officer immediately made himself scarce, under the pretense of collecting crime scene evidence. Cloak noticed, but, like Saffa, chose not to comment on it. Bigotry oftentimes crawls into any vocation, infesting it like ****roaches. "What's going on?"

Saffa gave him the lowdown.

"And you saw something leave the boy's body?" Cloak said, with professional interest. He turned away from the boy's devastated family, howling from the pain. It made Cloak feel not only bad, but a twinge of guilt for not finding whatever did this and ending this before it happened. Realistic? No, it wasn't , and he knew it perfectly well -- but hearing their howls of pain reminded him of his own when he heard Wheeza had gone . . . though she was lucky, it was in her sleep.

"Yes, it looked like a small Yeerk, but it was evidently quite mobile outside an aqueous environment." Saffa said, with a clinical tone.

"Sounds like a Khan worm, or possibly a variant." Cloak said, matching her clinical tone. Cloak shot a look at where the remains of the desiccated boy was -- the fact that Dwellers leave more than their clothing behind when they pass on was still disturbing, and very much alien, to him. "And the victim was desiccated?"

"I believe so," Saffa said, "but we'll have to wait until the coroner's report to be certain."

"So we have an aquaphageous, endoparasitic, worm-like creature on the loose," Cloak said, in summation. "A creature that infests another, larger host creature and siphons all water, and water-based fluids from the host, presumably causing extreme and insatiable thirst. Clearly, it only leaves when every ounce of moisture has been extracted from its host."

"Any ideas as to what it was?"

 "One," Cloak said, "but it is a species without a name."

"What do we call it then?" Saffa queried, in a clipped, professional tone.

"I think calling it a 'Thirst Blight' would be sufficient."

***

The anti-vaxxer woman, Agnes Athanor, had left that situation with that, in her view, rude upstart. She still believed that dihydrogen monoxide was a very dangerous chemical. She deeply believed that it was carcinogenic and was most certainly not water -- as well as not being accustomed
to having her beliefs challenged in any meaningful way. She, like many people, preferred to be in her own echo chamber, with her beliefs reinforced and, in her view, backed up.

Her apartment wasn't too much too look at, and she hadn't any children (which was fortunate, given her anti-vaxx beliefs), as her forceful and domineering personality wasn't seen as very attractive by the men she tried to court. But she would always tell herself excuses as to why they weren't interested. Believing them to be secretly gay was a chief one, regardless of whether it was true or not. And she would refuse to believe anything else that conflicted with this manufactured notion, as she refused to listen to logic and facts when the conflicted with her (factually wrong, and grossly misinformed) beliefs.

She believed the world was flat like a disc, all due to the pseudoscience behind it which, whether deliberately or innocently misunderstanding the fundamentals of a spherical Earth and gravity and other such forces, were all still incorrect. She believed whole cloth, and quite erroneously, that there is an Antarctic ice wall that government agencies conspire to keep hush-hush. She would claim that no one's provided adequate and substantial proof of a round Earth (just ignoring all the inconvenient data outright disproves this ridiculously archaic belief). Due to her forceful and domineering disposition, she would destroy any globe she saw. This tended to lend her into quite a bit of legal trouble, hence why she was living in a rundown apartment with no shortage of ****roaches and mice.

She believed vaccines were evil and wrong due to a post she saw online with a huge list of chemicals with long, difficult-to-pronounce names, and she just assumed that they were dangerous chemicals, believing that they were poison, without pausing to look up the individual components. This also how she came to find out that the cafe had drinks with high levels of dihydrogen monoxide (which was just water, but the post she read didn't say that, whether due to deliberate disinformation or because the author of the post didn't know themselves, it was up for debate). She believed the often-debunked notion that vaccines lead to autism, believed the erroneous theory of "vaccine overload", believed thimerosal hysterics, believed aluminum compounds cause autism (and Alzheimer's -- both were factually incorrect), and believed that a vaccine-derived measles virus was a real thing.

She thought by going to the cafe and demanding they take thise fruit juices off the menu, she was doing a noble thing that would give her, what she believed, deserved praise. Imagine her wrath when she found that she actually met resistance to her demands -- something she could never abide. She was very quick to anger, and quick to escalate situations until they're worse than before. But, in her mind, she's never wrong, her actions are never erroneous, her decisions are never mistaken.

And all she knew right now was that she was thirsty. . . .

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXVI (1,426): "Sphere of Influence Grows" -- Okaara and an unknown planet (whose dominant species is a porcupine-like, humanoid species) fall to the Plague.

New chapter.

CHAPTER EIGHT:
Questions of Quarantine

"The Thirst Blight is still on the loose," Saffa said.

"Right," Cloak said, looking around. He even tried to Earthsight -- but, even then, it would be negligible as the creature was so fast and lightweight. It was more than likely long gone from here. "I don't think the creature breeds easily or quickly, so that prevent a mass infestation."

"Chances are, though," Saffa pointed out, "that it found a new host."

"And then they should be easy to spot," Cloak said, "as they will likely experience extreme thirst."

"But that may not be evident for awhile," Saffa said, "if they don't refuse to indulge outright."

"Biological needs such as hunger and thirst tend to override will at most times," Cloak observed. "When pushed to extremes, desperation arises. When desperation arises, morality and subtlety tend to erode away. We will find out who is hosting the parasite, if it managed to find a host."

"But," Safra asked, asking the stickiest question of them all, "what if we can't save the person or persons infected by the Thirst Blight?"

Cloak didn't have an answer for this. And he only said, simply, if not a bit callous, "We'll just do what we can."

***

Ms. Athanor had began to feel quite thirsty. Her mouth was dry, unbearable so. She must have screamed herself hoarse at who she thought of as a stupid, insolent brat. Where was the respect for one's elders? True, she had done absolutely NOTHING to even earn a modicum of Saffa's respect, but Agnes was an entitled sort of person who expected it anyway.

Man, she was thirsty.

She kept thinking back to her interaction with Saffa and grousing about it. And, of course, in her mind, she was the victim in the whole matter. She was just trying to do, in her view, a service to her fellow man. She was completely oblivious to how rude and arrogant and uninformed she came off as. All because she was completely unable to admit when she was wrong or in the wrong. It was actually very childish of her, and she didn't recognize it as so.

She poured herself a glass of a beverage whose alcoholic content far outweighed its water content. It was like a rectified spirit, but more potent, with a higher alcohol content. And it didn't slake her thirst. But it immediately made her feel euphoric, and better, despite still being thirsty. She felt more confident and she had no more anxiety (not that she exhibited much to begin with). She was already flush and red in the face after a single glass. Her fine muscle coordination was clearly impaired already -- all after on drink.

All her thoughts of her interaction with Saffa were vanishing now as she poured another glass. Now, this was stupid on her part, considering the ridiculously high alcohol content. But she found herself either not knowing this (it wouldn't be a shock -- considering how many backwards, scientifically incorrect things believed already) or not really caring about the negative consequences or both.

After she downed this second glass of this unnamed beverage, she was still thirsty. And now she was feeling lethargic and less irritable. But, clearly to either her impaired judgement or complete lack of it to begin with, she poured out another glass. She clearly did not understand the risk she was undertaking by doing this. All she knew was that she was thirsty.

She emptied the bottle into the glass, and had another one at the ready. She would quench this thirst -- but the third glass did not do it. She felt a profound confusion at why she was still thirsty. Her speech was audibly slurred and she felt a dizziness. She probably would have vomited if she had something other than liquor in her stomach. It was odd that she didn't even vomit up the liquor.

She struggled to open the second bottle, but somehow managed it. She sloppily poured out another glass. She was so parched, so very parched. She downed the fourth glass and it was a wonder that she was still alive. She went into a stupor, phasing in and out of consciousness. She began to suffer from anterograde amnesia and she began to suffer from nonlethal hypoventilation, or nonlethal respiratory depression.

And, yet, her thirst persisted. So, she -- somehow -- managed to pour out another glass, even slopplier than before. She also somehow managed to swallow this last drink. She then passed out, causing the glass to smash upon the dirty hardwood floors. The bottle was knocked over as she went into severe, life-threatening hypoventilation. She was suffering from alcohol poisoning. Severe alochol poisoning.

And she was still thirsty.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXVII (1,427): "More Fall" -- Qward and an unnamed planet (whose dominant species had terrifying faces) fall to the plague.

New chapter.

CHAPTER NINE:
What IS It?

It wasn't long before Agnes died of alcohol poisoning. The woman never had much good sense, and her judgement always tended toward the poorer end of the spectrum. But still, given all that, she did not deserve a fate like this.

The Thirst Blight, however, did not care. It had no capacity to care. It had no sapience or sentience of its own. Its mind was incredibly simple and functioned on simple instincts -- seek out hosts, drain them of all moisture (specifically water-based liquids), and then move on to the next one when that host runs dry. It cannot absorb moisture directly from the air or surrounding enivronment -- unless that environment is a host body. It cannot take control or speak through them, just suck them dry. This causes the host to experience extreme thirst, and even if they manage to find enough water or beverage that would satiate the Blight, it wouldn't be enough.

It was never enough. It would never be enough.

It was never troubled by the morality of what it did, as the concepts of right and wrong meant nothing to it. It did not need to burden itself with thinking of what-if or if-then, it did not have the mental capacity to even comprehend such concepts. It felt the thirst that it inflicted on its hosts, and it was the whole of its motivations -- if such a thing could have anything that could be considered a "motivation".

It would not abandon a host until every last bit of moisture was gone. It would not leave until its host was completely desiccated. It was very thorough, despite not having the cognitive capability to chose to procrastinate. Agnes was basically a mummified skeleton with raisin-like skin clinging to the bones.

It would not morn its victims. It would not dwell upon their little lives. It didn't have the brain-space for such matters as these. It hadn't any need of emotions or even thoughts beyond the simple "Moisture. Consume. Nourish. Begin search for moisture once more." This could mean that it was quite evil and callous in its actions, but it had not capacity to imagine such concepts as good or evil, and the perceptions of which. There wasn't any need, desire, or capacity for it to contemplate these lofty ideals.

I knew what it had to do, and it did it.

It had not concept of past, present, or future. If it was sat down in front of its own reflection, it would see it as nothing more than another Thirst Blight and its resounding indifference and obligate apathy would remain still. Yet there was some sort of rudimentary problem-solving capability it possessed. But this only extended to allowing it to bypass obstacles in its way of seeking its watery sustenance.

It took several more hours to suck out every last bit of moisture from Agnes's body, and, when it was done, it wiggled out of her ear without any sort of struggle and went off to find a new host -- only Agnes's apartment was locked and there was no other creature in the apartment large enough to host the Thirst Blight. But the simple creature did not know worry, did not know fear, did not know panic. All it knew was the basic impulses to survive.

And Agnes would be discovered sooner or later.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXVIII (1,428): "An Epidemic" -- Oa, Galvan Prime, and Galvan B fall to the Plague.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TEN:
Helplessness and Guilt

Cloak, with the help of his fellow RAFians, scoured the city and grounds nearby. Cloak felt a reluctance to allow any RAFian who was organic, as he wasn't entirely sure that the Mark would protect them from the Thirst Blight. Parker was fine due to his self-contained armor that he was constantly improving upon, and Cloak was moderately sure that Aquilai and Aila's Regeneration ability would protect them from the Thirst Blight.

But this was new territory -- Cloak didn't know too much about this Thirst Blight. He did not know the full list of its strengths, and thereby hadn't any real concept of its weaknesses. It was small enough to be parasitic to a human, described to be smallerthan a Yeerk, so squishing was a possible weakness, however unlikely, given its extremely rapid terrestrial mobility. Probability manipulation would have to play an effect in that happening. It was a weakness that they couldn't really bank on.

And there was no physical way to tell it had taken a host until the host was nearly sucked dry of moisture. Then they would have a very slim window to get it before it selected a new victim. And they only knew one victim.

Though it was possible that the woman that Saffa was having words with . . . but no one had a name, and she was clearly a hostile, unhinged personality. They could ask to view the cctv of the cafe . . . but that wouldn't provide them with a name or address. They had resources, but they didn't have the information in order to use those resources in the proper way.

Cloak hated how they couldn't be more proactive in this. Perhaps if there were more Thirst . . . no, he scolded himself, don't think that.

The last thing they needed was more of these little monsters infecting people. The last thing they would need is a Veiled plague of Thirst Blights. It would be an epidemic, a pandemic! And there would be little to nothing the RAFians could do to stop it. So he should be wishing that -- fortunately, Gene wasn't able to grant wishes anymore, and was happy with his life.

Cloak also felt personally responsible for this, as he didn't know as much about this creature as he felt that he should. Every death would be on his hands, he felt. And his hands were not clean already. If he knew as much as he should they would have been able to prevent anyone from dying unnecessarily. Anyone who died from this thing, whatever it truly was, would be squarely his fault. His failure.

His conscience was already weighed down -- perhaps he was being far too harsh on himself, perhaps he wasn't being harsh enough. He didn't know.

***

Agnes was fortunate in that her withered body was found relatively quickly. Or unfortunate, depending on how you looked at it. The Thirst Blight was unable to find a way out of the apartment, and was slowly starving as it couldn't absorb moisture directly and needed a host to obtain it for it. And Agnes lived alone, without any pets or relatives. And the rats and ****roaches were much too small for it to infest, too small for it to gain any moisture from.

But then the withered husk of Agnes was discovered by Officer Reilly D. Morris, the flummoxed cop that Cloak and Saffa briefly a few days. He was flanked by another tenant, who had called him, and the landlord (though he was more like a slumlord, due to the abundance of vermin like mice and roaches). It was a noise complaint, initially -- as a way to get the cops in the building and see the poor condition of the unit, but it quickly became a crime scene investigation.

This was a blessing for the Thirst Blight, as it would have probably expired it. It was fortunate that it was in a place where the slumlord was prone to landlord harassment, and was deliberate in his efforts to keep his tenants in the dark about their tenant rights. This is why this other tenant invented a noise complaint -- just to get the police into the building and see its poor condition. It was making a false report, which was a chargeable offense, but this discovery had wiped that from everyone's recollection.

And one of three suddenly felt quite thirsty. . . .

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXIX (1,429): "A Pandemic" -- Odym and Kleptororr are overtaken by the Plague.

New chapter.

CHAPTER ELEVEN:
It's Not Fair

Reilly was a rookie cop, still a little green, which seemed to really annoy his parter, Dirk Harrison. But most things seemed to annoy Dirk, and he wasn't above using his badge to throw his weight around, readily abusing his authority as a police officer. Reilly noticed this easily, and deeply disapproved of such behavior. Dirk always dismissed it as him being just a rookie, and that he'd know better once he had more years under his belt.

Reilly was always an idealistic sort of person, with a clear sense of right and wrong. While Dirk always disparaged the RAFians (he claimed that local law enforcement was very well equipped enough to deal with whatever the RAFians had deal with -- because he didn't know the sheer scale of the things that they dealt with or how their arsenal was ineffective against most of it), while Reilly, on the other hand, looked up to them. He saw them the same way a child looks to superheroes, with the same juvenile admiration. Dirk would sneer at this childish adulation, and admonish him for it.

Suffice it to say, Reilly didn't care for Dirk's company much. The guy was just too willing to use violence and intimidation to get his way. He liked to wield his authority as an officer of the law as a weapon, and would come up with bogus charges against anyone who he perceived as wronging him in the slightest manner. Reilly did not like this at all, but he hadn't any sort of authority over Dirk, and the elder police officer knew it.

Reilly had secret aspirations to become a RAFian, but when he considered it carefully, he came to the conclusion that he wasn't fit to be a RAFian, to do all the great good they could do. He hadn't any specialized skills or technology or magic. He wasn't really proficient in any sort of martial art or close combat (of course, police training would change this, but not to the degree he felt was necessary and sufficient to being a RAFian, and bearing their mark). He had no powers -- he was just a flatscan human. So, still wanting to do some good in the world, he opted for law enforcement. Not mention, his father lobbied him towards this path -- with no malicious intent, just wanting his son to have a well-paying job to be able to support himself.

And he just felt thirsty. Incredible thirsty.

He just couldn't manage to quench this thirst. He initially found this extremely odd, as his mouth was running drier and drier. But her had enough awareness and agency to recognize that this was not normal. He had drank what felt like a gallon of milk already, and, yet, his mouth was still dry and his thirst became worse, if that was even possible. He knew that this was not right, that something was quite wrong with him.

He remember that woman in that vermin-infested tenement . . . withered. Flesh dried like beef jerky. Skeletally thin. Glassy eyes, impossible to close. Hair wispy and dry. It was a haunting visage, one that he would never forget, one that was involuntarily burned into his memory. Then he immediately imagined that happened to him . . .

He had to get help. And he knew only one organization could help him . . .

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXX (1,430): "More Fall" -- Nok and Nemunimos IV fall to the Plague.

New chapter.

CHAPTER TWELVE:
Desperation

Through feeling this extreme thirst, Reilly remained practical and level-headed. Which was not something most people, even some police officers, can manage to do in a similar situation. But he knew what he had to do. His colleagues wouldn't help him, despite him knowing something was deeply wrong. He was just "the idealistic rookie", after all. His parents would be concerned, but neither worked in the medical profession, not even tangentially. They wouldn't be able to help him.

There was only one place where he might be able to get some help. Just one place.

The problem was that he didn't know how to reach them. He didn't know where they were headquartered. He always assumed that it was a closely guarded secret, and that he wouldn't need to know where they were located anyway. He wasn't cut out to be a RAFian, in his view, so why would he need to know where they are headquartered? He wasn't that much of an obsessive fanboy.

So thirsty . . . he had to resist . . .

She stumbled towards where he last saw the RAFians. He was out of uniform, and currently off-duty, but if people saw the way he was walking, they might not understand what was happening to him. They would just dismiss him as being drunk or high as a kite. It was not a good look for an officer, but he knew something was wrong with him. He didn't know what, but he knew it was something serious.

So thirsty . . . just a sip for now . . . he mustn't give into the thirst, or whatever was causing this thirst. . . . But it was hard . . . he was desperate to find a RAFian help . . . they were the only ones who could . . . the only ones who would take this with the seriousness it deserved. . . .

He was stumbled. He collapsed on the street, and he started to realize that he may never find help, as he abandoned all pretense and downed his entire water bottle. Yet, he was still thirsty. It wasn't enough . . . it wasn't enough . . .

He came to the sobering conclusion that if he didn't find a RAFian, and procured their help, that he . . . that he was going to die. He didn't want to die, of course, but his police training -- from competent instructors who didn't teach or subscribe to the "protect yourself above all others" and "don't take any perceived disrespect" curriculum (if you could call it that) -- he was prepared to die. Such an ignominious death it would be, as well . . .

He began to pass out, unaware that he was found moments before, and was being carried away . . .

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXXI (1,431): "Unstoppable Force" -- Zamaron and Anodyne fall to the Plague.

New chapter.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN:
First Discomfort

The Thirst Blight sat inside Reilly, but it didn't know that nor cared. It didn't have the capacity to care or acknowledge the name or identity of whatever host that it was in. It was unnecessary information to the Thirst Blight. All it knew was that it was doing the purpose it knew, the only reason for being it had. But it didn't have the sentience nor the sapience to communicate or even understand this.

It was neither a "he" or a "she", as it hadn't any gender or any means of reproduction. It was the only Thirst Blight, and it would always be the only Thirst Blight. So, it had no urges for reproduction, just to feed (by using hosts to obtain me water and suck them dry), and nothing else. I felt no emotions, knew no emotions. It had no concept of comfort or discomfort.

That being said, it never felt a host with such resistance before, such a powerful will before. It nonplussed the thirst Blight -- as much as such a simple-minded creature could be nonplussed. It found it unusual, but proceeded to do what had done with its previous two hosts. It would suck him dry like the others before him, then leave him via a convenient orifice, then it would find a new host in which to feed in and off of. This is what it has always done since it came into being, and it was what it shall always do. It knew nothing else.

Then it happened. It did not know where it came from, as its sensory abilities were roughly equivalent to that of a Yeerk, even inside a host. It was able to, at most, detect light and dark, and detect dampness levels. This is what it used to detect hosts of suitable size for it to drain. It could detect tightness with astonishing sensitivity, allowing it to detect whether it succeeded or not in entering a host body.

For the first time in the time it had came into existence, it felt discomfort. So much so that it stopped draining Reilly, allowing him to survive a few moments longer than he would have (not that it realized this or the implications of such, nor did it care nor comprehend it). It had only felt anything remotely similar after leaving its first human host's ear. Naturally, it veered away from that mild discomfort.

But this was not mild. This was extreme discomfort. Having never truly experienced discomfort before, the Thirst Blight was addled. It was confused, its simplistic mind unable to comprehend this sensation. The discomfort was indescribable, not that the Thirst Blight would have had the intellectual acuity to describe it if it was describable. It caused it to squirm -- leading Reilly to know precisely where inside of him the Thirst Blight was (and this was information that he would rather not know).

The Thirst Blight was reluctant to leave Reilly, as it hadn't sucked him dry -- completely dry, drained of all water -- and its every instinct was not to leave hosts until every drop of moisture, of water, was siphoned out. Until he was completely drained, as if Reilly was a juice box.

But the discomfort was too much . . . too much . . . it should leave through a convenient orifice. . . . But it wasn't done. . . . The host wasn't sucked dry of its moisture. . . It should leave. . . . But it wasn't done. . . . It should . . . but it . . 

It was never this conflicted before, and this stymied it.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXXII (1,432): "Plague Aftermath" -- The Plague is defeated and the RAFians commence with the galaxy-wide clean-up.

New chapter.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN:
Secured and Diagnosed

"He's been secured in that room," Kelly reported, "and I've done all I can do. I want to say he's stable, but if that Thirst Blight decides to siphon moisture from him again? Well, I can't say my powers would be able to pull him from the brink of death again . . ."

Parker had found him by using some new X-ray imaging tech of his own design, and having already incorporated into his armor. He had never lost the hobby of constantly updating and revamping his armor with any compatible tech they found and that he could replicate. It was fortunate that he did -- had he not, Reilly would be dead right now.

He used the software to immediately determine that the Thirst Blight was in Reilly, in his abdominal region -- about where his stomach would be. Parker described the Blight as Yeerk slapped with an ugly stick. He brought Reilly in (the Blight couldn't take him, as his armor is self-contained), and Reilly, semi-lucid, allowed it. He knew this armor belonged to a RAFian. He found the help that he so desperately sought.

"We need to get that parasite out of him if he's to survive," Kelly said, urgency in her tone. "And we don't have a lot of time if the Blight starts to siphon off his moisture again."

"But there is a risk of the Thirst Blight escaping if we don't," Cloak said, aware of how heartless it sounded. But it needed to be said. Ruthless but pragmatic. It gave Cloak no joy pointing this out. "He is secured, and, thereby, so is the Blight. We can prevent it from getting out."

"What about the poor soul in there?" Saffa said, speaking harshly to Cloak. "You would sacrifice him?"

"No," Cloak said, not taking Saffa's tone personally. "But it needed to be said."

"Oh." she said.

"It wouldn't satisfy me to see this poor individual die, but I cannot see a way to remove the parasite without risking it getting loose in the forum, or worse. Having it infect one of you."

Cloak was not worried about his own personage, as his physiology was an obvious and overt hostile environment for the Blight, like all Dweller parasites.

"I'm not saying there is an easy answer here," Cloak continued, thoughtfully , as he watched Reilly resting in the secure room.

"We've incorporated Gleet Biofilter technology in the doorway to that room," Xeno said, matter-of-fact.

"Untested tech," Cloak said, unable to tone down his skepticism. His cynicism seemed to escalated into a moodiness, but the RAFians were accustomed this, and thought nothing of it. He hadn't been getting much sleep lately.

"But we will need to somehow sedate the parasite," Saffa said, "that damn thing is fast."

"Probably how it could take hosts without them noticing," Cloak postulated. He assumed the hosts were unaware of the infection, as there was no evidence that there was large reactions, nor doctor trips.

"What's our next step?" Kelly asked.

[Cloak]

Sorry about the brevity.

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXXIII (1,433): "Sirens Again" -- Several sirens look for who dared to slay their "sister".

New chapter.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN:
Only One Option

The Thirst Blight was twisting and undulating within Reilly's abdomen, causing the young man much discomfort himself, if not outright pain. But the Blight didn't care about the pain of another. It had never felt pain itself, so it was a concept that was completely foreign to it, and beyond its comprehension. The only thing that the Blight cared about was stopping the immense discomfort it was feeling.

Leave? No! This host wasn't drained. But it should leave. But it couldn't as its task within this creature was not complete. But it should leave. But it couldn't. Should. Couldn't.

It did not know the source of this discomfort, nor possessed the mental acuity to understand it. All it knew was that it was interfering with what it was supposed to be doing. From fulfilling its one and only instinctual purpose. This discomfort was preventing it from doing what it had always done. This had to be corrected.

It was slow, even for its simplistic, primitive, and minimalistic mind, to come to the conclusion that there was only one option and one course of action to take from here. And it followed it without even pausing to consider any possible ramifications or consequences of such a decision, didn't take a moment to think this course of action through all the way. It had no such capacity to do so.

Everything it instinctually knew it fought against the decision it made, although that made it sound as if it possessed more sentience then it actually did. It had no choice if it wanted to escape this irritating discomfort. It just wanted to do what it always done, to complete its only purpose of being.

It would leave Reilly's body, despite not draining him dry of moisture. It felt (in the loosest sense of the word) hesitant about leaving its only purpose unfulfilled, but it was necessary. It found a convenient orifice and left his body without anyone knowing. No that it was even aware of anyone's notice, nor did it care much (as it lacked the capacity). All it wanted to do was escape the discomfort.

But the discomfort did not go away outside Reilly's body. And the Thirst Blight lingered in the room, hiding from the bright light, which added a different kind of discomfort. It didn't know what the best option to take from here. It wanted to take another host and drain them again -- but the discomfort didn't disperse or end as it thought it would.

Wait -- there!

It travelled out, when the bright light had vanished. And hoped for a host beyond the discomforting . . . whatever . . . so it could drain it in peace.

[Cloak]

All titles subject to change.

Book MCDXXXIV (1,434): "Cute" -- A pink siren goes after Cloak.

New chapter.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN:
BREACH!!

It was slow, taking days. Reilly's parents were briefly brought down to view their in such a lamentable condition. His mother was in tears at the sight of him. He looked pale and dry, but his condition had more or less stabilized due to the careful and meticulous ministrations of both Goom and Kelly.

Precautions were taken so the two could visit their beloved only son, and be by his side. Both were made aware that their son had contracted a very dangerous parasite, and they were doing what they could do for him here. They had to explain multiple times why he couldn't just go to a hospital room -- spanning from the risk of contaminating any room with this parasite to the fact that your ordinary hospital was just not equipped, trained, or had sufficient resources to deal with this. RAFian tech was far better for the likelihood of their son's survival.

The Gleet Biofilter seemed to be working perfectly, and the room was completely sealed apart from that entrance way. Reilly spent most of his time sleeping, and hadn't any need for any electronics. He was sleeping so much, he might as well have been comatose. It was necessary for his recovery, as the parasite seemed to stop draining the moisture from him. Everyone in and out were checked when this became known, despite the functioning Gleet Biofilter.

Until it wasn't.

"There's a glitch!" Goom called. "A malfunction in the Gleet Biofilter in the quarantine area!"

"Seal the room!" Cloak said, running towards the area. He had no fear of the parasite, as his natural physiology was a natural hostile environment for the parasite. "Immediately, before the Thirst Blight takes this opportunity to escape!"

But this warning came too late, and Cloak cursed their over-reliance on technology.  Including himself. It was harsh, but he knew nothing was infallible. Infallibility itself was a fallacy. Beings make mistakes and over look things, machines have malfunctions and glitches. No plan is truly foolproof -- there are always a variable or two that can cause any plan to unravel. No matter of contingency can cover all possible scenarios . . . though Cloak did try to cover as much as he foresaw.

But he wasn't Destiny. He couldn't foresee all of them. He shuttered, despite himself. He tried not to think about her. She terrified him by her sheer power, even more than his own mother. She wasn't particularly malicious, and she was Beyond the Veil, but still . . . she was frightening. It was as if she wasn't just seeing destinies and the future . . . it was as if she was destiny itself.

Anyway, it was confirmed that the thirst Blight parasite had, indeed, escaped. Fortunately, via their examinations of Reilly and the parasite itself, they discovered that it hadn't any means of reproduction. This was good as they wouldn't have a pandemic on their hands, but bad that it was on the loose and difficult to identify without Parker's x-ray imaging software. Cloak wasn't able to do it, unless it was outside the body of a victim. Even then, Earthsighting or Metalsighting it would be difficult.

This was not a good happenstance.