Cole rubbed his eyes; an exhausted look painted his face. His original, depraved appearance was gradually returning, line by line, nerve for nerve.
In silence, Cole observed his friend's paralyzed state and remembered Launda. Their helpless positions and inactive limbs were exactly the same; one was just more pathetic than the other.
Mortimer was no saint either. He'd created viruses that killed many, saved the lives of psychopaths and monsters, researched shady, unethical "projects" through the forced sacrifice of the innocent, and turned people into lab rats irrespective of age or gender.
Not only for money—in fact, rarely ever for money. Truthfully, all of Mortimer's actions were fueled by his love for the deranged game of progress and regression. Thinking up the prospects made the hairs on his skin rise.
