Chapter Text
Communications Officer Doug Eiffel floats at the console, his shaking, blackened fingers barely able to work the controls. He's done this little song and dance literally hundreds of times now, but in the dark and silence of the newly-dead shuttle, every movement carries a different sort of weight.
Eiffel is now certain that he's going to die. There's no avoiding it anymore, not with the electrical grid offline. Not with his water stores depleted. Not with blood in his teeth and his hair falling out from hundreds of cryosleep cycles, not when he's alone in the void without even the slimmest chance of rescue. Deep Space Survival Tip #199: Confront reality head-on, right? Well, now Eiffel's staring right down the barrel. Time's up. Game over. 'That's all, folks.'
He doesn't have the energy to scream anymore. His throat's still ragged from his last regularly-scheduled breakdown. There's not enough water left in his body to waste on tears, either. So instead of wallowing, Eiffel does what he does best: he switches on the radio.
"Mayday, mayday, mayday. All ships at sea. This is Doug Eiffel, on board the... USS Horrible Unending Nightmare. I'm in need of immediate emergency assistance. Please respond."
The line crackles empty static back at him almost like it's mocking him. "Surprise, surprise," Eiffel mutters. After two hundred and sixteen days of goddamn static, what's one more to wrap up his miserable existence?
Eiffel keeps talking to fill the silence. To drown out the static. He's barely even aware of what he's saying. He doesn't think it really matters, anymore. He winds his arms tight around his ribcage. He can trace the outline of each and every rib. His skin is thin and papery to the touch. His arms reach far enough around his insubstantial waist to run fingertips over the prominent notches of his spine. He barely feels like a person anymore.
He misses Hera.
"After all that crap, I never made it back."
God, he misses Earth.
"Guess I'm never gonna talk to..." That sentence withers and dies on Eiffel's tongue. Even now, he's too much of a coward to face that particular skeleton in his closet. "... Well. There's a lot I'll never get to do."
The static hisses back at him through rusted speakers.
"Alright folks. This is it."
Eiffel is so scared.
"Good night, and good luck. And take care of yourselves."
Eiffel doesn't want to die.
"This is Doug Eiffel, transmitting from the USS Horrible Unending Nightmare. Signing off."
The comms click off. The silence stretches.
....
....
....
"Eiffel. listen to me."
Hera's in his head again. She's as stubborn as ever. Eiffel's glad she's here with him, at the end.
"You're not going to die here. There's too much you still have to do. You don't get to go away just yet."
The fog in his head is thickening. His vision's closing in. Maybe he'll be lucky. Maybe death will be just like falling asleep.
"It's going to be hard. And it's going to be scary. But you're going to get through this."
Eiffel lets exhaustion drag him under. Imagines a kind voice in his ear.
"Everything's going to be okay."
....
....
....
....
....
....
....
....
....
....
....
The speaker crackles to life.
"Hello? This is Dr. Captain Ryland Grace, transmitting from aboard the Hail Mary. Is anyone there?"