Running around in all black with chrome highlights doesn't automatically grant immunity to fear. A good chunk of his humanity died that fateful day, but he's still (mostly) human after all. The lingering memory of fire and shrapnel and blood still flits about in his memories, whether he's wide awake or sliding in and out of consciousness at night. How does one strive to be fear incarnate when they couldn't fully conquer fear itself?

That being said, he felt it. The moment the lights seemed to go out— the disorientation of being in one place and suddenly at another— he felt it. It's not the fear of being alone, or being separated from the group, but the fear of something that's out there and he could feel it calling his name with no discernible, recognizable words. With limited ammo, non-fatal rounds that he'd managed to scrounge up before the mission briefing, and even his own superhuman abilities, he knows he's still at a great disadvantage. Each shadowy being shrouded in fire and shrieking like steel dragging against steel that he takes down doesn't help quell the unease. There's something even stranger and more fantastical at the end of all this, no matter how many obstacles he destroys.

His step falters, a clawed hand glowing blue at the pads of his palm resting against his head, trying to realign his thoughts. A dizziness overwhelms him for a brief moment, but that's all the forces need as he's suddenly engulfed in roaring flames— or at least he thinks, but it's just the soaring liquidity of fleshy red walls, jutting up into the ceiling. They radiate an intense heat, pulsing and stretching, giving the impression of fire or lava. A metal handrail, inane details from the past, crawls out of the ground and into existence from the ground. It props up under his hand as he leans on it. It's hot to the touch, but the glove protects him just long enough for him to realize it as he jerks away.

Were you lucky enough to become separated from him before his mind fell victim to the In-Between?

Are you still feeling lucky?

Reaper haunts the ship like a ghost, his lower half in a fluttering, smoky state when traversing at a leisurely pace. They become solid hooves when he stops to turn, or lurch over into a coughing fit where blood sputters out from behind the gaping wound of a mouth. He breathes slowly, voice rasping gently in the back of his throat. You'll never run into him head-on; he'll always be staring down at you from a good distance away. The vague drooping outline of his shoulders are more prominent, the twisted and sagging flesh of his body which had once been leather and body armor obscured by the sheer darkness of his palette.

His mask is stark white, floating amidst the inky blackness. If and when he catches you staring at him, he takes a long moment as if analyzing you, or waiting for you, something- it's not clear what his intentions are at first but his approach is always the same: Waiting just long enough for the pressure to mount before ghosting his way towards you at top speed. By then, it'll be quite obvious what his intentions are.