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The complex was never quiet; there was always a dull noise following after them. If there wasn’t, it only meant something was wrong. Woods didn’t realise how much he needed the dull noise. It could pull some of the weight of his thoughts away just for a few spare minutes before they’d stack up again, waiting to drop. Woods looked at the rest of his team, pressed up against walls and tables, an assortment of their belongings and whatever else they found to make shitty beds. He could see the way their chests rose and softly fell even under all the gear plastered to their bodies.
Sometimes, Woods would simply sit there, listening to the others as they slept. How their breaths mellowed out to something subtle, but still audible. It hadn’t hit him how much he needed that noise. Their voice, their breathing, a heartbeat—anything to signify that they were alive.
There was a quiet exhale that shook out of Woods’s lungs. Staring down at his own gear, he hadn’t yet taken off. He practically slept in everything they took down with them. Too scared to ever take it off. While the rest would carefully line up their guns, Woods constantly kept his own strapped to himself. Whatever it was—habit or a necessity—it was like pulling teeth for the polar bear to take them off.
It became a ritual that the others slowly picked up on. Whenever they’d agree to stop and sleep for a bit, Woods kept himself busy. One by one, he’d clean and clear out their guns before his own. Leaving them back exactly where the others had left them. Ruling out their next moves or plans of where they needed to go, whatever it was, he’d pace around silently, thinking about it. The others didn’t say much, and he didn’t mind. Woods liked the process, finding it to be the only soothing thing the complex or warden allowed him to have and keep. They’d let him, even if they knew he needed sleep.
It wasn’t a surprise to any of them that Woods barely slept, despite their wishes. Despite Dauda’s pleas and worries about their captain to rest as well, he couldn’t. More likely, he wouldn’t . Woods shook his head, baffled by how any of them could find any way to ease themselves into sleeping. For all the drugs they seemed to pump into them, whatever kept them up and running worked maybe too well on Woods. Not that he cared too much, however, finding it better if he didn’t sleep. Woods could keep watch, make sure everything was aligned and that they were safe. It’s all that mattered to him. Still, when he tried to sleep, like many of the others, nightmares had found a way to slip through the hazy fog of their own memory to remind them of their wrongdoings. Backstories replaying until they were shaken awake, drenched in sweat.
Woods found it to be no different. The flashes of memories, the imagery, the voices—they were all the same to Woods, all a reminder of why sleeping was pointless. Nailing in his skull that when he let his eyes fall, it would only result in disaster.
He could still recall the way Dauda’s voice lowered to something so austere and desperate it made his skin crawl with disdain. She begged him to sleep, even if it was just for thirty minutes. His bones ached with a heavier weight than the backpack he carried. A dull ache hung heavy inside his head, right above his eyebrow, throbbing every time his heart beat. Chronic pain was just another numb emotion he felt, pushing through it even if it meant it would eventually kill him. He knew what Dauda thought, but there was no easy way to stop the habit. He was just an old dog with no new tricks to learn.
Still, when peeking back at the group, there was a wave of penitence to the fact that he knew she was just worried about their captain. No matter how much he tried to drill into them that they were far more important, they found ways to loop back around and bring a spotlight to all his thoughts. It wasn’t their fault the way his mind worked. And he’d never blame them for it. No matter how much they tried, it was just another excuse for Woods to do better. To work harder under harsher conditions, to worry less about himself, be more confident in a body that didn’t belong to him. Controlling something he had no strings to.
Woods caved. Dropping his backpack off carefully, he slipped down to the ground, not too far off from the rest, but positioned where he could still see the two doors they’d already locked up. Lying down, his bones protested, creaking and aching as he tried to get comfortable on the cold tiles. Woods’s eyes never closed, but he laid there nevertheless. There’d been times he’d lain on the floor. Finding the sensation to be soothing for whatever soreness was bothering him on that mission. The others found it to be mildly amusing, seeing their captain lying on the dirty ground, arms crossed, not daring to budge.
He forced his eyes shut, forcing himself to listen to the noise that came from his other teammates. Their soft hums, the quiet rustles of them turning in their sleep. It was the only thing that kept him from going completely insane. The distant whizz from the fans blurring, the occasional beep from the old computers still trying to run code, to the hollow wind that whispered through cracks in the walls. They were okay. He forced himself to think. Nothing would get in. They joked Woods was trigger-happy, itching for an excuse to wake up from any hint of a noise that seemed out of the ordinary. He sold them the excuse that he was just keeping on high alert. They saw through some of the bullshit.
It went dark, and his chest heaved with a gasp. His paws shot out, reaching for the pistol in his gun holster, only to find nothing. Scrambling, he forced himself up, watching the room spin so fast he had to close his eyes tightly to get a grip. That only caused more anxiety to rise up through his body. Woods looked around, senses having a field day as he caught onto too many details. The room was too hot, his clothes stuck to his clammy fur, the mask nearly suffocated him with each airy breath he made. Lights blared in front of him, casting themselves down a long hallway.
Woods saw blood splattered on the walls and floor. From footprints to smeared handprints. He barely registered that he was running until his heart was thumping loudly in his eardrums. His voice was silent each time he yelled for the others, but he could still feel the vibration from his throat.
The more he ran, the worse it got. Limbs, spilt guts, bullets, empty mags, it was littered on the ground the farther he descended. His footsteps were a crescendo of thunder as he begged for the others. The farther the walls seemed to stretch, the more he panicked.
Everything was lost. Everything is out of control. He had no say. His heart rate spiked, and his vision blurred. Woods stopped at the notice, body shaking as he realised. Tears softly seeped into his mask. Tearing the outer helmet off, he scratched the other off, seeing it stained purple from blood, wet around the front from his breath and tears that continued spilling.
He didn’t remember the last time he cried. Woods's chest heaved as he tried to get better control, suddenly scared that he couldn’t. Every time he looked around, the lights would flicker, and he no longer knew which direction he came from. Wet footsteps slithered in the dark as Woods's skin crawled. Stumbling, Woods couldn’t get a single noise to merge from his throat, no matter how hard he tried. It was only the hyperventilating breathing that would come out. Deep down, he knew running was useless, finding it all to be the same hallway. It was futile, but still, he pushed himself further.
If he could just find a door, a turn, some stairs—That's when something grabbed him. Woods didn’t scream, but the noise that left his throat terrified him more than whatever had a tight grip on him. One tug, and suddenly he slammed to the floor, his head banging on the floor, making him see stars.
Woods tried to kick, but only another hand would emerge from the dark to grab and keep him still as he was drug. When he tried to flick his light on, he was mortified to find it was gone. Everything he had, everything that kept him and the others safe—gone.
He was never really the type to beg, finding it never to aid him. Prayers, however, he found himself muttering as if they were helpless, begging he found others to do so, so often. Counting the prayers like soft clicks of a clock each time it moved, he started a new prayer, hoping someone would hear it.
A light flickered, and he barely saw the sickly eyes of someone. His breath caught in his throat as a sob bubbled up.
Thrown into the middle of a room, Woods sputtered, coughing and hacking as he tried to stand up. Shoved down, he didn’t dare try to get back up, finding those eyes boring into him. Most things didn’t scare him, but those eyes, they had him feeling smaller than he’d ever had. Shrinking, he clasped his hands together, pressing his hands into his head, blocking his view as wet footsteps grew louder until they stopped right before him.
“Look at me, son.” A deep voice, alluring in ways that only scared him more. He shot up, eyes widening at the figure. A mangled body, contorting in ways he’s never seen. Tendrils of limbs that bent in ways he’s never seen bend. It stood much taller than he, engulfing him with just its shadow.
Woods's voice broke, “I’m sorry.” That was all he could find to say. Pitiful, desperate, he muttered it again and again. It gripped his face, leaning closer. Eyes were glossy as it ignored his tears. “You know what you’ve done.” Again, a sob was the one thing that could escape as he wanted to look away. It hugged him, cradling his body as he sobbed, voice hoarse as he begged for forgiveness he didn’t deserve. Forgiveness that wouldn’t be given.
Everything is out of his control. Out of his hands, his thought, his vision. Everything was gone. They were gone. They were somewhere he couldn’t find, dead where he couldn’t reach. Too late. Not being fast enough, not quick enough. Failing them—
Woods gasped. Sitting upright, he clutched at his thigh, finding the gun holster there. The gun was there. His hands clambered as they searched for every piece of his belongings, voices overlapping as he couldn’t get a firm grip on his surroundings. His hands clutched into fists as he tried to steady his breathing. Forcing himself to breathe out of his nose, he looked around. That's when he saw,
“Captain?” Bishop’s voice cut through the thick wave of noise, seeming to deafen every other noise. He was alive. Still, his eyes darted around, standing up, his head rung as he found the others' bodies. For a split second, he could see blood seeping from their clothes.
“Woods,” Bishop said more firmly, still holding the small quake it always had, but was more confident. He met the others' eyes from across the room. “Th-the others.” Woods coughed out, embarrassed by his stammers. How vulnerable he suddenly was. Even if it was only Bishop. Any of them seeing him like this, it.
“The others? They’re asleep.” His voice came across concerned, hesitantly looking at the other two, still sound asleep, before looking back at Woods. He took a deep breath. “Right. Right, they’re asleep.” Woods said, distant, still not sounding like it belonged to him. “Are you alright, sir?” Woods's heart caught in his throat, immediately forcing out, “Yes. Y-yeah. I’m… I’m fine.” The other stood still, clearly not believing him, as he let out a quiet huff. “Tha’s a’bunch of bollocks, sir.”
“Huh?” Woods paused, honestly caught off guard. Neither moved from their spots, and Bishop leaned one foot to another. “Can see you shaking.” Woods looked down to see his paws trembling uncontrollably, and he hit himself mentally for letting it get that bad to begin with. For letting the other see him like this.
Woods sighed, “It was just a nightmare. Y-you can go back to sleep.” He tried to reassure, but ultimately failed as the other awkwardly rubbed his arm, “Not like I can really sleep easily here.” Still trying to get a bearing on his surroundings, he hummed. It didn’t feel real. He could still see the flicker of the hallway, the eyes that poked from the blackened shadows. “You’re…you’re safe, right? Everyone’s alright?” It came out forced, eyes darting to Bishop before the other two.
Bishop turned to look down at the others. “Yes, everyone’s fine. Why?” He wasn’t sure why it was so hard to open up. Everything had to be pried open with a bloody fucking crowbar, and even then, Woods kept everything locked so tight it was a miracle any of them managed to get their captain to talk about how bad some things were.
He rubbed his helmet, ripping at himself at how his hands stuttered, worried that the world he woke up in would revert to the one he was just living in. “Do—Would uhm,” Bishop started before pausing, sighing in frustration as he tried to carefully pick his words. He understood the sentiment. “Would—you like company?” Woods swallowed. Deep down, deep down, Woods knew he did. He tucked the screaming thoughts as he nodded. “If—If you don’t mind.” Woods said, almost shyly. The other shook his head.
It was Bishop who took the initiative first, carefully tiptoeing past the other two before he was near Woods. Slumping down on the ground, Bishop took a more graceful approach, sitting crisscross as Woods let his legs sprawl against the tiles. His head hurt, and he was somehow more tired than he was before he woke up. The dull silence was better, but he could feel Bishop’s eyes constantly flickering back to him, then to the ground.
“Sorry you had to see that.” Woods mumbled earnestly, carefully taking his helmet off to breathe better. “‘S alright. We all get 'em,” Bishop muttered, twiddling with the end of his fins. Woods gritted his teeth, leaving his hands clutching the hem of his mask, shaking, nervous to move. “You want me to turn away?” The other suddenly asked, voice softer than he’s ever heard it. Gulping, he silently nodded, watching the other turn. Pulling the mask off in one quick motion, let cold air hit his burning face. Even though Bishop could hear Woods shoving the mask somewhere else, he still kept his head turned away. “You…you can look.” “Right.”
He felt Bishop’s eyes slowly and carefully crawl around Woods's face, hesitant to wherever he dared look. “It helps,” Woods started, voice huffing with exhaustion, low and quiet. “Having the mask off. Especially after,” He waved his hands around, and Bishop hummed. “Guess I can’t blame ya. Don’ know why we try to sleep.” Woods couldn’t help but lightly chuckle. Bishop looked puzzled. “It feels like the nightmares get worse each time.” He exhaled, running his gloved hand through his hair. “Each time they just make me…” Woods paused. Bishop tilted his head, waiting patiently for him to finish, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He trusted them, he swore too, yet was still too scared to admit that his nightmares were a leading cause of some of the fears that kept him running.
“If it, uhm, makes ya feel bettah. Mine are pretty shite too. When others see it…it’s uncomfortable.” The other wasn’t looking at him at all, staring hard at the ground as he continued to fiddle with his clothing, swallowing. “I know. I know why Dauda has us take breaks. I just can’t get out of my head.” The words fell loose, timid, like revealing a grand secret. Their voices were hushed, keeping low.
Finally, Woods muttered, “I don’t want you to see me scared.” His breath was uneven as it caught the angler fish’s attention. Woods kept his head resting against the wall, letting its coldness seep in to soothe the burning headache still lingering. It was quiet for a while before Bishop started, “I…” he sighed, “You know I—we don’ think differently, right?” There was a twinge of pain because, of course, he knew. But it didn’t work as easily as that. Paranoia was easier to trust than actual trust itself. He found himself in an uphill battle over it constantly.
“Pot callin’ the kettle black, I know,” Bishop offered, a small twinge of a smile hinting from the other. “I’s hard to open up. To know it’ll be safe, I guess.” For as much as they disagreed, there were far too many things both could understand. And that, as well, was terrifying.
Woods rubbed his face again, wanting to wipe the tiredness away, with no avail. “I know you guys can take care of yourselves. I’ve seen it firsthand on so many occasions. But when we sleep, I––” His throat closed, unable to look at the other even if he could still feel every glance given his way. “What…if I’m too late?” There was nothing left to interpret; the quiet oh from Bishop was enough to know. “If I don’t sleep, then I’m aware. And if I’m aware, I’m in control.”
There was a subtle shift, and when he finally looked, Bishop had got just a little bit closer. “No offence, sir, but I know what the lack of sleep does to ya.” Each word was careful, not wanting to tip anything, and Woods could only huff a noise of amusement. “I know. I know.”
And just like that, the silence rose; a comfortable silence at least.
“Truthfully, I… I get scared to sleep. Knowing nightmares are jus’ waitin’. It’s…exhausting.” Woods patted the spot beside him silently, and Bishop carefully considered. He saw the small changes in his expression through the helmet before quietly shifting over. Their arms brushed against each other, and that was fine. “Exhausting not knowing.” Bishop continued, curling up slightly. “Exhausting tryin’ to explain.” “I understand.” Woods mumbled, peeking down at the other. He looked just as tired as him.
Looking at the mask again, Woods sighed and left it there. “When…you saw me. After my nightmare, I guess I just panicked. Wanted to assume everything was okay.” “Hard to believe when you looked like you were going to break the table, how hard you were grippin’ it.” That made Woods chuckle, an honest to god one that got Bishop’s attention. Despite how his face flashed with heat around his cheeks and ears, he had a smile tug. “I just want you guys to be okay.” He ended, his smile slowly falling. His expression fell back into the more hardened one. Bishop let his head softly hit his arm, still curled up.
“I know you will. You’ve always had.” Bishop’s voice was small, merely a whisper that made Woods pause. “Even if you're restin’, you’ve kept us safe.” Both fell quiet after that. Woods left with the words he had just heard. The rare softness and vulnerability from the other man. The safety, knowing he could do it. That they were safe. He was safe.