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In the murky green darkness, the faces of his past haunted him. They stared back at him with dead, milky white eyes. Amos remembered every face, every brother, every father, every son. He’d never forgotten, never pretended as though their lives hadn’t mattered. Just because there had been no guilt didn’t mean there hadn’t been remorse.
He was who he was. Amos had accepted that long ago. There was no point in trying to change it. Wishing he could go back was pointless. The past couldn’t be changed, the present could only be lived, and death was inevitable. He accepted that with no complaint.
But this… this helplessness… he’d felt this only once before and had promised himself never again. To be submerged in darkness, choices taken from him, rendered useless, body impotent. It was soul-crushing and he didn’t have much to spare. Waiting for death from something so small and seemingly innocuous was no way to die. This wasn’t the way things were meant to go. Not for him.
What’s worse, the deeper he fell into darkness, the more sensitive his other senses became. The cramped room was filled with the soft sniffles and exhales of the scared settlers that surrounded him. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear Holden’s voice as the captain moved back and forth between areas. And below the constant soft noises and buzz of scared, exhausted conversation, he could hear the murmured whispers of the dead. They were the gatekeepers here to drag him down to hell. Or maybe they already had.
Because that’s what this was. Hell. His hell.
Every time he felt the brush of their fingers on him, clambering, clawing at him, he’d jump and brush them away. He could smell the rot of their flesh and the metallic tang of their blood mingled with salt and the acrid scent of slime. It made his skin crawl and sent tiny fissures of panic slithering up to be intertwined with sluggishly firing synapsis.
Amos didn’t want to die this way. Alone in the dark. Surrounded by ghosts and devils.
At some point in the night, Amos found himself rocking slowly back and forth, his gun clenched in his hands. Would he be missed if he stuffed the barrel in his mouth and pulled the trigger? Would Naomi cry for him? Curse him? Would Holden fall apart? What about Alex? Would the Martian miss him? Would he care? Did it matter?
Logically, it should. They were his family. They were the closest thing to home and comfort and love that he had, though he’d never put much stock in the last. Amos figured what Holden and Naomi had was as close as you could get to the real thing, which didn’t mean much to him because they still managed to hurt each other more than most.
A whisper of something against his face made Amos flinch away, gun gripped tighter in his hands. Words, paper-thin, dancing between a cadence of soft and longing too low and accusatory pushed through every other sound. Lydia tumbled into his mind unbidden, morphed and twisted in his head like some tempting wraith. He could smell her perfume, taste her lipstick on his tongue. It was familiar, even after all this time, and it brought tears to his eyes.
With Lydia came Liev. With Liev came the nightmares. Amos squeezed his eyes shut, teeth clenching so hard his jaw ached. Darker things than death crept in at the edges, laid him bare, pushed him down, face into a dirty mattress until all he felt was agony and disgust. Their touches were like brands against his skin, branding him, melting flesh into bone until he broke and fractured beneath them. They bled him, drained him of everything but hate and vengeance. Left no room for anything else. Not even love.
A touch ghosted over his knee, crept higher, and Amos’ pulse tripped over itself as he lurched to his feet. He couldn’t do this. Not again. Wouldn’t.
Angry, panicked, fear choking him like the slow, firm press of fingers around his throat, he stumbled off into the darkness. If he was going to die, it would be on his own terms. His way. It wouldn’t find him sitting and waiting like a sniveling, useless, helpless coward.
No.
Amos would fight. He would always fight. Was always fighting. No forgiveness. No hesitation. Kill or be killed. Never weak. Never a victim. Not again.
A single touch sent him swinging, fists searching for a target in the dark, his own ragged screams echoing around him. All of his rage and fatigue and resentment boiled over all at once and his heart struggled to keep up, labored breaths leaving him dizzy.
Only the commanding, slightly frightened boom of Holden’s voice ordering him to stop pulled him back from the edge. The ghosts receded, touches gone as his energy and willpower evaporated and dropped him on his ass, tether cut. Amos was shaken but didn’t flinch away when the captain touched him again. Holden was safe. He was his friend. He wouldn’t hurt him. Not him. Not ever.
The shuffled walk back was slow and silent. Holden probably didn’t know what to say and Amos didn’t either. Words weren’t his thing. Wandering off to die had been a fucked up idea but he wasn’t going to apologize for it. It had seemed like a good idea at the time.
Once they sat, Holden’s hands were on him again, one on his shoulder, the other on his arm. The captain wanted him to look at him and Amos would if he could.
“As long as we’re breathing, we’re alive.”
The hands shifted to his head, the hold firm, and were just as pleading as Holden’s next words.
“I can’t lose you.”
Amos closed his eyes. A small part of him hated the man kneeling in front of him. He didn’t deserve to be needed. He didn’t want it. Only… he did. Amos did want it. This was family. This was home. Not Earth. Not the Roci. The people. They were his home. They were the one thing he never thought he’d find. Never searched for. But they found him anyway.
When he opened his eyes again, there was silence. The nightmare was over. For now.
With Holden’s hands still on him, Amos nodded. It was all he could manage at the moment and thankfully, for Holden, it seemed to be enough. They’d talk about it later or they wouldn’t. They’d never held on to the shit between them. No point in starting now.