Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The gun merely clicked.

The woman’s breath caught. Her hands shook; her aim wavered. Again, click, and immediately after she harshly tugged at a mechanism at the back of the gun, turning the safety off and perhaps snapping it entirely. She pointed at it again, but she just gripped it tightly, finger hovering over the trigger.

Rivulets of blood filled the ridges under its mouth and eyes. It dribbled onto the man under it, warm against fabric. Its reaction time slogged.

“Shoot him,” he whimpered, arms crossed over his helmet. He shook under it with thinly-veiled gasps for air. It sounded wet. “Please. Fucking do it.”

“I can’t,” she hissed. “Fucking safety was on, and I—fuck, I can’t.”

He pushed at its chest with weak, shaking hands. It merely looked down at it, vision blurring. Cold.

Vertigo swamped it, making it sway, and it fumbled to catch itself. Its arms folded under it as it fell to the side, and its head hit the cold, unforgiving ground—

Noise.

Deafening, raking noise. Shouting.

“We are not wasting our ticket to Titan for—for this!” someone hissed, harsh and raw. “I—we literally will not make quota. We don’t have enough for Rend or Dine, we have to suck it up and—”

“That thing is going to get us killed!” someone barked. It raised its head, slowly, in defiance against the blistering bright light. Someone stormed past it—the one with the stitches in her shoulder. She dragged a shovel along her side, clacking it against the ship ground. It raised its head fully and squirmed, trying to distance itself from the racket, only to find its hands were tied tightly behind its back. It was tied to something. It wiggled its hands and fingers, sending pins and needles through bloated, sweaty skin. “It’s awake.”

It pushed its legs outwards, and then pulled them up to its chest, writhing. 

“Hi,” a third voice said, and it snapped toward the sound, to the scrawny thing in the corner, peering at it from behind a cabinet. Too much noise in every direction; it couldn’t pay attention to all of it—all familiar, all warm and inviting and yet it hurt. Its head pounded.

“Are we killing it or not ?” the woman demanded. “Because I’m not leaving that thing alone with you on Titan.”

“Oh,” the man against the terminal said, bristling. He had tape over his visor. Pleasantly familiar. “So now you’re considering staying on Titan?”

She groaned.

“I think we should stay on Titan,” the one in the corner said, an edge to their tone. “Fifteen’s right, it’s our only way to hit quota. Besides, sunk cost fallacy. We’re here already. We land in one of the thousands of untapped abandoned structures here, get in, get out.”

The man by the terminal looked up at Fifteen, like it was his designation. It suited him. “Thank you. ”

The woman dragged her hand across her helm. “So, what, we’re going to keep it tied up here?”

“What else are we going to do with him?” they asked mildly. “Unless you want to stop waving that thing around for no reason and actually do something with it.”

She raised it threateningly toward them, where they cocked their head and crossed their arms.

“Do it, chicken.”

“As tempting as it is, I’m not going to bash your head in with this.”

“I didn’t mean me, Seven.”

Her arm dropped to her side. Seven, then. The title fit her. “It might make noise and lure dogs into the ship.”

“Nines’ been quiet so far!”

“That’s not Nines!” She snapped. They winced. “Look at it, Five, it’s a—it’s his corpse. That’s not our crewmate. Nines is dead and that is a zombie.”

“I never did watch a lot of movies when I lived on Mars,” Five hummed. “But so what? I think it’s a bit dark to just kill—to kill it.”

“You once helped me kill a bracken,” she said darkly. “Stunned it for me while I beat it to death.”

They took a step toward her, voice raising. “That’s different!”

They all started yelling at each other again. It drained the mask. It writhed in its binds, pulling against them, and then slumping backwards against the frame it was tied to. It bashed its head against it, rattling through its skull.

For some reason, they made them all quiet down. It looked to each of them in turn. Fifteen hovered over humming monitor screens, looking between it and the others. Seven leaned an arm on the shovel. Five rocked back and forth on their heels, hands behind their back, waiting.

“Do you really expect March or Offense to carry us over?” Fifteen asked Seven.

“We… have a lot stored up.” She bumped her boot against an engine. It wiggled some more, stretching its legs to kick a flask across the floor. It rolled. “If it’s a good haul, we can make it worth it.”

“If we went to Titan,” Fifteen drawled. “We can be one-hundred-percent certain we make quota, and make back the money we spent to get here. You weren’t in there for long and it was in the landing we were routed to when—when we had Nines.” His breath caught, but he pushed on. “I insist we go to Titan. I will be careful. I’ll keep an eye on you and that.”

He pointed at it. It jerked its head in his direction. Hello, some broken part of its brain drawled to itself. Hi. Hi. Hello.

Seven sighed deeply, and the discomfort bled from the space. “Don’t get eaten by dogs.”

“Don’t get eaten by thumpers,” he replied. He gave a shaky thumbs up. “Is that settled? I pick what looks like a good spot that hasn’t been wrung dry, and we land, and you two stick together and I make sure you don’t get shot. Capiche?”

“Roger that.” Five breathed and rolled their shoulders. “Onwards!”

It looked sharply toward their exclamation. Again, it pulled against its binds.

They knelt in front of it, hands on their knees. “We’ll be back quick, Nines—er, uh. We’ll be back. Titan’s great, it’s basically a cakewalk to the doors. Dogs are mostly too stupid to claw their way up the stairs. Mostly.”

They reached out and—

“Five.” Seven said coolly. They recoiled, clasping their hands behind their back.

“I wasn’t gonna do anything!”

“Landing,” Fifteen said sharply. He shoved a lever forward with more force than necessary.

The whole ship rumbled and it kicked its legs weakly. The rope held strong around its wrists. The shaking disorientated it; and all the arguing left an illness in its stomach. Or maybe that was the decomposition. 

The craft sighed and shuddered, crunching the ground below. Its gut lurched and it sagged against the frame, shivering.

Fifteen saluted when the ship doors opened. Instantly, frigid cold air blasted in. It shivered out of more than just motion sickness; the suit did something to fight off the cold, but its mask, its face, was still very much exposed. And it cut all the way through its new body, through flesh and blood and sinew.

Five and Seven bid a farewell and turned towards the blizzard. It watched them step past the threshold, and then it strained against its binds again, worse than last time. Where were they going? It knew it understood, it felt like it should’ve, but the fact they were still going out into the unknown made it ache.

A low, wet whine erupted from its gummed vocal chords. Five was out of sight, but Seven caught it. She paused and looked over her shoulder. It scraped its boots against the floor as if they would make it reach her.

And then Seven was gone, too.

The second she was gone, Fifteen grabbed it by the shoulders. “I did not know you made noise,” he hissed, tension threading into his frame. “Shut up.”

He let go and straightened up. He dusted his hands off on his suit.

“Too early for anything to come out. But so help me, if you start making a racket…” he trailed off. “Fuck, I can’t really do anything about that, can I? Just… shut up.”

Grumbling, he turned to the clunky old thing. Terminal. It watched him type something, and a grainy shape appeared. Its brain failed to comprehend the shapes and colors—blue, twin blue dots. And some green lines and more shades of green. Its awkward angle, on the floor looking at what little of the screen visible past Fifteen, did not help things.

Time passed.

It tuned out the blizzard’s roar. And the chill. Honestly, most of it was dampened by the ship’s other walls and its distance from the door. Annoying, but when it focused on other things, it didn’t bite as badly. Fifteen kept typing. Oftentimes it was only two keys, over and over, accompanied by a faint beep. But sometimes it was more. That, that peaceful, recognized typing, was familiar and welcomed. Soft. Good to hear.

Fifteen picked up a small gray thing resting on the terminal’s slanted face. The screen glowed. He spoke into it in a hushed tone. “Seven, watch your right. Bracken, I think.”

The reply was too crackled and faint to hear, but he did sigh, relieved.

It… lulled it. The rhythmic clack-clack-clack of Fifteen’s typing and even the roaring winds, too, soothed it. It crossed its legs and rocked, slowly, despite its binds. The rope scratched against the frame.

Fifteen looked over his shoulder at it and flinched. “Ffff…” He breathed and rubbed at his helm, picking at the tape, but he caught himself and stopped. “Quiet bastard,” he whispered.

He went back to the terminal, but kept glancing at it. Sometimes he wouldn't look at the terminal for more than a second before checking on it again.

This went on for many minutes.

Then, acting far more fed up than it thought deserved, he marched over to it. “Maybe I can move you so I don’t have to keep turning around—not good for my sanity.”

He leaned over it, reaching around to its wrists. He found the knot and tugged, and worked it loose.

When he stepped back, it just sat there. Its leg popped when it bent it. Fifteen looped the rope over his shoulder and held out a hand. “Come on. Up.”

He looked back at the terminal and hummed. Slowly, it reached up and clasped his hand, jolting his attention back to it. He shuddered.

“Right. Right.” He took its other clumsy hand and helped it stand. Shaking, it braced itself against it, and the top of its helm bumped against his chest as it found its footing. It wrung out its hands to get the blood flowing. “Don’t get used to it. And—back up, geez.”

He pushed it at arm’s length. It pawed at his forearm until he slid back. 

“Let’s see…” He examined the area around the terminal, mainly the pipes and wiring along the ceiling.

It stared blankly at the terminal. Two blue dots, close together. One of them held a blip of yellow. Or was that just another shade of green?

It missed the other two. Idly, it reached into its pocket and found the crumpled piece of paper it was looking for. There it was! The photo!

It unfolded it and just looked at it. All four of them, though it itself was different. There was Fifteen, but in the photo his helm was just cracked and not patched up to the extent it was before it.

“Maybe…” Fifteen trailed off. He otherwise worked in silence. He’d managed to get one end of the rope across a cable.

The little glowing box he’d spoken into crackled. “---ifteen?”

He dropped the rope and the whole thing unraveled onto the ground. He snatched the walkie up and answered, “Yes? I’m here.” 

“Coil,” came the faint, rough voice of… which one was it? It held the photograph closer to its face. Tall one. In orange. With the shovel. The—Seven, yes, Seven. 

“I see it. There’s an automatic door not far ahead and to the left. Looks like a dead end; I’ll lock it in.”

Their conversations remained hushed for some time, before Fifteen suddenly sighed. “There you go.”

A pause.

“I’ll check the time.”

He walked outside with the walkie-talkie, just a few steps, but even that made it panic. It shuffled after him, hastily folding and pocketing its dear photo. He wasn’t leaving too, was he?

“It’s five o—fucking hell,” he swore when he turned around to find it two inches from his face. It smelled his cortisol.

It held something out to him. The rope he’d dropped. He’d dropped it. Forgotten it. He’d held it before and dropping it was an accident. He wanted the rope. For something. So it would give it back to him, see?

“Fifteen?” Seven asked over the crackly radio.

“I’m fine! Fine. Just—” Wide-eyed, he took the rope with his free hand. He side-stepped it. It returned back to the somewhat warmer, deeper interior of the ship. He slammed his hand against a button by the door, which hissed shut. “Uh. Our little freak made a noise and spooked me.”

As if prompted, it tried to vocalize and failed spectacularly. A little bit of blood welled up in its throat and dribbled down its open mouth.

“Eegh.”

It followed him back to the terminal, breathing softly down his neck. He set the walkie down and, without looking behind him, tugged on its arm until it stood beside the terminal.

“Thank you.”

He held the rope in his hands and stared down at it, then up at the thing standing in the corner of the ship, against the terminal. He turned only to set the coil of rope on one of the beds.

He cleared his throat and said, “You—you’ve been good, so you can stay there for now. Just… be quiet.”

“Did you say something?” Seven asked over the radio.

“Nope,” he replied. “Loot in the room to your left—no, go back. That left—it’s right, now. There. Yes. Yes. All clear.”

It was almost peaceful. It stared at him. Then, it stared at him some more, and pretended that it wasn’t just the two of them, and the other two were actually very close by.

Something in the corner of its vision, behind its vision, sparked and buzzed. It shook its head wildly to rid the noise.

“Apparatus,” Fifteen said under his breath, covering the walkie with a hand. “They’re looping back, all’s good.”

He spoke to it so soothingly, it nodded, even if it didn’t fully understand the meaning behind his words.

“Listen to me. When they get outside, I’m leaving, too.”

Leave. It recognized that, though. It twitched. He clasped a hand onto its shoulder.

“Listen. Don’t freak out. I am going to help them carry stuff back in here. They will come in here. I will come back. Don’t leave the ship. In fact, uh—” He looked at the terminal view and swore under his breath. “Sit down.”

Slowly, shaking, it sat in the corner. The terminal bleeped as he slammed something down on the keys.

Again, a splitting noise in the mind behind its mind. Some mechanisms in the helm sputtered. A metal box underneath the monitors beeped.

“Dogs nearby. Shhh.”

Silent as death, he crept out of the ship. Its hands twitched in its lap. He wanted it to be quiet and remain in place. It gripped its legs tightly and curled in on itself. It missed them all, out of sight, known only by voice.

The first one to creep in was Five. They set down a clunky engine and then emptied their pockets of a myriad of things. They didn’t even look up, and just turned right around. 

It crept out of hiding, longing for their presence. Something breathed on the other side of the ship. It heard heavy, slow steps. A chill ran up its spine, and it froze. It shrank back into hiding, knees to its chest, and rocked slowly to soothe itself. The word dog echoed over and over in its mind, bring forth a rush of self-preservation that held it still.

Seven and Fifteen returned side by side. “Where is it?” she whispered, barely audible, head close to Fifteen’s. He wordlessly pointed to the corner where it folded itself, and she jumped. “Fuck.”

Something growled, and she took soft, wide steps into the ship. In her hands, she held something large and glowing. Pretty. It stood, slowly, and raised its arms to examine it.

Five returned with a painting in tow, and shut the door behind them. They locked gazes with it and jumped.

Immediately, Seven shouted, “You let it out?!”

“I was gonna tie it up somewhere else!” He threw his hands into the air. Beyond the ship, something roared and scratched at the unyielding doors. “And then I got distracted, sue me! It didn’t eat me and it didn’t wander off and I lied, it didn’t make any noise, it was just walking around.”

He crossed his arms under her stare. “Dumbass,” she whispered. Then she flinched when it reached out toward the beautiful glowing thing in her arms. Grumbling, she dropped it, letting it fumble to hold it. It was warm, too! Very welcomed after the biting cold! It held it tightly to its chest, resting the side of its head against its warmth. 

Seven shoved Fifteen aside and pulled the same lever they’d used to take off. Five watched the whole thing silently. Then, they said, “So, it’s nice?”

“Like I said,” Fifteen said sharply. “It didn’t try to kill me. And…” he mumbled something.

“Speak,” Five said, like a spell.

“I said, I thought, sitting around so long tied up has to be uncomfortable. Can't be pleasant. So…” He withered and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s… good to walk around, you know? I know being cooped up in here for hours at a time can make someone antsy.”

She groaned. Five pondered this, and concluded, “Yeah, that checks out. We tied its hands pretty tight, didn’t we? It's not like we were thinking about its comfort.”

“Stop making sense, both of you,” she murmured.

It was just happy they were all together.

It lost all sense of time, but the others certainly kept track of it somehow, because they knew when to eat and when to sleep and when to wake up.

It couldn’t remember sleeping, but it remembered watching them sleep for hours. Maybe it slept between watching sessions. It sat all night with that spectacular softly-glowing thing in its arms. Seven called it an apparatus, and that sounded right. 

“Last day, gang,” Fifteen said that morning, after everyone had eaten and dressed in uniform. “Titan’s weather is good. I picked us a nice structure that was abandoned in the 2300’s-ish.”

Five whistled. “Nice. Modern.”

“Brand new,” Seven echoed dryly.

“Everyone good to go? Tools charged?”

They nodded and murmured and, faintly, it began to piece together the routine. They slept and ate and then they went outside into the bitter unknown. It shuddered violently for no apparent reason; that was wrong. But it couldn’t place why. Not just because it was apart from them; there was a root cause of the discomfort.

“Landing ship!” he chimed.

It wasn’t until the ship landed did it fully piece together what was missing. Fifteen stayed in the ship, but what did it do?

It went out, as well. Before the doors could open, it reached out and grabbed both Seven and Five by the forearms, standing between them. Yes. Yes, it’d join them.

“Uh,” Five stopped. “Hi?”

Seven looked at her shovel, then at it. “Hello?”

Too late! The doors opened.

“Nuh-uh.” Five tugged their arm free and pointed back at the ship. It stood its ground. “Get back in there. You’re gonna trip over a landmine.”

“If there was any time to knock it unconscious, now is the time,” Seven said warily. 

Its body burned with thought, yes. It knew. It knew how this went! Slowly, it raised its hand and pointed outside. There. Out there. Into the cold, kept warm with companionship.

Five blocked the doors. “Nope.”

“Tick-tock,” Fifteen said darkly. 

“We can’t waste time with this,” Seven said, shouldering past it. It hurried after her. It dug its fingers into one of her arms, head against her shoulder. “Door.”

“Yeah, I—fuck.”

Fifteen shut the door, too little too late, leaving it outside with Seven and Five. It shook with excitement. And bled a little.

“You know what?” Seven called through the door. “We can make it sit outside.”

“Fine!” Fifteen barked. “Don’t kill it, I’m serious! We agreed not to!”

“I’ll try!”

Seven took one of its hands. “Don’t wander,” she muttered. She led it to cold metal stairs, and up them. Clumsily, it followed. Five stayed close behind.

After the first flight, it got the hang of it, and started to keep pace with her more easily. Yes! That felt right! Going with them—somewhere! It had no idea where! Higher up, the wind cut harshly into it, and it shook its head as if to warm. It pressed its hands to its mask. The cold still nipped at the edges. Maybe when it was done, and it struggled thinking into the future, it could curl up with the apparatus to warm up.

Its sense of accomplishment wavered when they came to a new challenge: A ladder.

“Well.” Seven slapped it on the back. It stumbled. “Good luck.”

“You can sit here. Maybe you can carry stuff to the ship?” Five suggested, and followed Seven up the ladder.

It produced a low, mournful noise. Not wanting to be left behind, it scrambled at the rungs, just as it’d seen them climb. Muscle memory itched. One hand above the other, on foot above the other, rung after rung. Its ankle burned.

“Oh, god, it’s actually climbing up.”

It heaved its upper body onto cold cement. A pair of arms locked over its hands and helped pull it up. It almost fell on top of Seven, but she stepped back, letting it overestimate and walk directly into a wall. Its chest heaved, mammalian reflexes forcing it to suck in breath after breath of sharp, icy air that didn’t fill its chest with enough oxygen.

After a moment, it straightened up. Still a bit dizzy, though. It turned around to face its companions. “I’m impressed,” Seven said.

It recovered, pleased. She opened one of the heavy front doors and beckoned them in.

It was warm. Warmer than the ship, even! Heated! A mansion. The description came naturally to it. It looked up at a grand staircase, craning its neck to look at the second story, then the chandeliers hanging high above, glittering. But their team didn’t go to that huge staircase, first, no. They started on the left-hand side of the colossal library, stepping between the shelving. It followed, tracking snow after itself.

“Anything?” Five asked into the walkie-talkie they carried with them. They walked ahead of the group, shining a light with their other hand. They looked up and around, casting a glow over dusty shelves. It was pretty. Fifteen’s reply was too quiet to discern.

Without pausing, Seven grabbed a mug off of one of the tables they passed, and pocketed it. She and Five moved in sync together, shoulder to shoulder, familiar. It lagged behind, distracted with its own thoughts. Why didn’t it settle in with them? It stumbled ahead a bit and bumped its shoulder to Seven’s arm. Together, right?

She took a step to the side. It didn’t try that again. It looked around again. The walls were all the same shade of purple. Supportive pillars stretched high into the ceiling. Something not too far away crackled and glowed, drawing its attention. Five only gave it a brief look, and when they moved on, Seven followed.

Was that a fireplace? It made such new sounds. It meandered closer, holding out its hands to warm them. Its face, too, warmed pleasantly, fighting off the death chill nestled into its being.

“Hey!”

It wheeled around and hurried back to Seven and Five. They stood still, waiting for it to catch up. She held something in her hand. Slowly, it mimicked the gesture. She dropped the… thing. In its hands. It was pink. “If you can hold that, you can be our pack mule.”

It turned the item over in its hands, fiddling with the vents at one end. It found a button and pressed it, blasting hot air into its face. It jerked back and turned it off.

…then it turned it on again.

“Ah-ah. Noise.”

Quiet. That… made sense. So, this was when they wanted it to be quiet. It turned the thing off again and fumbled to slot it into an empty pocket.

“Thanks.” Then, she passed it the mug, which it just held awkwardly. She helped it hook it to its belt. She stepped back, hand raised to the lower part of her helm, looking at it. “Huh. Convenient.”

Five hummed. They swept their light over the area. Gradually, they worked through the rooms. It would be handed something and it would carry it until it ran out of room, at which point Seven and Five split their still-growing collection halfway between them. A couple of unwieldy brushes, some small plastic animals, a colorful toy cube… countless trinkets.

It spotted something glowing to its side and turned. A… lamp! Bright. They had a couple of those on the ship already. It wandered toward it, and heard footsteps behind it. It grabbed it by the base and swung around so swiftly its top rattled. It held it out, proudly.

“Here, let me turn that off for you,” Seven murmured, and did just that. Five shot a thumbs up from behind her. “Let’s swing back around to main and drop all this off.”

And they did just that. Like the most natural thing in the world, it trotted alongside them, arms full. When they stepped into that grand main room, the walkie-talkie crackled.

“Snare flea, I think.”

Five looked up, and it did the same, craning its neck. Something hung from the chandelier high above. As if on cue, it uncurled and dropped, leaving the decor to sway. Five, holding an engine, yelped and jumped back.

A large, fat bug landed on the floor. It flinched. Without hesitation, Seven raised her shovel and brought it down hard. It cleaved clean through the creature’s body, smearing slime and shell across the tile. It moved even after death, squeaking and twitching its legs, before finally growing still when she lopped its head off for good measure.

“Dead, now,” Seven said, loud enough for the radio to hear.

“Nice.”

Seven held the heavy doors open for it and Five, letting in a gust of chilly wind. Together, the depositing all their haul onto the ground. A rubber duck bounced a bit, squeaking with every hit to the ground. It was more careful setting the lamp down. And then they went back inside and repeated it all, going into a doorway and exploring, taking all they could.

It went well. One of the rooms they went in had a big blob thing in it that undulated slowly, but they shut the door on it and turned right around to look elsewhere. Something that honked and squawked skittered past them, between the shelves, but Five had simply remarked, “Spore puppy,” and they and Seven collectively ignored it, so it did, too.

Five turned their light off sometimes. A few minutes on, a few minutes off. If it looked like a straight hallway, it noticed, they’d leave it off longer. It saw alright; they bumped into furniture where it did not.

They were all going on one of those periods of darkness where Five said, “Nine—uh, not Nines, hey, mask thing, don’t wander ahead.”

It, notably, was behind both them and Seven. It crept to the side for a better look. What were they seeing in the—

What was that?

Five turned their flashlight on. Misty white light washed over a figure standing at a far end of the room, facing toward them. An employee in orange, just like it. With an aged white, open-mouthed tragedy mask.

“Hey, you…” Five trailed off. They looked over their shoulder at it. Seven did, too. Quickly, they looked back at the masked thing in front of them. It’d come closer. “That’s…”

Five’s breathing went funny. Their grip on the light shook. Seven did not make a sound. Or move. Even when that thing in front of them all stepped closer, arms outstretched. Its suit was covered in dried blood and its suit hung wrong off its body. It was looking at Five.

Fascinated, motionless, it observed this double of itself as it approached. It walked along unevenly. First, it shuffled, dragging its boots across the wooden floor like it took great effort. Then, faster, each step heavier than the last, as its body inclined in reception to momentum and intent.

It began to run. It felt itself move in response, intercepting it and Five. Its frame blocked their light, casting a dark shadow over the figure still approaching. Its head tilted, slightly, at it, when it interrupted its plan.

It pulled its hand back into a fist and punched that thing directly in the mask. Its head snapped back.

Instantly, the foe twisted to retaliate, raking its gloved hands down its arms, dragging it closer. It kicked and shoved, grabbing for purchase against just as roaming, determined hands. Something under its suit cracked with strain. The way its suit slid over its frame underneath brought into question how much skin and muscle it had left.

The sound it produced was unholy, almost a scream, which echoed sickly through the space. It raised its fist and brought it down again, shoving, forcing its weight over the monster before it. They both went down, sickening doppelgänger below it, one leg bent awkwardly under its weight. It gurgled up sick blood under it, thrashing, scratching, but it was weak and rotted. Pathetic, dying thing.

It kicked it, and then slammed its boot down into its stomach, sending sharpness up its protesting ankle. The sick thing clawed at its legs, and when it reached down to hit it again, it clawed at its arms, then its chest, failing to find purchase with the straps holding empty oxygen tanks. The sound of its fist hitting its mask cracked through the air like when Seven’s shovel cleaved through the snare flea.

It beat its mask in, again, again, again. Each strike brought up more blood, clinging to its glove. The mask material began to split and it shrieked. It hit it over and over and over until its rusted oxygen canisters snapped and crumpled and dug into its back. Blood poured from the thing’s eyes and mouth, and its thrashing slowed. It tried to kick it off, but it stayed firm. Rancid thing. Cruel thing. Trying to hurt its team, its friends, its family. 

It beat it until it stopped moving. Then, breathing hard, it grabbed the edges of its shattered mask and pulled, tearing off hunks of material and dropping them. Veins and nerves stretched between the inside and what was left of the host’s broken face and snapped. And then, it doubled over its still corpse and threw up blood so harshly its own biology, twisted and mangled to suit its needs, burned. The viscous substance boiled through its mask and skull and brain, and then it tore into its suit, abandoning that stupid helmet in favor of the softness of its middle. It was slushy with gore. The blood in its veins activated and melted it from the inside, searing through lungs and liver and pancreas. It turned into something soft and liquid which caved into itself. The floor beneath the corpse grew wet with it.

It bowed its head and fed.

Heat spilled into its insides, filling it where it had once constantly grown emptier and emptier. It braced its hands upon the floor to truly gorge itself, neck-deep in the corpse. Its back ached from the posture.

And then it flung its head up, sending an arc of blood into the air, gasping; the body needed to breathe. It instantly fell into a coughing fit, thanks to swallowing gore directly into its lungs. Its shoulders shook. And when the coughing subsided, it focused on breathing. It lowered its head to drink some more, languidly, just until a rich fullness settled in its stomach.

It leaned back on its knees, hands limp to its sides. The warmth settled in its mind, too; the satisfaction of a job well done.

A string of blood dribbled down its forehead, over one eye. It wiped a hand down its face, sloughing a layer of red onto itself. It looked back at its friends. 

They stood there, just where it’d left them. Seven had the shovel in her hands, but it stayed limp by her side, head against the floor. Five just stood there, shaking for no apparent reason, flashlight clutched in both hands.

The walkie-talkie hooked to their belt crackled. It crackled like it’d been crackling for some time.

It pried itself off the floor, unsteady, physically content in a way it’d never felt before. It stumbled a bit on its way back to its companions, who stood there, stock still. Waiting for it!

With a trembling hand, Five reached down, unhooked the radio, and held it up to their helmet. It was close enough to pick up Fifteen’s yelling. “What was that? Who was that on the monitor? What the fuck was that sound, are you okay?”

“That was—” they stopped. Wordlessly, they held it out in Seven’s general direction. 

“We’re fine,” she said hoarsely. She didn’t look at the walkie, instead just staring at it. “That—that was, oh… Oh, you’re covered in it.”

“What?!”

Seven squared her shoulders and took a deep breath. “There was—there was another one. Another—another masked person. Corpse. It—” Another shaky breath. “It… Ours took care of it, uh.”

“It ate it!” Five exclaimed, voice cracking in a shrill cry. “It fucking ate it!” With the yelling, contradicting their earlier vows to silence. What was all the yelling?

It kept replaying “ours” in its mind. Theirs. Silence on the radio. “Oh,” Fifteen said after a while. A little while longer, and he went on, “So—so you’re all safe?”

“Yeah,” Seven whispered. “I—I think even if it wanted to eat us, it’s too full to bother. Oh, god, that thing is hollow. Just some things up in the ribcage I don’t think it could reach.”

“I… I don’t think I wanted a description.”

“Sorry.”

It reached out blood-smeared hands to the walkie-talkie. Five quickly pulled it close to their chest. “We should get moving again,” they said shakily. “Um, I think it’s trying to say hi. Yes, I told Fifteen you said hi, um, stop that—thanks.”

It settled for just standing really close to Five, even when they pocketed the walkie. They took a deep breath and pointed their light ahead.

“Let’s go.” 

They stumbled past it and gave the dead thing a wide berth. This time, it didn’t lag behind. Or maybe the two were making a bigger effort to keep it from tailing them? Seven took it by the forearm to guide it to her side. “Keep an eye out for… anything weird.”

“Yeah. Yeah.”

It looked up at her, and was happy when she acknowledged it. It wiped its hands, dirtied with drying gore, on its suit pants. It all still clung to its front and head. Annoying. But it was all over and done with, now. Again, a quaint quiet settled over them. They picked up scrap. Five led the way through doors and winding halls. Seven surveyed the area for things to collect. It just… stayed with them. Carried what was handed to it. Seven let go of its arm so it could carry a large oil painting with both hands.

Nothing truly bothered them for the rest of the day. Something thudded in zig-zags in the far distance just as they returned to the main entrance from their final trip, but didn’t show itself.

It was a good day.

Chapter Text

0 DAYS LEFT.

Nobody said a word.

Something about that heavy ringing made it tense, even after the sound ended.

It sat between the cabinet in the wall, folded neatly into the cramped space. Before that night, Five helped it shed its oxygen canisters and the thick straps holding it in place—they were long-empty and thus useless weight. It was much easier to squirrel itself away, now, which it preferred. From its hidey-hole, watched its crew one by one shuffle out of bed and force down a stale meal, while a robotic voice droned about something dull and unimportant over the PA system. Some of them dressed in their uniform faster than others. Straps buckled, helmets pressurized, oxygen tubing connected and secured in preparation for the day ahead. Five tried to give it a portion of food, but it wasn’t hungry. At their insistence (and aid), it drank water. It was still full and tired from yesterday, but it felt like forever ago. Time became meaningless when it had all it could ever want.

When all the routine was said and done, it waited for Fifteen’s speech of how the day would go. Where they’d go. It waited to feel the ship rattle upon landing and the doors to open to blast it with freezing cold winds. But he typed in something to the terminal and rocked back on his heels. He checked a scrap of paper taped to the terminal. Writing crammed down its surface, dark with multiple erasures and scratches.

“How’s inventory?” Seven eventually asked.

“We have enough, plus some to save for the next quota. We’ll be on Gordion in under an hour.”

Five, leaning against the bunk beds, crossed their arms over their chest. They kept looking over at it. “So. About the… ya.” They motioned vaguely to it. It raised an arm in their general direction, tried to mirror the motion, but was too sluggish and uncoordinated to complete it. “Yes, you.”

Stiffly, it spread its fingers out and… what was it called? It waved. They waved back.

“So… I thought about it a bit last night. We could always tie it up again,” Fifteen suggested. “Somewhere in the corner where someone walking by won’t see it.”

“We can have someone hang back in the ship to make sure it doesn’t escape and wander off,” Seven added. All three of them murmured and nodded. “It likes the apparatus. We could keep that with it so it’s… placated?”

“The buzz it makes drives me up the wall,” Fifteen muttered. “The light attracts giants and it’s good money, too. Give it a puzzle cube, or something, to keep it busy.”

Five bent and scooped something up from its spot against the wall. They held something out—a colorful cube, nine squares on each face, all different colors. They tugged at its hand, opened it, and dropped it in its palm.

“Y’know,” they said, while it stared at the thing given to it. “I don’t think it knows how it works.”

“See? Figuring that out will keep it busy,” Seven said. They all looked at it, and it looked at them each in turn. What were they even talking about? Even if it didn’t understand (not that it was paying much attention, admittedly; the cube was distracting), it didn’t mind.

“Listen,” Fifteen started, nudging its arm. It looked up at him, and tried to ignore the urge to mess with the cube more. “We’re landing on Gordion to turn in our quota. Other teams are going to be doing the same thing. So you’re going to sit right here until we’re done, so you don’t give anyone a heart attack, okay?”

Gordion rang a bell in a distant corner of its mind. It tasted seawater. Fifteen—no, all of them—wanted it to stay in the ship. It… liked the ship, despite its blinding lights. It was familiar and comfortable, and it had nice places to nestle itself into a ball and observe.

Fifteen patted it on the shoulder. “Yeah, you get it, don’t you? We might be a while, but we’ll… visit, won’t we?”

Again, agreeing murmurs among its friends. Slowly, it mimicked them somewhat, by nodding its head. Up and down. Fifteen recoiled a bit. “...yeah. You get it.”

The ship shuddered faintly.

“Entering atmosphere. Let me check the autopilot…” Fifteen trailed off to silence to take a look at the terminal. It watched, while Seven and Five gathered armfuls of the things they’d collected. 

Five wandered to the door, looking up at the monitor propped up in the corner. “I’m counting… four, five ships in our immediate area down there?”

“Busy day,” Seven murmured. “Okay. That’s fine.”

The ship landed.

It watched, standing with that colorful cube clutched in its hands, as Fifteen hoisted a bright yellow tank into his arms. The doors hissed open. Instantly, a distantly familiar smell and sound greeted it. Rain. Salt.

“Don’t move,” Fifteen said as he stepped out alongside the others. It did not. The ship was home, just like they were; it stayed put.

Rain pattered the ground outside. It wasn’t nearly as foggy as on Titan, barely misty at all. It heard their boots hit the ground and splash with every other step into a puddle. It watched the rainfall in silence.

Not looking down, it clicked the sides of the cube into new positions. Making the colors on each side match was satisfying, though frustrating to achieve. Click-click-click. Like Fifteen’s typing. He said they’d be back. Not soon, but someone would come.

Voices trickled in from outside. It was against the ship’s main monitors, right up against its back, but it still heard them faintly. It set the cube aside, and watched its window into the outside world with more interest. Fifteen? Or Seven or Five?

A pair of orange-suited crewmates appeared, only faintly visible with distance and height. Seven was the only one who wore orange, while the other two wore yellow—and neither of the strangers had her stature. They hauled a large axle between them. Neither of them looked away from the other or their work.

The gravity of what it’d been told tried to set in. Tried to. People, many more than its own crew. People. Flesh and blood and breathing strangers. As much as it was reminded of Seven, that wasn’t her. Its mind flickered to that other masked thing it killed and ate.

Its hands twitched. The noises told it there were many more than just those two. Of course, at least its crew were also out there. It’d been some time since they left it in the pitch dark. It ticked the cube’s faces meaninglessly, just to occupy its hands, further scrambling the colors.

It looked at the dim monitors. Trying to make sense of it made its head hurt, but that was how Fifteen did his job of watching over them all. He made sense of it, so why couldn’t it try, too? It leaned close to the screen, as if that would tell it who it was looking at. The blue dot was moving alongside another. There were many blue dots. 

The colorful toy cube clattered to the desk and it turned, looking out into the forgotten beyond. It breathed in, taking in acidic air. Slowly, it stepped toward the threshold and peeked its head out. It scanned the surroundings—people, in the distance. Beyond the front of the ship was a sheer, colossal wall that stretched into infinity above. Dim lights hooked up high overhead flickered. Some people kept approaching an imperfection, a cut, into the wall, where scrap was piled.

Too many people. Too many voices murmured and laughed. It shuddered and looked away. If any of its friends were there, it hadn’t spotted them through the crowd. Another ship docked near its, and behind them, a few more. One still smoked with exhaust. Ships meant crew—people. When it tried to picture more people, crews unlike its own, enough to fill all the ships it saw before it, its breathing grew unsteady. Slowly, it crept outside fully into the rain, and made its way down the short ladder. It only stumbled a little. Seven would’ve been proud.

Beyond the other ship were… cargo boxes. Large, larger than the ships, all sorts of colors. People mingled between them, talking, gathered out of the way of the commotion of that thing in the wall. Whatever it was, it growled faintly through thick concrete. Maybe one of its crew, known and loved, would be among that gathering?

With so many, all moving and talking, animated, it couldn’t focus on a familiar figure. Maybe one of them wore Five or Fifteen’s bright yellow suit—? No, several people wore yellow. Some wore green. A couple dressed in blue. Maybe someone with… tape across his visor. Or someone who walked in that militant stride Seven possessed. Even with that narrowed goal, its peripherals fuzzed and its heart beat faster in its suddenly burning chest. 

The smell of people permeated the mist. All the sound melted together into white noise. Defining traits like height and suit color blurred into mud. Someone in the group abruptly pointed at it, and someone else turned. Someone shrieked.

Something within it snapped, and the wall building around its senses shattered, letting in a torrent of entropy that left no room in its mind for itself. The rain felt louder, the colors sharper, and as it took another step, that one who screamed turned and took off in the opposite direction.

It bolted, boots crashing into concrete, deafening itself. More people yelled, moved, but it zeroed in on that one stimuli, that figure taking refuge between two cargo containers.

Someone uselessly stood there, less interesting than fleeing prey, who it barreled past, sending to the ground. Rain rushed by it as it charged, colliding with a cargo container when it failed to turn. It scrambled back to itself, kicking up loose gravel as it ran. Its prey cried out and turned into open air. They made a break back to the people, pleading.

It reached out, closing the distance bit by bit. It’d lock its hands around the oxygen tubing and pull. It’d grab whatever it could look its hands around. It was so close. Excited, heat bubbled up in its throat and spilled from its mouth, fresh and burning. It was so close.

Under the roar of commotion and steps and inhuman snarling coming from the wall—something stood out. Someone ran, not away from it, but toward it, rapidly gaining on it from the side, split off from the rest. A distraction.

It turned to lash out at whatever dared approach, and froze when it locked onto Seven. She sprinted right for it. Its whole body locked up, even as she barreled into it. As if it would’ve fought her.

Its legs went out from under it, and it would’ve fallen had she not had an iron grip on its upper body. Her arms locked around its upper arms, clamping them to its sides. It kicked out into the air on reflex, but she held strong. Its head rang. Someone yelled. Many someones.

“-ease, please stop—stop, stop it, calm down, please—” Her helm nestled against its as she pleaded. Its thrashing stilled. That tone… unsettled it. She spoke the same way that desperate victim had begged and cried for aid. 

Its feet met the ground again. Still, she squeezed it in place. It smelled her fear and heard her heart thundering in her chest. Numbly, it pawed at her arms. Some far-away part of its awareness dragged the word hug from the depths of its host memory.

“Mimic!” Someone in the crowd snarled, hunched and pacing side-to-side, gawking. It jerked toward whoever that was, and Seven dug her heels into the ground. They wheeled around. “Don’t just stand there! Someone get a shovel!”

The resulting jeers and shouting grated it, and it thrashed its head as if to shake it off. Seven squeezed it tight. “Calm down, calm down, it’s okay, don’t go after them, alright? It’s okay. It’s okay,” she hissed to it under her breath.

“I have a zap gun, I—I, fuck—fuck, I hate that—” Someone in the crowd slinked away toward the ships, followed by several more.

Someone dropped the engine clutched in their arms and brought a weathered yellow yield sign into their hands. “Hold it still, I got it. Keep your head away from that thing’s face, fucking hell! Lean back a bit!”

Seven went very still against it. “Don’t.”

“I won’t hit you, I have good aim,” they assured, approaching. It tensed up—they carried that sign like Seven did when she killed that snare flea.

Seven backed up, and it stumbled to follow. She lifted it an inch higher, sending a spike of alarm into its throat—it couldn’t escape. “Don’t—don’t swing. You—” She took in a sharp breath when the person faltered. “You don’t have to kill it.”

The person with the sign breathed in like they were going to respond, but someone new erupted from the crowd in a bright green suit, holding something somewhat familiar high above their head. “I have a gun! Get back.”

Gun. Dimly, it recalled what those did. What almost happened to it. It kicked off against the ground and tried to fling itself from Seven’s arms, scrambling toward the threat. A new dose of blood bubbled up from its throat, spilling down its mouth and splattering off the edge of the mask.

Suddenly, Seven yelped and let go. It crashed down to its knees with a gasp, and looked up to see her doubled over her arms. Blood dripped onto the ground, diluting the rainwater. Its excited gore had burned her and the smell of its own blood mixing with her own filled its senses. She was shaking. Backing up. She looked back toward the ships and then at it, and cursed.

It recognized the click of a shotgun’s safety being turned off.

“Someone stun it already!” the person with the gun demanded, aiming. It stared down the barrel, unfeeling. It planted its hands on the ground and braced itself to take off. Another person emerged, then another. Shovels, zap guns, another person with a shotgun—

And Fifteen.

“Oh, fuck,” he said, quiet but it heard him loud and clear over the crowd, because it loved him and his voice and he was one of the few things that felt right. He stepped forward.

It bolted toward him, gloves scraping against earth as it pushed off, and the crowd broke out into a chorus of shouts. It slammed into him, head against his shoulder, clawing its way behind his back when he turned to the crowd. Here he was, its friend, who would keep it safe. Something to ground itself against.

“Oh. Oh, fuck. Fuck. Um.”

He backed up, corralling it behind his back. “Nothing to see here,” he laughed nervously.

“What are you doing,” the person in green with the gun asked coolly. “You’re playing with fire, back the fuck away! What the fuck even is that?”

“Mimic,” someone murmured. “Masked. Kill it. It’s not a person. Probably putting it out of its misery, anyways.”

He reached behind himself and it gripped the offered arm tightly, shivering. It produced a low noise. “Calm down,” he hissed. “I’ve got this. Probably.”

He looked quickly over his shoulder and kept backing up. The crowd of five, six, a dozen, advanced.

“It doesn’t bite!” he announced, loudly, and began to actively shove it toward the ships.

“It does something much worse than biting!” someone shouted.

“Listen,” the one in green snapped. “It’s my first time seeing that thing, but some people here tell me that thing’s gonna eat your face. So back up.”

Five tore free from the crowd like a manticoil from the earth. “We hit quota! We leave now!”

As they ran toward them, they locked their arm around it and dragged it. It stumbled backwards, unable to keep pace, and hissed at the crowd. Fifteen turned and helped them haul it to the ship. It began to thrash, bristling.

A single shot rang out and the ground inches from its boots exploded in shrapnel. It lurched and lost its footing, but now Fifteen was actively putting effort into hauling it, with or without its contribution.

Whatever was behind the walls roared. The few individuals still by the hole in the wall dove in every direction as something lashed out of a little slot. A cluster of barbed, writhing limbs scraped against the floor and wall, inches from startled people. Strangely, people got very quiet, shushing each other. Fifteen took the opportunity.

The edge of the ladder along the ship’s balcony dug into its back, scraping distastefully against its spine, making it arch and kick. Fifteen squeezed past it to get up, and Five helped push it up. It did nothing to help, shaking, opening and closing its fists, wrapping its hand around imaginary limbs. “Get up. Come on, move—”

A shovel came down onto Five’s head. They shouted in pain and released it, and it jerked forward. “Fuck off!” the attacker snapped, shoving them to the ground. They raised the shovel again. It lurched, only for Fifteen’s arm to lock around its neck and drag. How dare they? How dare someone hurt its crew? 

Five tackled them down, and finally, Fifteen jerked its useless body up the ladder. It scrambled to its feet, heaving, snarling. It hated the noise and eyes on it. It wanted them all to stop staring, to go away; it wanted to be back in the ship—there, reason clicked in its mind, snapping its senses to a frightening clarity. Its crew were trying to escape with it.

It turned and ungracefully flung itself into the ship, into bright but familiar lights. Shaken, it landed on its knees. Faintly, it heard Five frantically scale the banister, kicking someone in the head in the process, to get in as well. Fifteen slammed the button to shut the doors. Something hard hit the outside of the ship. The yelling muffled significantly. It heaved, trying to welcome the silence, but instead it just heard its blood rushing through its head.

“Wait, where’s Sev—oh.” Five went quiet.

A figure slumped in the corner of the ship, breathing hard and unsteady. Blood—her blood, employee blood, not its—stained her arms a deep velvety red. Something rushed through it, something that made its heart hammer hard in its chest. It tried to stand, stumbled, and grappled to the wall for support.

“What happened?!” Fifteen demanded.

“It—it—” she stopped when it stumbled closer. She flinched, stopping it mid-step. It shook violently. It hurt her, burned her, seared straight through her suit. 

“Your suit’s—why didn’t you shut the door sooner?! Gordion’s water is toxic and it’s raining!” Fifteen went to her side, pulling one of her arms out to show the damage.

She made a strangled, pained noise. “You were still out there,” she gasped. She leaned back and knocked her head against the monitor desk.

Five slumped in front of her, something small and marked with a plus in their hands. It just stood there and watched. It wrapped its arms around itself. Its own skin stung, chest and arms and hands. But the sensation was distant, dwarfed by the pain Seven was in. It watched Fifteen remove his gloves to carefully pull back stripes of melted suit, burned against skin. Seven was sturdy, she was confident, and it had hurt her, scorched her flesh.

An alien noise rose in its throat. A hiccup. It shuffled closer, shivering. Its hands balled up into fists and it took a conscious effort to keep all the blood inside its body. Even if its toiling emotions demanded to express, to take form burning hot, it didn’t want to hurt any of them. 

It was its fault for leaving the ship and—its memories fuzzed. The people, full of ripe life and chaos. It’d chased one, hungered for many, maybe? It got distracted.

“-not terrible, I think,” Fifteen was saying. He’d been speaking, while it was blinded by its own mess of a mind. “I, uh. Haven’t seen a lot of burns. Any, actually. But I think the suit took most of it. Fuck, these things are sturdier than we give them credit for.”

“Great,” she wheezed, and then she went silent. Slowly, it knelt down beside her, like how the others had all gotten down on its level to speak to it. But unlike them, it hunched down, head low. It pointed a shaking hand to the spot beside her, opposite Fifteen. They all looked at it, visors glinting in the ship light. She shifted, and nodded once.

It slumped beside her and wrapped its arms around her. Its breath hitched in its throat again and it buried its mask into her shoulder. The rain washed off most of the blood and the rest had begun to dry, harmless, but it still flaked off on her. It squeezed her like she’d done to it.

“It’s…” she breathed shakily. “It’s… I know you’re sorry. I don’t know if I fully—ffffuck—forgive you. This…” She whimpered like a wounded thing. Five murmured an apology. They’d produced a bottle of water and, uncaring of the mess, poured it bit by bit over her forearms. The water ran pink. She didn’t speak for a while, and when she did, her voice was tight. “Just. It’s okay.”

It hugged her tightly and hiccuped again. Her breathing, slowly, evened out, only hitching every so often. 

“Do you want me to send the ship?” Fifteen asked quietly.

Five looked at him, bewildered, and asked, “What, is this call on me?”

“Listen, I don’t—” he stopped. Sighed. “I… if we get up into orbit for a bit, we can… maybe land on the opposite station. Gordion doesn’t have a lot of landing bays but we can at least get away from this one. We have spare suits in here, but we need to pick up our rations from the Company.”

They groaned. Soon, the ship rumbled. There was some distant, muffled shouting. Fifteen rested his head in his hands, elbows on the desk. He didn’t move or speak.

Five eventually sat back. Seven gripped her knees tightly, careful not to let her wounded arms touch anything but the air. Five set the medical kit down. “I don’t know what else to do. This might just need time.”

“I’ll live,” she said hoarsely. “We’ve been exposed to so many fucked up pathogens, even with these filters, that I don’t think an infection can kill me.”

“Shut up before you jinx it,” Five mumbled. There was none of their usual vigor in their voice. They sighed and laid back, arms splayed out.

Seven’s head lolled slightly to the side. Her heartbeat slowed to a new, steady thrum. She was dozing off. Tired? It squeezed her a bit tighter to better feel her pulse, her life, to know she was still there.

“Loosen up,” she mumbled. It did.

Fifteen sat against the bunks, knees up to his chest. “Hey, um.” He motioned vaguely to it, huddled against Seven. “You should’ve stayed on the ship.”

It tried to hide its face, breathing gone off-kilter again.

“Don’t start arguing,” Five said tiredly, not budging from their resting spot.

“I’m not! I just… want to make sure it knows.”

“It’s crying,” Seven said quietly. “It’s kinda… gasping and shaking. So. I think our buddy feels pretty bad.”

“Oh.” Fifteen’s head dropped to his knees and he clasped his hands over the back of his helm, sighing. “Well, gang. We’ve made it this far, so we’ll live.”

Five raised a single thumbs up. “Cheers to that.” And then their arm dropped back down with a heavy thump. Quieter, they added, “We’re in deep.”

“Very,” Fifteen murmured. “We… fuck, we really are. What are we doing?”

“It’s just our crewmate,” Seven whispered. It didn’t know if the others heard her, because they didn’t respond.

Their crewmate. It belonged.

Despite that, it shivered. Fifteen watched it from within his huddle, visor peering between knees. “It’s okay. Relax. We’ll be up here for a bit—an hour, even. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

That last sentence sank deep into its bones. They wouldn’t let anybody hurt it. It stared at him, weary mind overclocking itself to soak in the intent. Then, stiffly, it nodded. It still felt… rotten. For hurting Seven. For leaving the ship, despite its own nagging urges. But it trusted them all. And if they said that Seven would be fine and nothing would hurt it, that it belonged, it believed them.

They had each other.