The feeling of getting an urgent notice barely after starting work was awful, especially when it had to be dealt with first.
The two of them had been dragged out of the Sewer and the laboratory, respectively, and hurried to the scene. They unexpectedly reunited ahead of schedule, discussed their progress, and took in the handiwork of Kraft's excellent student.
Like an artist on the verge of madness, casually sweeping a broad brush, the splattered paint had turned the walls and floor into a canvas. By filling the viewer's field of vision with a single, heavy color, it made a powerful impact.
The viewer's first reaction might not be negative. They might instead be swept up in it, empathizing with the intent the artist had deliberately—or unwittingly—revealed.
The color had burst free of the constraints of form, running wild as if it were a metaphor for something liberated. It made people caught up in the trivialities of daily life feel a terrifying sense of release, the frustrations accumulated over many days expressed as a destructive, tangible force.
It was a work with a clear, unmistakable theme.
But then they would realize what lay at the heart of the scene that covered half the corridor. A belated chill would seize them, and they would hastily deny the admiration they had felt moments before.
By the time the Professor and the Priest arrived, the scene had already been partially cleaned up.
The monks had temporarily sealed off the clinic's second floor, gathered up the invaders strewn about, taken the girl away, rescued the clinic's owner from the wardrobe he'd locked himself in, and comforted their colleague, who seemed to be somewhat confused.
After hearing Monk Robin's account, they decided to have Physician David give the man, who might have suffered a head