Chapter Text
CHAPTER ONE
There seemed to be
Two worlds.
The one before and
After you.
—
Software update complete . . .
The feminine voice stirred you from your sleep, forcing you into a half-delirium state. It rang clear in your ears like a mocking metallic chime as your world seemed to shift and rock beneath you. The box you were contained in rumbled, and—you weren’t quite sure about this but—it seemed to shake, as if something had collided with it or the bigger space in which it was contained: a box within a non-box-shaped box.
Your mind was left reeling, hardly able to cope with the lingering sense of déjà vu pervading within your thoughts. It felt as if you had been here, in this exact situation— the same voice, the same rumbling, the same trembling, the same shaking—almost half a million times.
Good morning, Captain.
A masculine voice spoke next, throwing you headfirst into another cascading sensation of déjà vu. It—the voice of the Computer, you recognized—was oddly cheerful, a stark contrast to what you felt underneath your boots. Something was wrong, you could feel it.
We are currently E̶R̷R̵O̴R̴ years into our journey.
And there it was. The bad news, the crushing confirmation that something had gone wrong. Your training, your years of experience, was supposed to prepare you for moments like these, and yet you felt terrified. The walls of your cryo-pod felt like they were closing in, about to compress you into Captain-mush.
Coffee is en route.
Oh.
Well, if the coffee was coming that meant the situation wasn’t truly as bad as it seemed, right? Just ignore the ominous rumbling and the very disconcerting messages moments prior. Mark promised coffee when everyone woke up, so perhaps, in years of space travel—
(How long was this journey supposed to last, anyway? You were the captain, yet much of what you needed to know was left out of your briefing, if you could even call it one. It was more like a tour and an impromptu speech to a group of crewmen, all of whom you couldn’t pair a name with. You were basically left stranded in the dark.)
—some of the Computer’s wake-up systems had been fried, which wasn’t the ideal scenario but was much better than any catastrophic alternative.
The Computer was merely confused, the year counter lost to time.
Current ship status is . . .
Still, that assumption didn’t sit right with you.
The feeling of dread mixed with that oh-so-familiar sense of déjà vu rising in your gut told your mind a different story. Something was wrong. Something was about to happen, but you didn’t know what. If the feeling settling in the pit of your stomach was correct, you were in trouble, big trouble.
. . . absolutely C̷A̷T̶A̴S̵T̴R̴O̴P̴H̴I̴C̶.
Your cryo-pod shook, tossing you from one side of the box to the other, as if an explosion had gone off within the ship.
And perhaps one had.
The hazy memory of your tour of the ship surfaced in your mind along with the fleeting images of the main reactor—a man-made star, as Mark described it—along with its explosive and blinding yellow-orange glow. Even beyond the unstable reactor and the detonators around the warp core, if you knew Mark and his love of explosives well enough, the ship was probably littered with them, a ticking time bomb as it were.
Mark was head engineer for a reason—at least, you believed there was a reason beyond the fact that he just was the head engineer—and as much as you wanted to trust his creative process, there were some obvious flaws in his design, if the obsession with explosives wasn’t a big enough red flag. For one, the construction of the cryo-pods. A part of you wished Mark hadn’t designed the things with three solid tritanium-steel sides. If your hands and arms hadn’t been there to cushion your flailing body, you would have surely broken a tooth or two.
But you were just the captain. You were supposed to command the ship, not build it. So, what did you know?
The dim lights in your cryo-pod flickered and went out with another particularly large tremor. Almost immediately, you were bathed in the flashing red-orange luminescence of the pod’s emergency lights. A loud blaring alarm followed, just in case you didn’t get the memo that yes, this was in fact a matter of cataclysmic importance.
The increasing panic sweeping over you forced your hands into action. Swiping your hands against the pod’s screen, you searched for anything to try to force the thing open. You would rather die floating in the emptiness of space embraced by the vast canvas of stars than trapped forever in a metal box. Oh, and you guess you wanted to see if you could save your crew and passengers—that was important too. Probably more important than having an aesthetic death but the apprehension flooding your brain wasn’t doing your thought process any favors now, was it?
Under your touch, the screen froze and glitched, vibrating red and blue. A string of curses left your lips as your attempts grew more desperate. You slammed your fist against the screen in a last ditch of determination and—
I – I – Initializing emergency Wakey-Wakey Protocol.
Gears whirred and strained within the walls of your pod. Yes, yes, something was happening. Whether it was good, bad, or neither, you were about to find out, but this ship was actually able to do something other than implode on itself. Unless, “Wakey-Wakey Protocol” was just a sick way of naming the self-destruct protocol, and after knowing Mark for—
(How long had you known Mark? You couldn’t quite remember. A decade or more, perhaps? Didn’t he take you on a date at one point? Or were you mistaking him for someone else? The years seemed to slip away from you the more you thought about it.)
—so long, you wouldn’t have put it past him.
The frosted faux glass door of your pod burst open and a particularly harsh thrust of air was released somewhere along the inside back wall of the pod, sending you flying out of the box, across the room, and onto the very real and very hard bridge deck. You groaned in pain, lying face flat on the floor. If there wasn’t an alarm going off and you didn’t feel like you almost broke multiple bones, it might have been nice to lay there for a while, waiting for your inevitable order of coffee that was definitely en route right now. Definitely.
But, of course, there was an alarm going off and the pain that rippled through you was unfortunately based more in reality than your hopeful fantasies.
Stumbling to your feet, your eyes scanned the bridge, taking it all in—the threatening red glow from the bulkhead lights, the malfunctioning bridge console, the head engineer’s pod, the open window staring into the nothingness of space and stars, the–
Wait, take a few steps back.
The head engineer’s pod?
Mark?
Yes, Mark could fix this.
And if not, well, you were boned either way, so you might as well give it a shot.
Rushing toward the cryo-pod on the opposite side, you pulled against the pod door’s handle. Oh, how glad you would be to see his handsome, yet incredibly stupid, face. And, yes, once everything was fixed, once everyone on the ship was safe, once you had your cup of coffee, you would have a long talk with the man on if it was really necessary to load a non-combative ship with enough explosives to blow up Luna.
But it could all wait. Right now, the ship needed Mark. The crew needed Mark.
You needed Mark.
The cryo-pod door swung open, a gasp of cold cryogenic air blasting you in the face and causing you to close your eyes. When you reopened them again, you were greeted by a man stumbling out of the pod.
“Problem, Captain?”
But the man wasn’t Mark.
At least, you didn’t think he was.
Yes, from what you could tell in the red glow of the emergency lights, he wore the beige head engineer uniform and had the painfully orange hat, one that was definitely going to be removed the next opportunity you had to talk to whoever or whatever designed these horribly itchy uniforms—that is, if you ever received the opportunity. He even had the same space dog pin on his chest you remembered Mark talking so fondly about. It was of his dog back on Earth—Chica, you thought her name was.
Yet, if your memory served you right, Mark had facial hair and a slightly gruffer voice, one that this man clearly did not possess. Mark was also lacking in about an inch of height. But the most damning evidence of all was the engineer’s name tag—MACK .
If you were completely honest with yourself, the name tag should have been a dead giveaway from the start, but again, you were in very disastrous circumstances. So maybe you should give yourself some slack, yeah? Thinking straight in these kinds of situations was hard.
And maybe this Mack guy was the head engineer, and you were simply mixing him up with some Mark guy. The names were pretty similar. You had no idea what cryogenic sleep did to memories—what were you? A scientist?—and perhaps what was causing the startling feelings of déjà vu up until this very moment—
( Strange. )
—were merely the byproducts of cryogenic sleep on the human memory. You got your wires mixed up, that was all.
(Maybe it was this Mark guy who you went on a date with after all.)
Your train of thought was quickly derailed by another explosive shipwide tremor that almost caused you and Mack to stumble into one another. The emergency lights flickered, drenching you and Mack in almost total darkness for a couple of seconds before the lights returned.
Mack didn’t waste anymore time after he could see again. “Computer, damage report.”
Meteorite impact in Life Support, it responded. Fire detected. Systems failing.
Panic was renewed within you. So, okay, maybe it wasn’t completely Mark—you mean, Mack’s love of explosives that caused this absolutely catastrophic event, but the meteorite alternative wasn’t any better. In fact, it was worse. It was something out of anyone’s control. A freak accident.
And as distress stewed in your stomach, your eyes flickered over to Mack once more. He was so calm, so collected, standing at the ready with his hands behind his back, like he had practiced the act a hundred times, or events like these were so common to him that a meteorite strike on Life Support was just an average Wednesday.
(Not very reassuring for the quality of Earth ships.)
But, when Mack didn’t move from his stance as fast as you would have liked, the urgency of the situation replaced the sense of awe you felt toward his calm and collected attitude.
( C’mon, Mack, do something! Don’t just stand there looking pretty. Lives are on the line here. )
Okay, screw Mack, you were taking this into your own hands.
What had the Computer said, again?
Fire?
Your eyes quickly found the fire extinguisher on the wall.
(You were surprised they still made these things. Most fire control systems were automatic since 2XXX but you guessed Mark—you mean, Mack—God, why was it so hard to get his name right? His name just felt wrong in a way you couldn’t quite place—knew that something like this would, no, could happen.)
Bingo.
You rushed toward it only to be stopped by a forceful yank on the shoulder.
“Woah, hold on there, Captain.” Mack let go of your arm—
(His grip had been tight, unwelcome. Your arm stung.)
(Was he wiping the hand that touched you on his uniform?)
—but now stood between you and the fire extinguisher. “No need to be so hasty. I got this under control.”
He pushed past you toward the bridge console, and you found yourself following him like a wounded puppy.
“Computer, reroute power to auxiliary life support. Activate fire suppression.”
Under his touch, the controls seemed to spring to life, so different from their broken, glitchy state moments ago as if Mack had some magic touch or the console was never glitching in the first place. You were going with the former rather than the latter. It was still glitching, somewhat.
Large object on collision course with ship.
Your panicked hand sprung to the console, but before you could touch anything, Mack caught your wrist, holding it in a vice-like grip and causing a surprised sound to leave your lips. Mack held your gaze, with a look on his face that you could only describe as a smug death stare. You found yourself silently wishing that the Mark guy was the head engineer and not him. Mark didn’t act like this.
Brace for impact.
With one masterful press on the touchscreen, the bulkhead doors sealed over the window just as the ship lurched from what you could only assume was another meteorite. Mack, his hand still clasped around your wrist, almost took you down with him if he hadn’t braced himself against the other side of the console.
But that didn’t stop you from almost falling into him. You found yourself an uncomfortable mere inches away from him as the ship’s internal artificial gravity righted itself.
You heard a whir of electricity, one that could only mean that ship functioning was returning to normal, as the lights returned to their normal neutral white luminosity.
Current ship status is . . .
(He did it.)
(Mack did it.)
(Wait, why is his hat yellow?)
. . . critical.
You heard another whir of electricity, one that could only mean that at least one part of the ship was powering down. And that part was the lights, which returned to their threatening red incandescence. The only difference between how it was before and how it was now was the lack of that annoying alarm.
“Critical?” Mack left your wrist by the wayside, frantically pressing buttons and typing commands into the console.”No, no, no, that can’t be right. That’s not supposed to happen. It’s supposed to be—”
Operating on emergency power. Shutdown of non-critical systems in seven hours.
“What? No!” For someone who had looked so calm and collected earlier, fear had engulfed his features. “Computer, how did this happen?”
Asteroid impact dislodged external energy coils. External repair required.
“The ADS was supposed to make sure the fragments wouldn’t get that large.” You found yourself taking a couple—okay, more than a couple—steps back from Mack. Partly out of respect for his personal workspace and partly out of fear that, judging by the look on his face, he might combust. “Computer, what’s the status on the ADS?”
The ADS is offline.
“No, no, my malware wasn’t supposed to take it offline—” He froze, panic painting his face. “I mean—” His eyes darted to your face as if to gauge whether or not you had heard what he just said.
You were right there—how could you not?
“The malware, not my malware. Why would I need malware, Captain?” Mack smiled at you, a little too wide for your comfort. “Ok, um, Computer, give me a full damage report.”
The Invincible II is currently operating on emergency power. External repair to the external energy coils is required. The ADS is offline. The jacuzzi is offline. The snack machine on Deck 12B is offline. The—
“Okay, I get it,” Mack snapped. “Computer, run Antivirus Diagnostic Program 297A, Operation Code 0620.”
Diagnostic complete. Malicious software identified and quarantined. Restart required for further action.
Mack sighed, pinching his brow. His fear was gone, and he was quickly losing his patience. “Alright, Computer, initiate a System Restart.”
Unable to comply. A System Restart requires nominal power levels.
Mack looked like he was about to explode from the sheer rage building up inside of him. Nothing seemed to be going his way, but maybe, you considered, it was his fault that everything was falling apart. He designed the ship after all, didn’t he? It was his ship, right?
He took a few, rapid deep breaths to calm himself. “This is fine, this is completely fine. Don’t worry, Mack. Seven hours is plenty of time to do repairs." His eyes briefly found their way to your face. "Well, if nothing else goes wrong.” Before darting away again.
Something within you was screaming that it wasn’t. That this wasn’t Mack’s ship.
“You’re not my head engineer.” The words left your mouth before you could stop them, and the startled look he gave you made you wish you could swallow them back up.
“Wha–what did you say? That’s… Of course, I’m your head engineer… I—”
“You’re not my head engineer.” The words continued to fall out despite your better judgment. “Mark’s my head engineer.”
The revelation felt like you were waking up from a dream. Gaps in your memory still lingered—
(You were still trying to figure out whether or not Mark was the one who took you on that date. It would bug you the entire time you were trying to save the yours and crew’s ass if you didn’t solve that very minute mystery.)
—but what was there felt firm, solid. The person you were staring at was not your head engineer but some imposter.
“Captain, I–I don’t know what you’re saying. I am your head engineer.” Mack’s voice almost sounded like he was pleading. “And Mark—He’s, er, um, wh–who’s Mark? It’s Mack. I’m Mack. M, A, C, K.” He let out a nervous laugh.
“What did you do with Mark?”
“Captain, I assure you, there isn’t a ‘Mark’ on the crew roster, I—”
“Cut the shit! What did you do with Mark?” you asked again, the sudden anger in your voice seemingly scaring you more than it did him.
In fact, it seemed to have the opposite effect on Mack. Any nervous pleas quickly died away, replaced by the smug steely gaze you glimpsed earlier. “He’s in cryogenic sleep. I didn’t kill him, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“Yes, that is what I’m wondering,” you said, trying to keep your cool against this different Mack. “Because you’re the one screwing us over here, putting—putting malware in the ship’s Computer and leaving us vulnerable. Mark's probably the only one who can fix this 'cause he built the goddamn ship.”
“Okay, okay, the malware was just supposed to temporarily reprogram some of the ship’s systems until I—nevermind. The point is, it wasn’t supposed to shut them down,” Mack argued. “And Mark is not the only one who can fix this ship. He might like to claim he built this ship, but he had help. My help. Any of the structural weaknesses, like th–the ADS, is all his fault. But sure, he can take credit for all the things that work, the stuff that I designed.”
"What do you mean when it wasn't 'supposed' to shut down ship systems? Wasn't supposed to?" Your voice didn't match the utter fear you felt in the realization that whatever this man had unleashed onto the ship's systems was out of his control. He had let loose a wild animal, and there is no telling how much damage it caused before it was quarantined. "And I don't care if you 'helped build the ship,' because I—" The more you stared at him, the more he spoke, the more you recognized him. “You’re Engineer P0620, from the tour.”
A look of surprise crossed his face as your convenience took another turn, one directly in contrast of where it needed to be. “Well, yes, that is my crew number designation. I–I really don’t know how you remembered that.”
“I didn’t know you were like—what?—Mark’s second in-command engineer?”
“That’s because I’m not,” he muttered. “No, I’m not even afforded that luxury for all the things I’ve done. Just a simple engineer, that's all I am.”
“So is that why—”
He put up his hand to cut you off. “Captain, if you keep asking stupid questions, we’ll run out of time to fix the energy coils.”
You bit your tongue. “What do you mean, ‘we’? Are you waking up Mark? Someone else or—?”
Mack gave you a deadpan look, closing the distance so that his face was only a couple inches away from yours. You could feel his breath against your skin, and by God, did someone need to brush their teeth or, at least, eat a mint. “Do you really think, after all I’ve said about Mark, that I would willingly wake him up so he could take all the credit for something I did, again? Even if I was enough of a masochist to want that, waking up any of the crew would consume too much power.”
He laughed. “No, Captain, you’re helping me fix my ship.”