Puzzle Madness

Chapter 68 Stop
There was a commotion in the distance, with loud noises coming from time to time, shaking the glass and making it tremble; the ground beneath one's feet was buzzing as if it had a motor installed.

Something like a hydraulic hammer was pounding on the wall: the mathematician thought it was Doudou. They seemed to be moving inside the body of a giant beast, but this steel animal had a poor stomach.

Richard was holding a brand new broom, gripping it firmly with one hand and tucked under his armpit; his posture resembled that of a clay warrior statue in a temple, except that he had no long beard to stroke from his chin.

He poked at the cameras he came across until they fell and shattered into pieces: these one-eyed machines lurking in the corners of the ceiling did not say a word, silently accepting their fate of destruction.

Richard looked more energetic than before - the base of the camera was fixed with rivets, but Richard was able to accurately poke the connection of the plastic part; until the weight of the front end completely severed the wires.

Even in such an advanced facility, cleaners still use brooms and dustpans.

The mathematician dragged a dustpan, scratched his chest with one hand, and tucked a cardboard box under his arm as he followed Richard. He was sweating profusely, his mind full of criticism and dissatisfaction. Even though he had an extra healthy hand than Richard, he was always a step behind and ended up clumsily clearing the damaged electronic components to the side.

He wanted to take advantage of this opportunity to escape, and even quietly fell behind, waiting for Richard to pass the other corner -
But somehow, the mathematician couldn't move:

"where are we going?"

Richard stomped hard on the fallen camera, sending fragments flying. Without even turning his head, he replied:
"Go to the infirmary. Most branches should be equipped with automated medical equipment now, so there's no need to worry about whether there are medical staff to treat you."

They walked down another long corridor; this time they could see offices on both sides.

The blinds were pulled up to the top, and behind the glass were unopened office desks, chairs, equipment, and a printer lying quietly in the corner. Beside them were boxes of printing paper piled up almost to the ceiling.

This place is more like an old law firm that has not yet opened for business, with countless written materials that need to be processed - but the atmosphere is solemn and quiet, giving people the illusion of an arsenal.

Richard raised his hand and knocked on the glass window, as if to say hello to his colleagues who didn't exist yet:
"This room will probably be used as an analysis room. By then, the intervertebral discs here will be more protruding than the Himalayas, and everyone will have hemorrhoids. Colleagues in the analysis department at headquarters will all be given coupons for the anorectal department."

The mathematician didn't know whether to laugh or not, so he turned around and followed Richard's gesture to look into the analysis room:
It seemed that there were many ghost employees sitting at their workstations, tapping on the terminal keyboards.

After hesitating for a moment, the mathematician decided to explain the joke to respond to the gloomy Richard:

"Oh, you mean, sitting for a long time will cause occupational diseases--"

Click.

The mathematician turned his gaze back and saw Richard pull his service pistol from its holster, release the safety, and raise the muzzle toward the mathematician.

Richard's crushed hand and arm were shaking, but the muzzle of the gun was like his unblinking eyes, pointed at the only target in front of him like a stone statue.

The mathematician raised his hands, waving them wildly forward, as if trying to block the bullets that were about to hit him:

"I--"

boom!
The fire flickered for a moment; Richard lowered his straight arm and adjusted the shooting angle. The bullet from his pistol pierced the mathematician's knee:
The mathematician stumbled and fell down like a noodle; he supported himself on the ground with his hands, then rolled to the side and leaned against the wall.

"what!"

A sharp, short cry; blood slowly seeped out of the trouser leg, the amount of bleeding was less than expected; only a small smudge of red appeared.

Richard walked over to the mathematician, kicked away the dustpan that had fallen beside him, and gently pushed away the cardboard box that was about to fall apart. He didn't look at the mathematician, but instead stared at the mathematician's skinny wrist:

"Later, I remembered: Actually, I've read your case file, Doctor. Your case was a really big deal—our Special Package Handling Section doesn't usually handle routine cases, but this time, we were ready to intervene at any time."

"That project you're working on is called RAS Encryption Algorithm? Right? Strange. I've always wondered if you could really crack something like that. The most important thing is—such a broken algorithm wouldn't actually have much of an impact."

"Even our department knows about it; so why is there such a fuss?"

"And then, academics are all weird: I admit that. But my intuition tells me that you are weird in a different way."

"For example, you actually wanted to run away, but you ended up following me here. Even though you're so afraid of death, you couldn't resist your curiosity all night: isn't that strange? Can't figure it out?" "It's okay, I have a guess too, a guess about you. Let me tell you slowly."
-
The mathematician didn't answer, his vacant gaze darting back and forth between Richard and him. The intense pain caused mucus to flow from his nostrils, cascading down the sweat on his philtrum, threatening to seep into the corners of his mouth.

Richard lifted the murky, dark red plastic bag and let the blood-filled bag sway back and forth:
"Don't worry about my hand—there's no one on this base who can perform surgery on me right now. Even if the automated medical equipment arrived, it wouldn't be assembled yet: I know that, and I guess Doudou knows that too."

"He doesn't care. But I have something to talk to you about."

"For example—I don't think you're sick, Doctor, or infected with any virus."

Gulp/patter.

Richard untied the plastic bag: blood slid out like sticky asphalt, spreading on the ground and forming small puddles of blood.

His hand now looked like the palm of a robot in a children's cartoon - Doraemon, Tinker Bell or Robot Cat, the mathematician couldn't remember: round, every relatively intact piece of skin was bulging outward; the deformed knuckles that were originally folded outward were now mostly covered by the congested palm.

"I don't want this hand anymore. I'm going to give it to you for a chance to have a one-on-one chat."

The mathematician didn't answer. He covered his knees, gasped for breath, and crawled on the tiled floor, leaving a fan-shaped trail of blood.

"Don't worry, Doudou is here: we still have plenty of time."

The mathematician was breathing heavily, and beads of sweat covered his forehead and nose. Even the excruciating pain from the blow to his knee only caused him to let out a few low screams.
Richard tapped his chin with the slide of his pistol, his eyes fixed on the mathematician's face; then he grabbed the mathematician's wrist and looked at it carefully:

"Doctor, you're tougher than you look. Or is it that your pain sensitivity has diminished?"

"I think the latter is more likely: much more. As for why—I'm afraid we'll have to wait and see."

The mathematician's eyes were filled with confusion - but he didn't ask any questions. He swung his arms, hitting himself randomly, and then slamming them at Richard: perhaps the mathematician himself didn't understand what was happening at this moment.

"I don't know much about your true personality, but my intuition tells me that you're probably quite afraid of death, right? Then why did you risk your life several times tonight just to satisfy your curiosity?"

"Strange, isn't it? I think so too."

"Although I'm not particularly confident right now—the confidence to verify whether my guess is correct. However, this is very important to me."

"So. You've been wronged. It's not directed at you, Doctor."

Richard raised his hand again and pulled the trigger:
boom!
Another thin, muffled gunshot rang out. There was no splash of blood, only a small, dark hole that suddenly appeared on the mathematician's right chest. Bright red spilled out, soaking through the surrounding shirt.

The mathematician collapsed to the ground, his body stretched straight by the punctured lung, his legs trembling and twitching.
-
Richard lifted up the plastic bag that had been taken off and seemed to have contained some sauce or stew, and held it in front of his face, as if it were a bag of ornamental goldfish.
"The reason you're being hunted—"

"I've been wondering how a simple multiple murder case could attract such a large-scale manhunt."

"Ah, I don't mean to doubt that you are the murderer. In fact, I believe you are innocent - if you really killed your family, how come you haven't been crazy? I mean, it's a big enough crime."

"Judging from your personality and past experience, you're definitely not a highly intelligent serial killer. So, if you were the real killer, the chances of you experiencing a manic awakening would be very high."

"Originally, I thought it might be because your manifestation was too subtle, or too strange, and the conditions for manifestation were so harsh that it couldn't be triggered even after such a long time."

Richard raised his hand and pointed upwards. It was a vague gesture that seemed to carry a religious meaning:

"But we've been next to Doudou for so long and still haven't reacted at all. You should have noticed, right? Besides the intuitive, pure violence, Doudou has other special features:"

"--He's a fanatic amplifier."

(End of this chapter)