Chapter Text
“The reg’s down again.”
Through the otherworldly haze which has settled over his mind, Echo is left unable to identify who exactly the caustic voice belongs to.
It had descended upon him with the suddenness of early-morning fog, engulfing him in its biting embrace. The sheer density of the ghost-grey gloom easily muddled his perception, leaving him wholly unsure of where or when or even who he was.
The voice he knows - he knows he knows it, and yet the identity of its owner remains a mystery – an indistinguishable silhouette hovering just beyond his reach.
It evokes brief flashes of images; silvery hair, a glare as cold as ice, and a pair of reflective eyes glinting in the dark. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once, and only leaving him more disoriented.
“Kark. Are you sure?”
This voice is different – low and gravelly, yet somehow comforting. There is no bite of anger behind the expletive, only a profound concern.
Somehow, he knows this one too.
Now, the depiction his mind provides him with is even mistier – only ink so dark it is almost black, and a shade of red so similar to blood.
No matter how aggressively he fights for more the information remains vague and insignificant, the true wealth of detail remaining sealed within the impenetrable vault of his subconscious.
He is aware he has done this before; attempted to protect his mind from his surroundings. He had struggled and resisted as best he could with limbs he could barely feel, but it had soon become obvious he never had a chance of winning.
His captors had not wanted a person – a being with thoughts and feelings who would oppose what they were doing to him – and making him do in return.
They had simply wanted a body to play with, and faced with a lifetime of further torture, a body he became.
He pushed everything that made him who he was aside – his mind, his morals, his fight – all to make way for survival.
But even burying his mind beneath layers and layers of protection had not saved him.
They had forced their way in anyway, rummaging around within his precious memories as if they were nothing but piles of scrap metal in a junkyard.
Before long, they had probed through almost all he had, reaching the deepest layer of his mind, their invasive fingers grasping hold of his most treasured remembrance of all – a face identical to his own, sleepy eyes focused solely on him, and a contented smile on his brother’s lips.
He had so desperately wanted to fight back, to save just one image for himself – but by then he could no longer feel his limbs.
The state of panic which had seized him had been overwhelming, and his captors had been quick to drag him back under with a sedative, the memory fading away as quickly as his consciousness.
Now, he still cannot feel three of his limbs, but strangely, there is no sense of fear gripping at his chest. He must have finally grown used to the loss.
His remaining limb, along with the rest of his body feels fuzzy, as if he is made up of only static – shaky white pixels on an otherwise dark screen.
He doesn’t quite feel real.
Perhaps he never truly was.
“No,” The first voice bites, “I’m sure he’s slumped over the control panel just taking a nap.”
“Alright, I hear you,” The second voice replies, pacifying yet tense. “You guys know the drill - Who’s closest?”
This time, a new voice cuts in, so loud that Echo is sure he flinches, even if he doesn’t feel it.
“I am – I’ll get ‘im.”
All he can picture is a spiderweb of scar tissue.
It seems as if no time at all passes between the exchange and a pair of heavy footsteps thudding to a stop at his side. Whoever the owner of the voice is, they indelicately drop to their knees beside him, the clang of plastoid armour against metal floor plating reverberating around the room.
He receives no warning before they touch him, a strong arm sliding between his body and the solid surface holding him upright, pulling him backwards to rest against their weight.
His head lolls backwards, the muscles in his neck too weak to support its weight, and it is only then that Echo hears the sharp gasp from above.
“Guys – his nose is bleedin’ again.”
"Sit him up,” a fourth voice orders, confident and commanding. “Then tip him forward and pinch his nose until the flow stops.”
With this voice, he cannot see anything at all.
He feels himself be lifted back upright, his head now falling forwards of its own accord, his chin colliding with the cold metal covering his chest. The arms encasing him attempt to move him further, but there is a strange restraint holding him in place. His companion tugs and tugs, but he remains rooted to the spot.
“Uh, how do I get his arm out of the computer?”
“There is a release mechanism before the arm meets the elbow joint. Flick the latch, and the scomp will retract.”
The instructions must be accurate, as only a second passes before he is released, falling backwards into his rescuer's arms with a soft thud. A hand almost as big as his head cups his jaw with a gentleness he had not anticipated, pressing him to rest against a broad shoulder.
That same hand retracts just long enough to shift to his nose, two fingers squeezing tightly at the bone.
“You’ve really messed yourself up this time, huh?"
Echo wishes he could answer, but the fuzzy feeling is only growing more prominent, the number of pixels making up his image decreasing with each passing minute, until he is left as incomplete as the hazy outline of a man his mind had earlier provided.
Soon, he cannot feel anything but the soft pressure at the few areas where another body meets his own, the touch his only tether to the waking world.
But even that is fading, the stimulation becoming lighter and lighter, no matter how much more securely his companion holds him.
“The bleedin’s stopped, but he’s still not wakin’ up.”
“Get him out of here. We’ll meet you back at the ship.”
An instinct set deep in his biology tells him to protest – to insist he is fine and perfectly able to continue, but he still cannot get his mouth to move. Even his best efforts amount to nothing more than a pained whimper as his unresponsive body is gathered up and lifted, but the weak sound does give his rescuer pause.
“Easy buddy,” the voice says, and the hold tightens around his thighs and back, “I’ve got ’cha.”
With his mind drifting away as quickly as it is, the change is almost imperceptible, yet not in vain.
Though whose hands they are he does not know, Echo is now certain he is safe within them.