The nameless potoo had decidedly liked this place a whole lot more than the last few places he had been to - the room he had hatched in was oddly cold, the tunnel leading out from there was grand but had trash strewn around everywhere.

The next room after that was dark, there were white stones fused to the ceiling that supplied light, but still he hadn't liked the darkness. The new tunnel he had found, he liked. It was quiet, it was warm...ish, and it tasted sweet.

The potoo clacked his beak contentedly, moving down the tunnel. The pin-pricks that touched his tongue were irritating, but he had already grown accustomed to it - purely under the assumption that everyone else had to deal with it.

He was sure it wouldn't get in the way of anything, anyway.

He knew his purpose already - even if he couldn't quite explain it. Something in the back of his head scratched and screamed at the walls of his mind, telling him what to do. He could only obey the voice in his head.

The main problem was that he didn't quite know how to begin. His mind told him many things - how imperfections had to be fixed, and if they couldn't be fixed, they would have to die. At first, the potoo didn't quite understand - but a small ponder later he realised that if something was broken, it did indeed have to be fixed.

He didn't know how to fix them. His mind only told him how to eradicate them - to create something of his own in order to rid the caves of imperfections. The potoo always had his doubts. He'd rather fix than destroy, but he supposed that if the incident came where he couldn't fix someone, there only came the option to kill them instead.

The potoo perched on a rock thoughtfully, staring at the ground below.

Disease, the voice had said. The potoo thought he understood - or at least, to an extent he was sure that he did. He still wasn't quite sure - but he was definitely sure about his own purpose. He half-closed his eyes and began to focus.

He didn't know what would come from this. Nor him or the voice in his head knew what was going to come from trying to make a disease. It seemed like a complex process despite what the voice was saying - that it was simple and all he had to do was concentrate into the stone in his beak.

It seemed easy enough.

And it was. Was this it? The voice in his head was praising him now, but there was a coldness driving up his belly and into the back of his throat. For a moment, he thought he might upturn the contents of his belly.

But he hadn't eaten anything. That would prove to be a slight problem.

His chest felt tight. He was panting and wheezing now, and before long he felt himself fall forward, off the rock and onto the ground below. The voice was saying something - spitting and throwing commands at him but he couldn't hear it.

He half-closed his eyes, coughing and spluttering weakly.

He breathed out, and he breathed in. He felt somewhat better; but the tightness in his chest wouldn't leave. It was like he couldn't breathe at all for a few moments; his muscles ached and his head was pounding - throat dry. He closed his eyes for a moment.

It didn't come back. His chest didn't feel any better, but he could breathe. Would he be okay?

The voice in his head was deathly silent now, as if it had choked and died away with the disease the potoo had inflicted on himself. Slowly, the potoo got to his aching talons, head drumming against his skull as he looked around, bleary-eyed.

God, he was so tired.

He turned and began walking back to the rooms he hated, coughing and wheezing the entire time. He didn't know what he had quite done to himself - but he was sure that he could begin trying to help people in his own way.

Even if so far he only knew how to make himself, and presumably other people, so sick that they forget how to breathe. He could figure out how to actually help people later.