They've seen this horror movie. That's York's first thought when the mission's described. They've seen it, some of them have lived it, and sending in a small team? Isn't happening. Having seen it he figures that as long as they stick together and keep an eye out? Everyone will make it out okay. It's just an Alien or something that killed everything off or a virus or- something. Something small, something containable, something they can paint a target on and kill.
Then the video.
Then the people ripping each other apart for no reason.
Then the world goes dark in a terrifyingly familiar way, everything distant and cold and the one conscious thought York has before he blacks out is that there's something on this ship that hates them.
They wake little by little in the comforting embrace of his armor, breath shallow and strained and surrounded on all sides by something malleable and cumbersome. It's only when York pulls on a hand and yanks himself free he realizes he'd been buried in corpses. Bodies, too many to count- with familiar blonde hair. York stumbles free, old pain and guilt that's not even his roaring to life as voices tear through his mind and the surrounding environment, echoing, rebounding, overlapping in a deafening cacophony of insidious pain.
Allison-
-put that thing down. You're gonna make me la-
-not be concerned. This is perfectly normal-
-gave you the schematics, they're just- they're too complex-
Panic stirs him to movement, to get away, to climb free of this literal mire of grief that he never asked for, tripping over bodies bent and burnt, a million imagined deaths for a woman he'd never known strewn about like dried leaves, leaving him struggling against the irregular relief of the cliff's face as he tries to claw his way free.
II
He'd lost his helmet somewhere along the way. In the pit or at the crash- more familiar faces, more burnt bodies twisted in unnatural angles, straps tight enough to stop the bleeding but not to prevent bones for breaking. Maybe it'd fallen off, maybe he'd torn it off to vomit, maybe he'd thrown it at another goddamn ghost that wouldn't leave him alone. Trying to find anyone's been impossible and Delta-
Delta's been quiet. No cool wash of calm in the back of his mind, no commentary, no grounding reminder that none of this is real. It feels real. Smells real. This must be some kind of hell and he must have earned it- sure as shit makes more sense than the happy possibility of being a hero. He'd fallen earlier or. Something. He can't remember. But that has to explain the pain in his head, the blood welling at the back of his neck at odd intervals. Without reflective surfaces he can't see the web of something growing under his skin. Can't notice the odd glint to his good eye as he wanders, calling out at anyone that looks like they're alive.
III
"Help-" it's faint, the voice. York's voice. Low and strained and exhausted, echoing endlessly in the dark. At the far end of the hall he's standing, head up, eye bright despite the lack of light. Almost luminescent. "I got turned around."
Everyone did. There's no one right way around, no one answer, and he seems well. A little stiff, voice a little stilted, and terribly still. There's no sigh of relief. No rush to meet whomever he meets in the hall. Just that quiet voice, pleading. "Help."
Closer inspection shows why his posture is so stiff and awkward. Why he doesn't move- blood smeared tendrils have grown out from the base of his neck, under and through his skin- leaving him standing suspended by a singular point. Bulging tangles writhe at his throat, pierce the plating of his armor from the outside in, winding in great coils around his limbs as he's puppeted in grotesque, jerky motions to beacon people close.
Locksmith & Delta
They've seen this horror movie. That's York's first thought when the mission's described. They've seen it, some of them have lived it, and sending in a small team? Isn't happening. Having seen it he figures that as long as they stick together and keep an eye out? Everyone will make it out okay. It's just an Alien or something that killed everything off or a virus or- something. Something small, something containable, something they can paint a target on and kill.
Then the video.
Then the people ripping each other apart for no reason.
Then the world goes dark in a terrifyingly familiar way, everything distant and cold and the one conscious thought York has before he blacks out is that there's something on this ship that hates them.
They wake little by little in the comforting embrace of his armor, breath shallow and strained and surrounded on all sides by something malleable and cumbersome. It's only when York pulls on a hand and yanks himself free he realizes he'd been buried in corpses. Bodies, too many to count- with familiar blonde hair. York stumbles free, old pain and guilt that's not even his roaring to life as voices tear through his mind and the surrounding environment, echoing, rebounding, overlapping in a deafening cacophony of insidious pain.
Allison-
-put that thing down. You're gonna make me la-
-not be concerned. This is perfectly normal-
-gave you the schematics, they're just- they're too complex-
-not your fault Agent York and Texas-
-Tex don't- don't let 'em-
Allison Allison Allison Allison Allison Allison Allison ALLISON
Panic stirs him to movement, to get away, to climb free of this literal mire of grief that he never asked for, tripping over bodies bent and burnt, a million imagined deaths for a woman he'd never known strewn about like dried leaves, leaving him struggling against the irregular relief of the cliff's face as he tries to claw his way free.
II
He'd lost his helmet somewhere along the way. In the pit or at the crash- more familiar faces, more burnt bodies twisted in unnatural angles, straps tight enough to stop the bleeding but not to prevent bones for breaking. Maybe it'd fallen off, maybe he'd torn it off to vomit, maybe he'd thrown it at another goddamn ghost that wouldn't leave him alone. Trying to find anyone's been impossible and Delta-
Delta's been quiet. No cool wash of calm in the back of his mind, no commentary, no grounding reminder that none of this is real. It feels real. Smells real. This must be some kind of hell and he must have earned it- sure as shit makes more sense than the happy possibility of being a hero. He'd fallen earlier or. Something. He can't remember. But that has to explain the pain in his head, the blood welling at the back of his neck at odd intervals. Without reflective surfaces he can't see the web of something growing under his skin. Can't notice the odd glint to his good eye as he wanders, calling out at anyone that looks like they're alive.
III
"Help-" it's faint, the voice. York's voice. Low and strained and exhausted, echoing endlessly in the dark. At the far end of the hall he's standing, head up, eye bright despite the lack of light. Almost luminescent. "I got turned around."
Everyone did. There's no one right way around, no one answer, and he seems well. A little stiff, voice a little stilted, and terribly still. There's no sigh of relief. No rush to meet whomever he meets in the hall. Just that quiet voice, pleading. "Help."
Closer inspection shows why his posture is so stiff and awkward. Why he doesn't move- blood smeared tendrils have grown out from the base of his neck, under and through his skin- leaving him standing suspended by a singular point. Bulging tangles writhe at his throat, pierce the plating of his armor from the outside in, winding in great coils around his limbs as he's puppeted in grotesque, jerky motions to beacon people close.