What is this?!
A visit from an old friend.
You crashed on the plane, you're dead.
Dead, certainly. But dead is a little extreme. On the other hand, when my colleague Gradski had your pulse and your blood pressure, he had less than a day to live. [pause] You're infected with Chimera, my friend. [McCloy presses his call button] No use, my friend. The medical staff wants no part of this. Doctors don't fancy the idea of dying any more than anybody else.
How could I possibly be infected?!
That's exactly what Gradski said, 27 hours before he died.
[angry]
You've got the antidote, you miserable bastard! You stole Bellerophon, all of it!
I need it! I need it now, you whacked-out Russian gypsy!
And what about Gradski, who you deliberately infected with Chimera?!
How was I to know they needed to be treated with Bellerophon with 20 hours?
By asking me.
You still don't get it, do you? I needed to know just how bad the disease was in the real world, not just the lab. You were genetically splicing together strains of influenza to create a cure for all influenzas, but you were also creating a disease so terrible in Chimera, the cure would be priceless! I needed Chimera in order to peddle Bellerophon; it's not that difficult to understand, is it? Look, I've got the virus, you've got the cure. I need them both. Time was, a shot of penicillin would knock off every bloody bug in the zoo. Not anymore. If I couldn't make money killing the microscopic little shits that are out there, well, you'd help me put one out there that I could make money on. Well, there it is. I've confessed. I, John C. McCloy, am in business to make money. Now forget any deal you may have made with that thug Ambrose, get me treated and let's go back to work!
You know, I think it's a little late for that. Do give my regards to Gradski, if you see him.
