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Terminal

Terminal

“Mr. Newton?”

“I’m sorry, it’s terminal. She only has days to live.”

Those words broke me. My Rachel was going to die, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do to stop it.

I’d done everything possible up to this point. When that vicious disease reached out to grab her by the throat, it mobilized everything I had in me.

I brought in the experts, the best in their field. I’d hoped they’d be able to stop the forces taking everything I loved.

But they failed.

I even dropped to my knees and prayed. Though not a damn one of them bothered to answer.

In my desperation, I even found a radical solution. A medicine designed to attack the disease, but it held the risk of making it worse.

It bought us some time, a small victory that gave us the opportunity to prepare for the end.

But nothing could prepare me for when that end came.

All the fighting, all the preparations, all the battles fought…

…they didn’t mean a goddamned thing.

All those battles we’d won meant nothing when the war came to its tragic end.

Because that end still came.
Rachel still died.

I hope you’re listening, Simon, and I hope your mind is making the connections.

No matter what we did, she still fucking died.

Every battle, victories big and small, didn’t mean a goddamned thing when the dust settled on our war.

I know what you’re doing.

You picked a fight with the Bad Mother Fuckers, and got in over your head. You’ve been trying to delay the inevitable ever since.

That’s why you tried to reason with us first, praying to us like we were gods that could aid your cause.

But we didn’t answer the way you wanted.

That’s why you bought the services of Jet Set Radio. You set them on bMf, all in the hopes of slowing our hunt for you.

Of slowing your destruction.

It bought you time, but it wasn’t enough.

That’s why you poisoned me, isn’t it?

In your desperation, you knew you had to do something radical to keep the coming storm from overtaking you. It would attack the disease you were fighting.

And it has. It’s weakened me, stopped me from coming at you full force.
But as with all medicines, it held the risk of making it worse.

Simon, it’s so much worse for you now.

There is nothing stopping me from doing to you what you’ve done to me. The time you’ve bought yourself is up.

The real disease here isn’t the poison running through my veins, it’s the fear in your heart.

Fear of Luke fucking Storm.

It’s ravaged your body, and neither gods nor medicine will allow you to escape the end.

Truth is, I don’t want your antidote, Taskmaster.

Because I am the antidote.

And I won’t lie. I hope my words break you.

You’re going to die, and there’s not a damn thing you can do to stop it.

So I say to you, Mr. Simon.

I’m sorry.

It’s terminal.

You only have days to live.