They were talking to him again, asking him what’d happened, where their comrades had gone… but did they really want an answer?
Did they really not know? Did he?

Oliver swayed lightly, down on his bent knee still, both in meagre prayer and utter defeat. 
He knew they were talking, but not what they’d said: This was speculation, for their voices had long since been drowned out by the screaming in his own head.
The relentless pounding of his monologue, raised, screeching and howling its threnody in lieu of his own vocals, which’d tightened to the point he could no longer speak.
Tightened to the point they were choking him.

Shakily, he raised a hand to either side of his head, and covered his ears with his palms, drowning out their voices, his own voice, until only the rushing of his blood was audible, thundering through his temples like the pistons of a steam engine and muting all else with its percussive sound.
He needed a moment of peace. He needed a moment to [i]think.[/i]

Why had they done that? It was spontaneous, it was reckless and unsophisticated…
But it may very well have saved Malika’s life. 
Marvin had been all of those things, but also so good natured, so kind. 
A force of nature with golden intentions.
He’d never known Cecily, had she been similar? Or perhaps she’d just followed his example.
Oliver had no doubt in his mind that, had Marvin been possessed of a greater wit or aptitude, he’d have been leading his own Moderator squadron on some sunny, distant shore right now.
Now, he never would.

Was that what this had been, then? A selfless sacrifice to save Malika? The very thought that they felt it necessary weighed heavily in his chest.
How heroic. How very Moderater of them, to rush in without a thought for themselves…
To leave people mourning in their wake, and not care.
Oliver gritted his teeth. His jaw locked as he fought back the urge to sob, to scream. 
To call them [i]idiots.[/i] Brave, noble [i]idiots.[/i]
Better Moderators, perhaps, than he would ever be.

They’d done what they had so selflessly. They were almost like…
[i]“You looked like superman!”[/i]
Almost like…
[i]”…superman!”[/i]
Some light snapped on in the back of Oliver’s head.
They’d died liked heroes, like all Moderators should hope to. 
Leader mode had been triggered. 

Slowly, Oliver took his hands from his head. He wiped away the tears with the back of his glove.
Then he stood.

[i]"What happened? W-why did those words appear?"[/i]
[i]” “O… Ollie… What happen to Ceccy and Marv…?”[/i]

He mutely dusted himself off.
“They did their jobs,” he replied, coolly, straightening his shoulders, “It’s about time we do ours.”
He threw a glance around: Kirina and Malika were both sprawled across the floor, and goodness knows where Juno had gotten to. Michelle was the only member of his team standing.
He inhaled deeply.
[b]”Get up,”[/b] he breathed, not as a request, but an order, rigid and unwavering.
Then he turned away, towards the sea, towards the harbour walls, where the virus’ maelstrom still churned with an animalistic fury. 
“We’re not done yet. I think it’s about time we show this thing what we can really do.”

He took a few steps away, “You should know this part, Malika… this is the part where the retreating villain comes back bigger and stronger than ever.”
He gestured for them to stand, but didn’t turn to face them.
“And this is the part where the heroes grind them into dust.” 

And as promised, from that writhing whirlpool there broke new life: A thick, fleshy limb of dark purple, that looked almost to be made from wires of meat, like discoloured copper made moist. Then another erupted, and seemed almost to push the maelstrom’s edges aside to permit the rest of its mass to escape. 
When it emerged fully, it stood above them as a colossus: A mass of crawling black skin, shaped almost like a man, although it walked on all fours like a great ape, and in lieu of a head there was but a flat slab of black stone, onto which there had been engraved the code that would destroy this city.
Oliver stood in its shadow, and outstretched his hand to his left.

“Hauteclere!”
The claymore’s hilt shot immediately back into his palm, and its blade erupted back into life in a shower of fierce blue sparks, humming intensely, thirsty for vengeance all of its own.
“Moderators, line up! I need a shooter with me!” 
He gestured up to the approaching virus with his blade. Beneath his mask of command, he was terrified.
But he needed to be strong. To be brave. 
He needed to be like Marv and Cecilia. 

“Hey!”, he barked, trying his best to emulate those self-certain Moderators of old, “He hasn’t seen the last of you and me! Let’s kick this up!”