Chapter 4: A Plague of Faces

Chapter 4: A Plague of Faces

The box was heavier than Maya expected, dense with the weight of two thousand acts of rebellion. She carried it from the off-base P.O. box to her car, her heart thumping a nervous but steady rhythm against her ribs. Back in her small Japanese apartment, she cut the packing tape with a utility knife. Inside, nestled in foam, were rolls upon rolls of coins, wrapped in clear plastic sleeves.

She tore one open. The Coin of Contempt felt just as Leo had described: cheap, greasy, and deeply satisfying. She turned it over in her palm. The caricature of Finch was brutally effective, his sneer captured in stamped pot-metal. On the reverse, the stethoscope-wearing monkey seemed to stare back at her with a look of profound stupidity. It was a masterpiece of spite.

Her phone buzzed with an encrypted message. Leo: Package received?

Maya: Affirmative. The plague has arrived.

Leo: Don't get caught. Let the tribe do the work. You're just the delivery service.

Maya: Understood. Phase two is a go. Ghost out.

She smiled, tucking the phone away. The next morning, she arrived at the hospital an hour before her shift, a heavy-duty canvas tote bag slung over her shoulder. The first coin she placed was almost ceremonial. She went to the main ward’s breakroom, a place Finch rarely deigned to enter, and left the coin on the counter by the coffee maker, his smirking face staring up at the ceiling.

As other corpsmen trickled in, the discovery was made. Petty Officer Davis, a burly aviation medicine tech, picked it up. He stared at it for a long second before a low whistle escaped his lips. "No way," he breathed. A slow grin spread across his face. He looked at Maya, who gave him a barely perceptible nod.

His grin widened. "Well, look what someone left for us."

Within the hour, the news spread through the enlisted ranks not with a shout, but with the silent, lightning-fast communication of a tribe under occupation. A roll of coins left in a supply closet was gone in minutes. Another, tucked behind a first-aid kit in the ambulance bay, vanished just as quickly. Maya didn’t have to do much; she simply opened the floodgates, and the current of resentment did the rest.

Dr. Finch’s day began, as always, with an air of theatrical importance. He swept onto the ward, expecting the usual mixture of deference and fear. What he got was… different. There was a strange energy in the air, a hum of suppressed amusement. He saw corpsmen huddled in corners, quickly dispersing as he approached, stifling snickers. He dismissed it as the usual enlisted foolishness.

His first encounter with the plague came mid-morning. He’d sent a junior corpsman to fetch him a soda from the vending machine. The young sailor returned, his face a perfect mask of neutrality, and handed him the cold can. As Finch’s fingers wrapped around it, they brushed against something in the coin return slot. Annoyed, he reached in and pulled out a metal disc.

He stared at it. His own face, twisted into a grotesque sneer, stared back. His eyes narrowed, tracing the insulting script: INTELLECTUAL & SOCIAL BETTER. He flipped it over. The monkey. A WELL-TRAINED MONKEY CAN LEARN TO DRAW BLOOD.

A flush of hot anger crept up his neck. This was childish. Insolent. He glanced at the corpsman, who was now diligently checking a patient's vitals, his back conveniently turned. Finch’s lip curled in disgust. He tossed the coin into a nearby biohazard bin with a clatter, a symbolic gesture of his contempt for their contempt. It was a single, pathetic prank.

But it wasn't a single prank.

An hour later, he found another one slipped inside the clear plastic cover of the patient chart he was reviewing. He slammed the chart down on the nurses’ station, causing a clatter of pens. "Who is responsible for this?" he demanded to the ward.

A few corpsmen looked up, their faces blank. "Responsible for what, sir?" Maya asked, her voice perfectly calm.

Finch held up the coin, his hand trembling slightly. No one said a word. The silence was more infuriating than any confession. He was being mocked, openly, and they were closing ranks.

The day devolved into a waking nightmare. A coin was found taped to the screen of his personal diagnostic computer. Another was wedged into the door handle of his meticulously detailed sedan in the officer’s parking lot. Every corner he turned, every task he performed, seemed to reveal another metallic effigy of himself. Each one was a fresh slap in the face, a reminder of the digital firestorm he had foolishly hoped was dying down.

The hospital, once his kingdom, had become a prison of his own making. The enlisted sailors were no longer just his subordinates; they were potential insurgents. The quiet respect he demanded had been replaced by a wall of silent mockery. He started to see conspirators everywhere. Was the janitor who just mopped the floor placing a coin? Was the corpsman handing him a suture kit hiding one in his palm? The low whispers he’d once ignored now sounded like tactical planning sessions. His paranoia began to curdle his professional judgment.

The final straw came when he returned to his private office after a tense consultation. He had slammed the door, seeking refuge in the one space that was unequivocally his. He sank into his expensive leather chair, ready to compose a furious email to the department head.

And he felt something hard under him.

He shot to his feet. There, sitting dead center on the rich leather of his chair, was a single, gleaming Coin of Contempt.

That was it. They had breached his sanctuary. This was no longer just insubordination; it was a personal invasion.

A strangled roar of pure fury erupted from his throat. He burst out of his office, his face purple with rage, holding the coin like a piece of radioactive waste. He stormed up to the main nurses’ station, where Maya and two other corpsmen were updating patient records.

"This stops NOW!" he bellowed, his voice cracking. He slammed the coin down on the counter. "I will find out who is behind this little mutiny! I will see every last one of you brought up on charges! Do you hear me? I will ruin your careers!"

Maya looked up from her computer, her expression one of mild, professional concern. "Is there a problem, sir?"

Her calmness, her feigned ignorance, was the most profound insult of all. He looked from her face to the others, seeing only blank, unreadable masks. But in their eyes, deep down, he saw it. The same mocking glint as the monkey on the coin.

He was surrounded. The flock had grown teeth, and they were everywhere. Defeated and shaking with impotent rage, Finch snatched the coin from the counter and stormed away, the sound of his own frantic footsteps echoing in the suddenly silent corridor.