Chapter Text
Red sat alone in navigation, visor fixed on some point in the distance. He'd locked the doors behind him; it was the only way he felt safe enough to keep his back to them. Thoughts ran fast through his mind, and he shuddered.
Dead.
All under his watch, the crew had died, one by one, until only he and Purple were left against Green. He blamed himself.
Dead. Dead.
Green being an imposter wasn't something he expected, nor was dealing with any imposters something he'd ever considered facing. Yet here he was; in that very situation. He'd trained for this. Maybe? Surely he had, but he couldn't remember. Perhaps he'd gotten distracted during whatever tests he went through to prepare for this disaster. That was like him, wasn't it?
Dead. Dead. Dead.
It wasn't the imposter crisis that scared him, however. Though he feared his own death, it was the murders of everyone else that made him lose sleep.
Not because he missed them.
But because they were back. Scarred beyond repair by all means, but... Alive again. Somehow.
There had been a cause, an explanation, for how the crew was walking once more. But lately his memory had been fuzzy. Blue said it was due to trauma, or something like that, but he was so distracted that it wasn't clear. The doctor's looks always made listening hard–it did for everyone–but it wasn't because he was attractive that Red had struggled to focus. It was quite the opposite.
Nothing felt right. Red couldn't look at his crew the same anymore. They were bloody, unsettled, and dead, but walking around, breathing and talking, though not the same as they used to. They were not the same. There was something wrong, and Red knew that. White may have been happy, optimistic, and oblivious as ever, but underneath it there was a deep wrongness. That's as far as Red could describe it before his mind would go blank, and he'd forget what he was talking about. But he remembered the dread he always felt around them. But then again, he was stupid. Purple made sure he understood that when the stress became too much for them. So maybe it was all in his head.
Red forgave Purple for what she said. He didn't hold any hard feelings toward her, or at least, from what he could remember he didn't. What if he forgot to forgive her? Impossible. A good captain never forgets! Yet he had been as of late.
He'd gotten closer to Purple over time, ever since the crew came back. Purposefully, he'd begun spending more time with her, because she was all he had left. Everyone else had died, so he stayed close to her. They were quite good friends, now, even if she was aggressive and emotionally distant from him. He could tell she was as scared as he was, sometimes, but he'd forgotten about those moments. He just sees her as a brave, emotionless, responsible head of security, who he's very good friends with, and surely nothing more, right? Nothing more is happening between them. Nothing.
Suppertime was approaching. Red didn't realize until he heard a scuffle in the vents, and a gruff voice muttering about dinner being burnt again. It was certainly Lime; a nightmare wearing his own skin pieced together, leaving the vents clogged with blood. Red shuddered and curled up in his chair, hoping deeply and fearfully that the vent would stay closed. Thankfully, the mutters faded as the engineer crawled past, continuing to complain about a ruined meal.
Red used to enjoy mealtimes; he used to love spending time with his amazing crew. Now, he dreaded when his stomach began to growl. He wished earnestly that he could just pretend nothing was wrong, but the fear gnawed at him more everyday; the wrongness felt stronger. It wasn't any worse, but he sensed it more strongly. Red felt overwhelmed. He considered skipping supper, but he'd already stayed hidden in navigation during lunch. Purple was probably worried.
Oh, dear Purple.
Red's stomach was beginning to hurt, and he sighed. Even if he could just get over being around his crew–get over the fact that they were different in a bad, bad way–it wouldn't make the food any better. Yellow and Brown had been terrific chefs before their deaths. Now, Yellow was so frozen from being ejected into space, that she kept the oven on at all times, highest temperature, to keep the kitchen warm, often burning the food. Brown's body wouldn't cooperate properly anymore, ever since he was murdered and mutilated, so preparing food was a struggle. Plus, the finished product often times had his blood in it.
There was something so wrong with what had brought the crewmates back. The thought always came suddenly, frightening Red everytime. He knew he wouldn't be able to remember; unlike most things, he couldn't get close to recalling anything about what brought the crew back to life. But the uneasy feeling that came with this sudden thought made him think it was dark. Then he'd stop trying to remember. Maybe it was better that way.
If there was one thing Red wished to forget, it was that the crewmates' deaths were his fault. He wanted to be rid of the burden, but Purple could never encourage him enough to convince him he was blameless. He was the captain, it was his responsibility to keep everyone safe, to make good decisions, to not be so stupid...
Dead.
Red sighed, covering his visor with his shaking hands. He had to keep going.
Dead. Dead.
What he did or didn't do in the past didn't matter. What mattered was what he did now, as the captain of a recovering crew. That's what Purple always told him.
Dead. Dead. Dead.
Purple would want him to go eat something. If he didn't, she'd be at navigation in minutes. So, Red stood from his seat, took a breath, and walked on shaking legs to the doors to unlock them and go. Go socialize with all the wrongness in the ship.