Work Text:
Fire, heat. Abyss, darkness. Nothing, everything.
It was the same story: day in, day out. Or perhaps day was a very rough description of time; there was no such thing as day or night in space, after all, and although the DSS Hootsforce did offer a simulated cycle (complete with matching schedule shifts for the crew), Angus had his doubts about whether it actually followed the usual 24-hour convention from Earth, as he somehow always woke up during a graveyard shift like some terribly-scripted movie scene. Then again, he couldn’t be sure about that either way, as he could hardly remember the pleasant warmth of the bright sun or the cold breeze of a Scottish night, much less an accurate timing of how long the day-night cycle felt.
There were a lot of things he wasn’t sure of anymore.
The nightmare was one of the few things he was sure of. He knew it existed; it had existed for some time, though for how long, he could not say. Days? Weeks? Months? He doubted it was years (or at least, he wanted to doubt that it was years but his mind gave no affirmative, which didn’t help matters). He was also certain he was on the DSS Hootsforce. Although it was very different from the royal amenities of times-he-did-not-remember, it was a good ship, one that he liked, and he would not like a fake ship even if it was near-identical, of that he was sure.
Well, as sure as he could be, anyways.
The hum of the ship was another thing he was certain of; it was one of the few things that helped ground him after his nightmares, which were oh so often now. No matter what happened, the hum was always there, a subtle background noise that he could tune out at moments he didn’t need it and that was always there when he did need it. He appreciated it greatly. It was almost peaceful, listening to the hum of the engines, at least in moments when he wasn’t relying on it to keep himself together and try not to die from a very glorious heart-attack in the middle of the graveyard shift.
Or at least, it would be almost peaceful if not for the tormenting rhythmic noise his mind would decide to focus on whenever he let his guard lapse with the false belief he had found peace.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
He hated the noise. Loathed it. Despised it with a fiery passion that threatened to consume him whenever it dared intrude his span of attention. Had he his hammer in hand, he would have smashed it into a million pieces, over and over and over again, until nothing remained of it, until not even a technomancer wizard could bring it back to existence after he was done. And then he would have taken all of that dust and scattered it to space, so that even if such a stubborn technomancer did exist and attempt to take on that challenge, it would be too late, for the dust would have been absorbed by black holes or pulled in by the energy fields of magnetars.
He had considered asking Ralathor to remove the thrice-accursed clock. Or Hoots. Or anyone from the crew. He could remove it himself, even.
Somehow, he never remembered to do so.
In the moments he did remember and attempt to take it down and away, he could never find the clock. It was like it knew that he was out on the hunt for it, and so the prey hid, trying to avoid him to live another day.
Tick. Tock.
His hatred of that noise was another thing he was certain of. Maybe it was the thing he was most certain of.
Hmmm. What else was he certain of? Or was he no longer certain of the list of things he could have sworn he was certain of?
He knew he was on the DSS Hootsforce. He knew he was with friends--
Friends. Right.
He was certain that the Hootsman was his friend. The fur-claden God was loud, boisterous, and always had drinks on hand, and not the boring stuff either, unlike Ralathor. Angus liked the Hootsman.
As for Ralathor… he had once been certain they were friends. He had once been certain that Ralathor was always honest with him. He had once been certain that Ralathor cared for him.
Now? Now, the only thing he was certain of was that Ralathor had lied to him when they last spoke. Blatantly, too -- it wasn’t even a well-delivered lie. It was half-assed, it was the most infuriating type, and it made Angus question how many times the Commander had lied to him well and he hadn’t noticed it. And that, that realization hurt almost more than the damned tormenting clock.
Tick. Tock.
Angus wanted to scream. (Whether he screamed or not, he wasn’t sure.)
No, this was it. That clock was going to be annihilated. Now.
He forced the bed covers off of himself, not caring where they landed. He sat up (too fast, having to steady himself with an arm) and whipped his head around, glaring at the wall. No!
Why. Why now. Why did the damn thing disappear!? (It was irrelevant that he couldn’t say for certain where the clock had been, or even what it had looked like.)
Angus growled to himself, rage filling his veins. He would find it, whatever it took. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, ignored his nuisance slippers, and got up barefoot.
Tick, tock.
The thing was mocking him as he stalked around the edges of the room in circles, ticking louder as if laughing at his pathetic attempts to hunt it down and destroy it, as if it knew something he didn’t (just like Ralathor).
Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
The laughter of the clock ticked faster the longer he searched, making his head pound painfully. Angus resisted the urge to punch a wall.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock.
Or maybe he did punch a wall. It hurt, that he was sure of. Unfortunately, he was also sure that the ticking didn’t stop; if anything, it got louder and faster.
Tick tock tick tock tick tock tick tock.
He needed it to stop. He could feel every tick and tock pounding in his head and against his chest. He made a move towards the door leading to the corridor, footsteps now loud and determined rather than hunting and stalking. The infernal piece of metal and plastic wanted to hide from his wrath? Fine! It wouldn’t be able to hide from the Commander and his supreme knowledge of the ship!
But just as his hand reached for the door, he froze. No. No! He couldn’t ask for Ralathor’s help. Ralathor had already lied to him, refused to answer him. Who was to say this would be any different? (At that, a memory surfaced briefly of him asking Ralathor to get rid of the clock, and in turn getting a very confused response that there was no clock in his room. It faded within a second of surfacing, and Angus couldn’t be certain whether it had been real at all.)
Angus went back to his bed and flopped down onto it. He muffled his likely-screams with a pillow as the inferno within him cooled and the molten lava in his veins hardened, leaving him feeling stiff and exhausted, his will to hunt down his tormentor extinguished. The ticks of the clock, too, were quieting against his ears.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
He decided that he would hunt it down, but not today.
Tick, tock. Tick, tock.
He fell asleep soon after, not certain whether he’d remember this hunt. He seldom remembered these sorts of things anyways, and maybe it was for the bitter best. Maybe not remembering how often this happened kept him from tearing apart the very walls and floor and ceiling of his room and the rest of the submarine until nothing remained.
Tick. Tock.
He most certainly would not remember the realization he had in his final moments of consciousness before sleep claimed him: he found the clock.
His tick-tock tormentor was his own heart.