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It's all Chilton's fault.
Will hacks through a thick, blue vine. Viscous green fluid gushes out where the machete cleaves the plant. The vine falls away with a meaty hiss. Will maneuvers around the limp stump, careful not to touch it with any part of his body. The burns along his naked arms have just stopped oozing fluid. He would rather not acquire more. The machete's blade is crusted with congealed slime. Will bends and taps its tip against a nearby rock. It breaks off in a jagged line, corroded. Will sighs and lets the weapon drop. It's more a danger than aid now.
The path Will follows is narrow and well-beaten. It is not always the clearest way through the forest, but Will doesn't dare stray. There's no telling what hides in the shade of large-leafed bushes and curving trees the color of coral. Shrill cries tear through the heavy silence from time to time. The sound of them has Will's neck prickling.
Planet G-437 is not supposed to sustain life. Its orbit is a tight circle around a small, red sun that should have burned the planet's soil barren. Above-atmosphere scans had certainly come back negative. Katz had run them three times before the Captain approved the landing. They had not had much choice at that point. The ship had been down to fifty percent power and falling - the work of an unexpected meteor shower and some pretty shitty steering. Not to mention the Merosian computer bug eating its way through their systems.
"And you," Captain Crawford had wheeled on Will after chewing out the crew on shift, "Not a word out of you."
Will had shrugged, tight-lipped. He had made his feelings regarding their unscheduled side-trip to Merosa perfectly clear. Several times, in fact. It was a Guide's job to offer counsel. Whether the Captain listened was out of his hands.
The landing had gone as fine as it could have, under the circumstances. Verger had taken over the controls. The woman is a good pilot - the best in their crew, if not in Quantico as a whole. The reason why she isn't their Chief Navigator escapes Will. She gets them through G-437's atmosphere safely despite a number of complications. The ozone layer turns out to be much thicker than expected and the entry is rough. The ship's outer layer burns off entirely. The craft itself flips over twice before finally crashing on its belly.
Right in the middle of a ravine, fenced by steep mountains covered with trees the colors of gems. Will had taken one look at the Science crew's slack-jawed expressions and mentally steeled himself for death.
That had been four days ago. Less than that, in fact - days on G-437 amount to 15 Earth hours, give or take an hour. Overall, the situation is tolerable. The water proves safe to drink, which is good given that the ship's filtration system is completely shot. They have enough food to last them at least a month. No predators had made themselves known, although that doesn't stop the Captain from mandating a strict patrol over the perimeter. Stubborn Crawford is, but he takes his crew's safety seriously.
Will's word, on the other hand, may as well be coming out of Cassandra's mouth for all the attention it receives.
A fat, white, beetle-like thing the size of a fist meanders across Will's path. Will pauses to let it pass. He follows the creature with his eyes. The beetle's coloring blends well with the bone-white grass that carpets the land. It disappears from sight as soon as it crosses the dirt road, camouflaged by tall white stalks. The dirt, at least, is still familiarly and reassuringly brown. Will digs his naked toes in the soil, grateful for its warmth. He had shed his shoes a few miles back. An incident with a gourd left them soaked in pus-colored fluid that ate through the leather like it was paper. Will had been fortunate not to get any on his skin.
Another shrill cry breaks the silence. Will flinches. The sound is unsettling - too much like a human voice yet distinctively not. Will resumes walking, gait as brisk as he can make it. The soles of his feet are swollen almost beyond sensation. The rest of Will is similarly sore and tender. Earthly skin is not made to withstand the glare of a red sun. Will's cheeks and nose had blistered by the end of the very first day. He is certain his shoulders are sunburned under the thin fabric of his suit.
Will shivers. His uniform sticks to his back. The dried sweat has him shaky and cold despite the heat. He glances around. Vivid red trunks are slowly being replaced by vegetation of darker colors. Shrubs grow thick and tall, filling the space between the trees with their bulk. Blue vines twist over the forest floor. Some stretch across the path, hanging from protruding branches. Will rubs at his exposed forearms. Scabs scrape his palms. He drops his hands and rolls his head on his aching neck. The path narrows up ahead. Not for the first time, Will wonders whether he is walking to his death. It really doesn't matter if he is. He won't make it long on this forsaken planet anyway.
It's all Doctor Chilton's fault. Chilton's paranoia and arrogance and inability to follow simple commands-
Will decisively ends that train of thought. Blaming the dead is hardly in good taste.
Will's stomach clenches with hunger. His last meal had been a day ago, in the form of a hastily-consumed breakfast as he and Lounds prepared to search for their missing doctor. The memory of Chilton's dismembered body floating in a quiet pond turns hunger into nausea. Will swallows heavily. In retrospect, splitting up had been a monumentally stupid idea. All the worse for being Will's own. Sure, climbing steep rocks on an unfamiliar planet while Lounds prattled about the high level of psychosis among Guides had Will wanting to gnaw his own wrists open, but hey, he's attended office Christmas parties. He's had worse.
Lounds hadn't protested dividing efforts. Will has the sneaking suspicion the woman had turned tail and returned to camp as soon as Will disappeared from view. Will hadn't cared at the time. He had certainly been glad for Lounds' absence when he had found Chilton's half-eaten corpse. The empathic bleed-through the scene had inspired had left Will reeling. Whatever had killed the doctor had done so with skill and a design in mind. Certainly not the work of a predator whose only concern was finding a meal.
The tranquility of the past few days gained a sinister edge in the light of that revelation. Will had hurried back to camp, his heart like lead in his throat. The ship was a sitting duck, and no matter how many men Crawford had securing its parameter, unfamiliarity with the planet and its inhabitants left them all at a fatal disadvantage.
Halfway down the cliff, the path Will followed had twisted to allow sight of the valley below. Will had halted so suddenly it was a wonder he didn't pitch right off the rock.
The ship and its crew were gone.
The land caved inward where the ship had crashed. A dozen or so fire-pits still stood, the ashes smothered. Will had made his way through a space that had until that morning been occupied by tents and people and their home away from Earth, wide-eyed and numb. He had been careful in his perusal of the grounds, meticulous in his search for an explanation. There was none to be found.
Will's pace has been steadily slowing. The numbness of tired muscles is being replaced by sharp, hot jolts of pain. Will staggers to a seat in the dirt. He will rest, just for a few moments. Then he will carry on. The path must lead somewhere. He means to find what lies at its end, whether shelter or death.
The communication band around Will's wrist gleams dully in the waning light. Will waves his hand over it. The surface glows blue. NO CONNECTION scrolls across in red letters. Will looks away. The flare of disappointment is illogical. Their equipment hasn't been working correctly since landing. The Science crew ascribed the electronic failure to interference by the planet's magnetic field and atmospheric density. That would also explain why G-437 had slipped under the radar of probes for life in the planetary neighborhood.
Doctor Chilton had his own theory. The man believed that the mountains fencing the valley served as buffers, dampening outgoing distress signals. Chilton had been pushing for a team to climb one of the cliffs and attempt contact with the nearest Union base. Crawford had refused to risk men in an unfamiliar environment.
Well. Crawford has to be right sometimes.
A quiet rustling tears Will from his thoughts. His head snaps toward the sound. The vegetation grows thick and dense around the path. It is impossible to tell if something is hidden within it.
The rustling repeats. Will's muscles tense, the pain of exhaustion dulling under a surge of adrenaline.
He pushes to his feet just a second before a large mass breaks through the foliage and falls upon him.
Hannibal shifts. The movement is minute, disturbing not a single leaf. His quarry has crouched low. Resting. Hannibal cocks his head. He adds lack of stamina to his observations of the creature.
Hannibal has been tracking the small male since dawn. He has not seen the creature's kind before. Not in his forest, and not in any of the neighboring territories. Hannibal had first believed him a mammal of prey - dull-minded and of use only in death. The ease with which the male's kin had fallen to Hannibal's teeth had certainly not spoken too highly of the species as a whole.
Hannibal studies the small male with narrowed eyes. The creature does not differ too much from his companion. He suffers from the same overall softness. His scent is a similar atrocity of metal and sharp, foreign things. Hannibal should have found the creature displeasing. He had, when the male had first stumbled onto the scene of his kill. Hidden behind rock as he is now by heavy black leaves, Hannibal had waited for his chance to spring upon the creature and end its miserly life.
Then, the male's haggard expression had - twisted. Changed. A flicker of something familiar had passed over the creature's face, awakening an answering sense of recognition in Hannibal's chest.
And so the chase had begun.
Hannibal seeks sight of that strange expression now. He doesn't find it, but finds his attention caught nonetheless. The fullness of the creature's lips, the wide set of his eyes, the soft spill of hair around his face are all unnatural. Hannibal can't look away.
The male looks up. Large blue eyes lock on Hannibal's own. Hannibal stiffens, muscles tensing in preparation to spring. The male rests his weight back on his arms, calm. Hannibal uncoils by degrees. He has not been spotted. Not consciously. Hannibal's mouth thins in a smile.
The creature has proven uncannily intuitive.
A quiet noise has Hannibal's head snapping to the right. He hadn't heard anything approach. The noise repeats, overlain by a soft rustling that is terribly distinctive. The scales along Hannibal's neck and arms rise. Some steps away, the small male stiffens and raises to a crouch. Perhaps he means to run. Perhaps he is bracing for a fight. Neither will help him.
Hannibal knows what is coming.
A black mass breaks through the forest. Hooves strike the earth with enough might to make it shake - a display of power as terrifying as the Wendigo's throaty howl. The small male falls back. He raises his arms in a futile warding gesture. Hannibal's mind dips under a white haze. His vision narrows to the male's terrified face.
Hannibal bares his teeth. He breaks away from his shelter of shadows with a rattling hiss.
Will can't move.
He wills his legs push him back. He wishes his hands to his sides, bids them scramble for anything that can be used as a weapon. His body remains unresponsive, as if turned to stone. Delirious, Will half-hopes it is so. Stone ought to crack less painfully than bone and flesh.
The monster bellows again. Its breath stinks of death and rot. Its teeth glint, thick and sharp in its meatless head. Red eyes glow in its skull. Green moss and ink-black feathers cover its body, human-like despite its enormous size and four-limbed crawl. Clawed hands gouge the earth on either side of Will. They cage him in, the threat of violence obvious in the taut stretch of bulging muscles.
Will desperately wishes he could at least close his eyes.
The monster's rumbling breaths are suddenly muted by a low, drown-out hiss. Will feels the shift of mass at his back. The monster raises its head. Will manages to gather enough strength to turn his.
A different nightmare stands behind him.
The creature is human-sized. Its appearance is male by Earth standards. Will is not certain that counts for much, given it also bears a strong resemblance to a serpent. Slit black eyes. Thin lips, curled to reveal fangs rather than teeth. Dark scales lie in rough lines over the creature's cheeks and down his arms. Its fine, sand-colored hair shivers with the enraged undulation of its neck vertebrates. The lower half of its body is - Will blinks furiously, willing the image to change. But no, the tail is still there, coiled tight in a gleaming onyx mass. The tip rattles when it twists.
Another puff of rancid breath has Will's attention snapping back to the front. The monster's eyes are on the snake man. Slowly, the monster lifts one of its massive hands and reaches for Will. The snake man hisses and darts forward. There is no time to think, no time at all to weigh decisions or wish for a different fate.
Will puts all of his remaining strength into pushing his body back. His shoulders hit something solid. A second later, large hands grasp his shoulders and a strong body curves over him. A jolt goes through Will. He raises his hands to clutch at his chest. His heart beats madly behind his ribs. His fingers shake. Above him, the snake man shudders.
The monster whuffs again. It doesn't attempt to advance. Its yes burn in the gloom, like globes of fire. The snake hisses. Will gasps; under his palms, his heart skips a beat.
Mine.
The snake had said, Mine.
The monster cocks its head left, then right. The thick antlers protruding from its head tear through the arch of vegetation above when it pushes to its feet. Its throat vibrates with a long, growling cry.
Then it steps off the path and disappears.
Will stands still. The terror he had felt in the monster's presence has not departed with the creature. Will would feel it for years yet, were he to live for years. His temples are wet with sweat. His chest heaves.
Will takes a breath, and looks up.
Dark eyes meet his. Not black, as Will had first thought, but amber. Heavy and rich, like forest honey. Like old blood.
Will's breath hitches. The creature tightens his hold on him, perhaps expecting its prey to run. Will is through with running. He is through with trying to make sense of this planet, with seeking a way to familiar safety. There is nothing familiar here, nothing safe.
Will holds the creature's hard eyes. And speaks.
Will you kill me?
Hannibal's hands tighten over the creature's shoulders. The male flinches. Hannibal loosens his grip. He spreads his fingers, instinctively seeking to cover more of the creature's body. His tail lashes gently through the dirt to curl around the male's seated form. Not touching. Not yet.
Blue eyes flick down, then raise to Hannibal's face again. The creature's fear makes his scent bitter. Hannibal inhales deeply. His eyes flutter shut.
When they open, he finds himself mirrored in the male's upturned face.
It was you, the creature breathes. His mind throws up an image - a beautiful tableau made of rocks and water and blood. Hannibal feels the creature's horror. Hannibal feels, too, echoes of the pleasure he had felt as he sunk his teeth in a meaty human throat.
Human. Is that what the creature is?
The male shakes his head. Damp curls fall over his eyes. Lines of tension erase Hannibal's joy from his expression. Hannibal watches and marvels at the mate he had been given. A lifelong search, ended so abruptly.
In the end, it is his mate who had found him.
"What is your name?" he asks. The human - his companion, the one that shares his spirit as surely as Hannibal shares his - lifts his head. Blue eyes focus just under Hannibal's own. The male fears what he will see in Hannibal. Perhaps because he does not wish to see a reflection of himself looking back.
Hannibal does not plan to allow him the choice.
Will, the human says. Hannibal repeats the sound. The connection between them carries meaning rather than words, but the shape and feel of them still fill the ears.
"I am Hannibal."
Hannibal.
A pleasant thrill has Hannibal's tail tightening around Will. The very tip comes to rest over the man's ankle, rattling softly against the sharp jut of bone.
"Come with me, Will."
Will swallows. Hannibal tracks the bobbing of the man's throat. His own feels dry.
After a moment, Will staggers to his feet.
Hannibal catches the male when he stumbles to one side. He wraps an arm around him, feeling thin skin and brittle bones. Will is small and soft and fragile. Keeping him safe will prove a lifelong challenge. Hannibal delights at the thought. The ferocious, wicked glint in Will's eyes as he experienced Hannibal's bloodlust second-hand will come to live in Will, as well. It must, if the male is to survive.
"This way," Hannibal says. He guides Will further down the path, to where his home and nest hide in a palace made of stone. Will lets him. Will follows, as Hannibal had followed him.
Deep in the forest, the roar of a Wendigo king breaks the skies.
Will presses closer. Hannibal thinks of the heart he had harvested from Will's kin, hot and heavy in a pouch hanging from Hannibal's belt. He will feed it to his mate. He will scrub the awful, foreign scent from his Will's body until only his mate's own is left. He will bring Will into the world anew.
One bite at a time.