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idiot

idiot

𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘴𝘯𝘢𝘱𝘱𝘦𝘥.




://ACT_ONE_WARM_WELCOME




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hayley w.



simmer








://JORDAN_CHAPMAN_

"I'm only going to say this once." The imposing woman purposefully paced in front of the crew scattered around the SS-Azael's lounge. The articifical light was harsh and coupled with the unpleasant yellow accents, one could tell this was an older model of Melton-Hisano Corp's world-renowned spaceships.

"You are all under my watch." Words cut with unwavering authority, it was crystal clear the captain, Jordan Chapman was a woman of little patience, "what I say is final—"

A single hand rose from the crowd; belonging to a nervous man in a wrinkled suit, pinned with an MHC-branded nametag — 'Griff Pritchard'. Adorning a nervous smile, Griff opened his mouth to speak. Yet, it snapped shut at the menacing icy-glare from Jordan. She already knew what is was going to be; some garbled company bullshit that made her job harder than it needed to be. Griff swallowed audibly, nodding in response.

A childish giggle erupted from an eclectically dressed woman in the corner, worn heeled boots perched on the counter. Jordan had already categorised all the crew and Valentine Lacasa fell into the 'troublemaker' category. Don't even get her started on her work attire, or lack there of; decorated in bright colours, conflicting patterns and plenty of chunky accessories.

"As I was saying," Jordan ignored Valentine, "I was hired to keep you all alive. That is only possible if you all listen to everything I say." Jordan punctured every word, voice stern.

"If you don't mind me asking, Captain," the chief of security, Tony Varon, pushed off the yellow-padded wall, "what exactly is the mission? I mean, I understand we are to find out the Desdemona's status but why send scientists?" His rolled-up, sleeved hand swept over the crowd, "no offence to you educated folk," bearing his usual smug smile. Jordan couldn't deny she hadn't thought the same, but she didn't let it show.

"To be frank, I have no idea." Jordan admitted but didn't falter. She noticed the young blonde clinical-assistant perk up, beginning to scribble something down.

"Well, what about you, Suits?" Tony gestured to Griff, whose blue eyes went wide, "you bloody work for them, you must know why they sent us over their own lackeys?" It took Griff a moment to respond, as though collecting his thoughts. Jordan couldn't help but pity the man.

"Oh, uh...well, at MHC, safety is very important to us!" Griff smiled nervously, "the MHS-Desdemona is one of our more...confidential expeditions. Regardless, these workers are our family and we wanted the very best for them, which is you guys! We like to be prepared here at MHC, this could merely be a comms failure or..." he trailed off, following with a mere whisper, "...mutiny."

"In other words, MHC is covering their own asses from another scandal," Valentine sat up in the metal chair, adjusting the cherry lollipop in her mouth. Griff had no response, growing smaller in his chair by the second. Jordan recalled the incident in which MHC were under fire; one of their flag ships combusted randomly, killing all the crew on board.

"Enough." Jordan said coldly, silence filling the room, "we are to make contact with the Desdemona in the next hour. Lacasa and Holkar, you both are to report to the bridge and try reach Desdemona's comms. The same goes for you Dirix, I need you to get ready to land." Valentine offered a playful salute, linking her arm with Daksha's, the pair heading out.

Jordan's attention turned to Tony and the three soldiers, "Varon you are to gear up your team and have them report to the main bay for landing. This includes Miller and Schulz, we may have injured aboard who require immediate attention. Also, I believe it will be beneficial if you accompany them Jin-Sook in case of mechanical failure." Tony nodded, signalling for those called upon to follow him.

"Everyone else will remain on board until we find out what is the Desdemona's status," Without another word, Jordan turned, ready to head back to her captain's quarters to prepare.

"What about me, Captain?" Jordan swivelled around on her heels, the question having come from the young blonde, her dyed-pink ends brushing against her face.

"What about you, Dean?" Jordan's eyes cold and challenging.

"I'm part of the medical team too, they will need me." The blonde complained but Jordan could hear a crack of fear laced in her words. Her youthful skin glowed in the harsh lighting, a bead of sweat on her temple. Jordan noted it.

"Dean you are to remain on board unless your assistance is needed," Jordan didn't wait for a response, the mechanical door opening at her presence, "everyone is dismissed."





♡coded by uxie♡
 
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interactions: idiot idiot (Griff), ThatNewGuy ThatNewGuy (Cave), forest fire forest fire (Amos)


”You cannot go back and change the beginning, but you can start where you are and change the ending.”​

☤​

An exquisite eyebrow arched as the woman of the hour made some final remarks before adjourning their ‘townhall’ briefing. The nurse lingered by the counter, leaning with an elbow placed on the smooth chrome. She was dressed in a nondescript navy sweater, tawny tresses fettered in a loose ponytail and a plastic ballpoint pen with the words ‘PANACEA . Flight Nurses Incorporated’ inked along its side twiddling between thumb and forefinger.

Ruby lips pursed as she recollected the main points of their meeting as was her habit. Even so, there really wasn’t much to go about, a concern seemingly shared by their suave Chief-of-Security who voiced his opinion to the bumbling Pritchard. Ah, dear old Griffy. She’d only known him for a bit over 5 days and already found his hapless puppy-dog ways exquisitely adorable; especially the way his blue eyes shifted when she spoke with him. She wondered if he knew more than he was letting on, or if he too was left lurching in the dark.

Amelie caught the Welshman glancing in her direction and the corners of her mouth curled languidly in a warm smile. Perhaps she would find time to wiggle some information out of him. . . Or maybe it didn’t matter at all since they’d be finding out anyway in a couple of hours.

She pushed off from the counter, intent on making preparations for the boarding. On the way out the sliding doors, she passed by their resident tall dark and charming soldier-boy who’d the audacity to play eyes with her under Captain Chapman’s hawklike gaze.

“Hey,” she nudged him with her elbow, “looks like we’re up mister Carreira, gonna need you to watch my back out there,” she quipped, a grin brightening her face.

Cave's cheek tugged up with the trademark, roguish smile when he turned to face her. Gaze warm and inviting, scattering the artificial light. It glistened with soft greens and browns locked in a dark halo of his irises. "Me watch your back, moça?" Gesture coming off causal when his body breached her personal space and he pulled on the hem of her shirt. Like a boy in the kindergarten. "Damn girl, I was hoping you'd be the one watching my ass."

Amelie let out a throaty chuckle at Cave's retort, "watch your hands buddy," she made a playful show of waving his hands away when she felt the tug on her sweater, but despite her tone, her tawny eyes glittered with impish mirth, "your ass? I'm not sure there's much to look at there..."

The tip of the pink tongue flicked against his bottom lip. Before he made a clicking sound by the corner of his mouth, indicating fake disappointment. "How about..." He turned side to her with a silly grin, playfully exposing his nicely shaped rear. "You touch then instead?"

She fixed him with a mock frown even as a smirk curled the edges of her lips, "you are absolutely incorrigible." The nurse turned to leave, but not before casting a few words over her shoulder as she made her way out the sliding doors, "keep dreaming about it- see you in an hour."

"I don't even know what the word means, gostosa!"

☤​

“Depress loading clip until the suction pipe pops out. Uncap foam canister and attach nozzle to the pipe. Once the attachment is secure, push canister into the slot until you hear a sharp click.” She heard the telltale click followed by a hiss as the loading indicator of the Trauma Foam Injector (TFI) lit green. “Adjust pressure and viscosity settings according to foam specifications. Indicator will light blue when the injector is primed and ready.” After the push of a few buttons on the handheld device, sure enough, the indicator flashed a steady sapphire.

Amelie brought her left hand forward, aimed the TFI and clicked the trigger. A steady stream of cloud white foam diffused onto the back of her wrist. She brought her hand up for a closer inspection mouthing a silent count as after exactly fourteen seconds, the whipped cream looking foam shrank and hardened into something akin to pliable silicone. “Neat,” the nurse nodded her head, seemingly impressed.

PANACEA certainly spared no expense to equip their flight nurses. While the CPN was no stranger to Portable TFI’s let alone the wonders of Trauma Foam, having been trained in the trauma and emergency department herself, this was the first time she held such a comparatively small TFI. This was barely larger than an industrial nail gun while those she was used to required an additional shoebox-sized foam primer. The device in her hand was worth more than her salary for a whole year, before taxes.

Turning to a couple of half-opened carton boxes on the steel work table beside her, she grabbed a couple of foam canisters from them and inspected the labels.

“Hey Doc,” the nurse quizzed, she’d seen doctor Miller enter the Medbay sometime during the prep and assumed he was making his own preparations for the boarding, “Novamed™ or AstraSanitas™?” She turned with a foam canister in each hand and held them up for him to see, “ordered both cause I wasn’t sure which one you’d prefer- personally, I’m used to Novamed but I heard AstraSanitas upgraded their formulation for more efficient spread.”

Getting Miller’s input, she proceeded to fill a side pouch with several canisters of foam. After some final checks, she headed over to the corner where her protective suit hung on a rack, pulling her sweater over her head as she went, not bothering to change in the toilet despite being clad only in a black bra and tights. Other than the fact that her back was turned to him, whatever interaction she’d had with doctor Miller the past few days were nothing short of mature and professional so she didn’t really feel the need to take a walk. Folding her sweater neatly onto the shelf, she pulled on a black form-fitting thermal and pressure regulator before beginning the process of fixing up her outer suit.

The protective suit was one of the newer models, cutting down on bulk without sacrificing function. Its outer synthetic polymer fabric was painted mostly white with pink linings in the colours of PANACEA, the flight nurse’s organisation she’d signed up with and a red medical cross band on the left arm.

“Could you help me with the back?” Amelie called out to her colleague as she held her long hair to the side.

She waited until he approached before giving voice to a niggling thought, not sure why she felt the need to lower her voice a notch, “any guesses about what we’re going to find?”

For the rest of the remaining time, Amelie would help Amos with his own suit and finish up their prep before following him out the Medbay to join the others.

 
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yananovic borgov




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Молчат Дома



Судно








://ACT_ONE_WARM_WELCOME

Game on. He could feel the countdown ticking the way you can sometimes feel your blood pumping through your veins. The man stood behind some folks and turned his head repeatedly as if there was something to miss out on if he couldn’t have everyone in his sight. There were still so many new faces around, it was hard to keep track of names and sorting them to the right physical image. As the woman up front held her speech that wasn’t as motivational as Yanan thought it would be, he couldn’t help but redirect his attention towards her by the drilling sound of her strict voice. The captain was intimidating, he had to admit. In fact her presence reminded him of his father’s.

For a while he was able to keep his tongue quiet as Captain Chapman’s words were commanding.
"What I say is final,“ and after that he certainly wasn’t going to question that - at least not right now. Day five is still too early to piss off the captain. When a lonely pale hand rose over their heads that belonged to dear little Pritchard, he pushed his lips together, eager to see the interaction. It was retrieved as quickly as it was in the air. Yanan suddenly snorted loudly at the situation and exchanged some funny looks with Miss Lacasa as they seemed to not be able to keep a serious attitude. Thing is, stuff is more funny when you’re supposed to be quiet. Always has been.

When the chief of security asked why scientists were on board, Yanan felt addressed and eyed the man while tilting his head. He was just about to state how important scientists are on expeditions, when Mr. Varon made his thought process clear. But honestly he had no idea why he was here. Once it was all about protocols and regulations of this mission, he didn’t mind being clueless, it bored him. Deep down he suspected the MHC wouldn’t pay him for being no use on this ride. He was here for it, very patiently waiting until things would unfold the way they always do. He’d make sure to have a bit of fun here.

Yanan kept his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. Before the meeting, he was managing some DNA samples and securing the data on the hardware before shoving them back into the cooling station that would hold them in cozy -20 degrees. Under his coat he wore a light blue shirt with the classic caption "baby girl".

While a small group of the crew was selected for further investigation once they’d have direct contact to Desdemona, Yanan was surely not a part of it. Still he couldn’t hide the childish excitement on his face for whatever would await them. He rubbed his hands together as everyone started to get going and noticed the woman across the room who hadn’t talked all that much in the past few days. With large steps he made his way to her. "Exciting day today, isn’t it?" he pushed his glasses back up on his nose. His eyes were wide and they rarely blinked.

"Ah," Amaia seemed to hesitate with her reaction, as if she was contemplating if she wanted to answer at all. "Yes. Of course." The russian seemed more exhilarated than her, which he didn’t understand but he tended to not be understood as well. "You must be eager to see your brother again!" he assumed and gifted her a slight smile. "It’s all I can think about. I am looking forward to seeing him. I just want to know he’s okay." He nodded slowly. There was someone he missed too. But Yanan wouldn’t see her a few feet ahead of him any time soon.
"I hope he’ll soon be here with you." Just then the alarm of his watch went off. "Scanning complete. Please report to the laboratory." His latest project of analyzing a species of fungi was in its process. "I’ll see you later, Holt," and with that he left. Borgov rushed back to the laboratory to resume his work. With his palm placing itself on the cold wall’s ID censor, the iron gate opened for him. If an ID implant wasn’t one of his best ideas…





♡coded by uxie♡
 

















status



healthy, but terribly anxious



location



the lounge, her room, the bridge



interactions



borgov, lacasa, a wave to holkar



tags



mangomilk mangomilk idiot idiot













AMAIA HOLT



THE FAMILY MEMBER






Amaia liked to have conversations with people in her head.

They couldn’t argue back in unexpected ways or disagree with her when she didn’t want them to. They wouldn’t point out when she stumbled over her words or slurred in her speech. They wouldn’t stare at the steadily-darkening bruises beneath her eyes, and they wouldn’t make note of the way her limbs quivered like she was freezing even though the world outside was burning.

They would only see what she wanted them to see, and say what she wanted them to say, and that’s how she liked things to go.

Staring at the captain’s back, Amaia imagined herself calling out her name just like Julie Dean had, then waiting with bated breath for Chapman to turn around.

She could picture Chapman, wearied and absolutely vexed by the gall of her, swiftly barking out, “What can I help you with, Holt?”

And if Amaia then said, “I want to go with you,” a uselessly childish plea, Chapman would stare at her in disbelief for a moment. Just a moment.

Chapman might then say, “Get your head out of your ass, Holt,” while she’d mean this:

I do not have time to be your babysitter. You are deadweight. You are worthless. You are here due to the generosity of some corporate shill who has no idea what kind of shit we’ll have to deal with—and that’s where the generosity ends. Be grateful that you’re here, and don’t press for any more than that.

It would hurt to hear, but the truth often did.

So she just sat there and watched as the captain headed off to her quarters, lips pinched thin beneath her fingers in order to quell the words that hid behind them. A fool’s mouth is his destruction, and his lips are a snare to his soul.

An hour until they made contact with the Desdemona. Sixty minutes until she found out what happened to her brother. Thirty-six hundred seconds until she knew if she would be able to sleep for more than an hour tonight. Too long.

Her hand fell to her lap, and like a broken dam, her lips parted without her permission and words gushed between the cracks. “Can I...” Too quiet. Who was she even speaking to?

Get your head out of your ass, Holt, she reminded herself, and then she looked to the corner of the room, where she knew Valentine Lacasa was sprawled out. She stared at the scuffed-up bottoms of the other woman’s worn-down heels and mustered up the courage to ask the woman, “Can I go with you?”—but she never actually got the chance to.

Borgov seemed to make like a ghost and materialize out of thin air. Amaia almost jumped at the shock of it. “Exciting day today, isn’t it?” he asked her, but all she could think about was how she could feel his breath puff against her cheek with every word he spoke. He was too close.

“Ah,” was all she could manage to say at first—but then she took a step back, and she could breathe a little easier. Exciting? Amaia was more inclined to describe it as nerve-wracking or terrifying, but she didn’t think Borgov would understand why. “Yes. Of course.”

Borgov’s head tilted. He seemed to know she wasn’t being completely honest, though he didn’t appear all that bothered by it. “You must be eager to see your brother again!”

His eyes were drilling a hole into the side of her face, even as he presented her with an unusually kind smile. It gave her the impression that if she wasn’t honest with him, he would stay and prod at her like one of his experiments—though maybe she was just being paranoid, and he was just being nice. Head, get out of ass, Amaia chanted internally.

“It’s all I can think about. I am excited. I just want to know he’s okay,” she admitted, even though the words almost hurt on their way out. It felt like she was trying to convince the both of them that nothing was amiss; there was nothing to be afraid of; her brother was fine.

Borgov nodded and said, “I hope he’ll soon be here with you.” Then, his watch beeped and summoned him to his laboratory; Amaia was grateful not just for his magnanimity, but for the timeliness of his alarm. “I’ll see you later, Holt.”

“See you,” she replied, though the words were likely too quiet for him to hear.

A quick glance around revealed that Lacasa and Holkar were long gone, and Amaia’s stomach dropped to her feet. Resignation quickly filled its place. It was probably better that she didn’t ask to join them on the bridge—the embarrassment of being shot down would’ve incapacitated her for eternity.

Alone in her room, she burned a ditch into the floor from the friction of pacing back and forth for nearly an hour. She felt a migraine coming on. Right before she convinced herself to crack open the second canteen hidden at the bottom of her knapsack, her earpiece crackled to life; unlike when Borgov approached her earlier, she couldn’t stop herself from jolting in fear.

“Hey, it’s Val here. Don’t freak out, this is a private channel,” Lacasa said, and Amaia’s face felt like it was on fire, though God only knew why. Her mouth flopped open uselessly, but it was fine, because Lacasa rambled onwards before Amaia could even think of anything to say in response. “So, uh, the captain is going on board, and I was wondering if you wanted to come to the bridge. Everyone is fitted with body cams, so you might see your brother, yeah?”

“Oh,” Amaia mumbled, and then, “yes! I—I would really appreciate that, actually.”

Luckily, Lacasa didn’t seem to notice Amaia's embarrassing stutter, for all the other woman said was, “Just don’t tell the captain, or else I’ll lose my head. It can be our little secret!”

“Of course,” Amaia agreed easily.

When she finally reached the bridge, Amaia greeted Lacasa and Holkar with an awkward wave, and then settled into a chair that was just close enough to the screens displaying the body cam footage Lacasa had mentioned.

She wished she’d taken a drink from her canteen before she’d come down here.









nine lives

 
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mood
Wary

location
SS Azael // Armoury

tags
lvcid lvcid


://JIN_GEN/
://JIN_GEN/
://JIN_GEN/
Anyone observing Genesis wouldn’t have guessed that she was listening to a word that Captain Chapman was saying—her eyes roamed over the audience instead of locking onto the Captain, as a good soldier’s would have—but she truly was taking it all in, just without the risk of inviting the Captain’s attention to settle on her. It was like in school, how students that wanted to be called on would stare down the teacher while those that didn’t would fixate on the floor. This was no different than that. As Gen’s gaze flicked from crewmate to crewmate, it landed on the frantically scribbling form of Julie Dean. For a medical assistant, she sure wrote a lot. Gen’s attention snapped away from the girl, though, as the Captain addressed her along with the other two soldiers and Park Jin-Sook.

As for Jin, he wasn’t surprised to hear his name called, after all with the Desdemona being adrift they’d likely need his skillset. It didn’t make him feel any better about the situation, the concern and worry that had built up within him was verging on full blown anxiety. The idea of finally reaching their destination was one that brought feelings of fear and dread rather than the hope of rescuing any survivors.

This was it, Genesis realized. This was what the past five days had been leading up to. They were finally docking at the MHS Desdemona to launch the search for its silenced crew. Excitement began to bubble up inside Gen. It had been so long since she’d seen any sort of action, and she was itching to get back into it again. She wasn’t too bothered by the fact that they had no idea what was waiting for them on the other ship—not yet, anyway, though the fear was likely going to catch up with her eventually.

Jin continued to watch as one of the others seemed to protest against their lack of inclusion on the boarding party, Jin audibly tutted, a wry grin crossing his face. He didn’t understand why anyone would be asking to be part of the initial boarding, anything could happen or go wrong. While his own concerns and existential dread around the situation had been kept to himself, he felt as if the others would surely have picked up on the strange nature of what was happening.

Soon enough the Captain dismissed everyone and it was time for Jin to get ready. Rising to his feet he felt the warmth of his furry companion brush against his leg, the canine leading the way to engineering. Home away from home, it was the place where he stored pretty much all of his gear. He was sociable but ever the tinkerer he felt it easier to leave his gear in the workshop so that he could continue to work on it and make alterations or improvements whenever an idea crossed his mind.

Genesis pushed off of the wall she’d been leaning against and began to make her exit as soon as the Captain dismissed the crew. She never hung around in big groups such as this longer than she had to. She preferred to be alone, and with an assigned task at hand, she’d rather busy herself with that than stand around socializing.

As Jin approached the exit he stopped, Dog’s head snapping around to see why Jin has stopped. “Hold up a second…” he instructed his companion, turning around to look for Genesis.

“Gen I have your weapon ready if you want to come and get it now.” He said politely. Dog crept to Jin’s side and looked up at Genesis with his deep, dark eyes. For many Dog appeared unapproachable but to those fortunate enough to have spent some time with him, he was far more welcoming than his looks would make him seem. Genesis was one of those lucky few, having snuck a few cheeky cuddles with Dog since arriving on the ship.

Genesis was somewhat glad for the excuse to separate herself from Cave Carreira and Denzel Sullivan. Between Cave’s obnoxious jokes and Denzel’s sleazy comments, she never liked to be stuck alone with the two of them for long. She was more than happy to break off from their group and go instead with Jin and Dog. Besides that, she desperately needed the weapon to which Jin was referring—her gun had been acting up for the past couple of days, and the last thing she wanted to do was board the Desdemona with a weapon that didn’t work. Now that the day was finally here, though, she realized that it’d be even worse to board without a weapon at all.

Dog slowly opened his mouth exposing his long, slobbering tongue and almost seemed to be smiling as he sat down on the cold, metallic floor. Jin cast a glance down to his side and let out a soft laugh before looking back over to Genesis. “It looks like someone wants you to come get it now,” he said with a chuckle.

As Genesis neared the man and his companion, she noticed the way that Dog was patiently waiting for her. The girl almost smiled as she reached down a hand to scratch between the dog’s ears. “Well, how can I say no to that?” she asked, more to Dog than to Jin, and stepped back for the two to lead the way.

The walk to engineering wasn't that long given the relatively small size of the ship, which meant there wasn't a lot of time for small talk. Besides, it would have been difficult with the bouncing nature of an excited Dog. He bounced happily around the feet of Jin before moving towards Genesis to do the same. His happy pants were warming and a sign of his affection for the two humans.

Genesis was grateful for the lack of petty conversation as the odd trio made their way to the engineering unit. She’d never been good with people or words. A hyperactive dog weaving between her legs as she walked was no problem, but talk about the weather was absolutely out of the question.

As Jin entered engineering through the whooshing of the sliding doors the automated lights kicked in to reveal what was in essence, Jin's home. Everything was neat and tidy, placed in its specific spot to maintain order and allow the engineer to find it. The hum of the engine was always a surprise, something so powerful would only give off such little volume.

"Just give me a sec," he said turning to Gen before making his way to a table on the far side of the room. Dog rushed from behind him and headed off into a corner of the room to chew at some unidentifiable toy that had lost all its original form. Atop the table sat a large gun, clearly a weapon designed to make quick work of its target. Only an hour ago it had been in pieces but Jin's quick work meant Gen wouldn't have to board the Desdemona armed with a butter knife. He picked up the gun and carried out some final checks before returning it to Genesis.

"Here you go," he said as he held the weapon out towards her. "Everything should be fine with it now. Also I made a few adjustments to the sight so that it should help you in low light situations. It isn't quite night vision but it's close enough, I hope you don't mind."

“Not at all,” Genesis said as she took the gun from Jin, the weapon sitting comfortably in her hands as she put an eye to the sight to see what the man meant. The lighting on board the SS Azael was dim enough that she could make out a difference and she knew that in an even darker light, the change would be all the more noticeable. “Thanks,” she said, dropping the gun to her side as her eyes momentarily panned over to where Dog was loudly gnawing on what remained of, well, whatever it was. “We should get going,” Gen stated, her gaze returning to Jin’s. “The others are probably waiting.”

"Aye, you're probably right. I just need a sec." Jin moved towards what looked like a cupboard built into the wall. He tapped away at a keypad to its side, ten consecutive beeps for each press of a numbered button. A satisfying ping came from the pad as the doors before him slid open. He stepped inside, placing his back against a human shaped indentation on the rear wall. Then in moment small robotic limbs began to emerge from each direction. In a flurry of motion they reached out and touched Jin and almost as soon as it had began, the arms were gone. Jin stepped out with the door shutting behind him. He stretched his limbs making sure he was comfortable, well as much as he could be.

"One more thing…" Jin leant over and picked up a nearby bag, flinging it over the shoulder. As he approached Genesis it was clear that his clothing had changed, he now adorned his engineering suit. At his hip was his custom plasma cutter, the mining tool modified to cut through more than just lumps of rock.

Genesis raised her eyebrows, blinking in confusion as she tried to register what she’d just witnessed. One moment, Jin had been in his everyday clothes, and the next, he was adorned in his engineering suit. She wasn’t all that surprised, really—Jin was a genius when it came to this sort of thing (hence, his involvement in the crew), so, it was no strange thing that he had rigged his suit to appear as if by magic. “Damn,” she muttered, “I need to get one of those.”

"Dog!" Jin called out, his canine friend snapping to attention at the shout. "Stay here, we won't be too long." Dog almost seemed to nod before returning it's attention back to its chew toy.

"His suit needs some work before I'll feel safe to have him come along...anyway…" he said looking at Genesis with a wide smile, Plates of metal began to rise from over his shoulder and back before taking form over Jin's head. As they met together and sealed tight his helmet was revealed. With the process complete several bright lights appeared across the front for visibility. "Let's go."

Gen nearly breathed a sigh of relief. “I was hoping you weren’t gonna bring Dog along into a possible death trap, but I wasn’t gonna try to talk you out of it, either. To each his own.”

Jin responded with a laugh before his tone dropped to one far more solemn. “I was hesitant the first time I took him off ship but he’s gotten me through a fair few problems, he’s such a clever dog. Still...I just don’t feel right about this entire situation…”

With that, Gen led the way to the armory, where the two would meet up with the other two soldiers along with the Chief of Security, Tony Varon. Genesis wasn’t exactly excited to rejoin them, but she was itching to get suited up, if for no other reason, to prepare herself for the unknown horrors that awaited them.
://Play_Music
coded by reveriee
 






Virgil Maschera




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H. Zimmer, B. Wallfisch



JOI








To Virgil Maschera, space, for all intents and purposes, was a curated expanse encompassing both our knowledge of existence and lack thereof; it was the beginning and end of everything. An area so inconceivable he never dared to understand it, and by the age of fifty, didn't care to understand it. So, he left it to the experts. Those who had dedicated their livelihood to venturing out into the stars, examining the celestial giants, defining their purpose in the universe's creation. And he was okay leaving them to it.

Even from the snug interior of the SS-Azael, the outside looked cold. There appeared to be no colour in anything, except glimpses of bluish ship thrusters (the ships themselves partially obscured by the light) which darted past. Idle lights of the space stations blinked at him with an enchanting quality. Amidst the sea of black it resembled a monochrome disco of some sort. A disco; how odd. He couldn’t remember the last time he had seen one or thought of one at all; what memory he had was an opaque shadow—no discernible faces, names, or location. He had watched old recordings during his youth. From moments shoved under more consequential points in history. Long forgotten. However, what he remembered about these was the utter bliss they radiated. He would spend countless hours rewinding them to maintain the feeling. A hope had swelled inside him the same way a balloon swelled with helium. Hope that, one day, just maybe, Earth would return to the magnificence shown on the videos, and he would be a part of it.

He leaned forward and rested a broad hand on the glass; the chair strained underneath him, emitting a creak. Then a thought, one he recognised and knew so many others had contemplated before him. To other people I tower over them but compared to this; I am nothing. I am but a speck of dust on the window of the universe. It could wipe me away with ease, like everyone else here, and there would be no difference.

It was humbling and frightening. He had seldom travelled outside of the Italian borders, let alone Earth itself. The conviction that The Great Escape of Earth didn’t include him was not out of dignity, or the narcissistic belief humans deserved to burn alongside the planet. Although now, as he stared at the void, he was uncertain why, why he had slogged on notwithstanding the universe throwing everything it had at him to convince him otherwise. The doubts had beset him, crumbling the foundations of his judgment, ever since he undertook this assignment. Finally observing Earth from an external perspective had stressed them so much that he could no longer brush them aside. A dull throb established itself on the right side of his forehead; the headaches were commonplace, especially after a day of working under the blistering sun. Sometimes a migraine would come on (caused by dehydration, stress, or a blend of both) which left him bedridden for a few hours. But smeared dots in his vision accompanied those, like someone had drizzled dirt in his eyes. His vision had been fine today—or no poorer than it usually was.

Being here was nice, in a sense. Mostly because conversations on Earth lay within the farmer’s market, or when he plastered somebody’s bedroom walls. Intuitive chitchat: the kind you asked somebody regardless of how little you cared. Sometimes, they’d ask about his personal life. If he had any children, partners. He would dance around the queries and give simple yeses and noes. But everyone knew everyone back home. So this was nice. To converse with individuals who hailed from a plethora of occupations, nationalities, and home life. A few friendly and loquacious, others who kept to themselves, and those (such as himself) who fluctuated between the two but were here to earn their pay and nothing more. Neither him nor them felt any pressure to reveal anything; except for, of course, during their check-ups.

Nice, but not comfortable—far from it, in fact.

“I’m only going to say this once,” he heard the captain announce from behind, looking back over his shoulder. “You are all under my watch, and what I say is final.” Virgil shifted in his seat and turned to face everyone, attempting to at least appear composed.

Griff Pritchard, the squat, fresh-faced representative, raised his hand, paused, then lowered it. In doing so, the room erupted with snickering; the captain seemed to make no attempt at quelling it. Whenever they congregated, it felt like a group of children excited for their annual school trip to the zoo rather than professionals on an expedition into the unknown: their neglectful gazes, incessant chatter, and astonishing urge to pass flirtatious comments. Whether it was out of the ignorance of youthful optimism or plain naivety, he couldn’t tell. Maybe he was too old, too grave, to understand it. Let them have it, he supposed; let them laugh and tease one another. They’re young and life is too short to forgo the minor, positive aspects.

Tony Varon soon protested his doubts. Whilst the man didn’t appeal to him, he had hit the nail on the head: why scientists? Indeed, there was a communications officer if concerning a communications malfunction; those in the medical field for injuries, albeit one too many for a quick there and back; an engineer to fix the ship if an engine combusted; and soldiers to fend off potential mutinous crewmates – leaving the rest of them unaccounted for. And Griff Pritchard’s subsequent answer—though ‘answer’ might be too generous of a term—provided no more clarity on the affair than if you had asked someone with a concussion how many fingers you were holding up. If Virgil had learned anything from over the course of his life (and a notion he intended to keep to himself right now) it was that people who tread with extreme caution were expecting the worst.

Which proposed the question: what could be the worst to happen?

He shook his hood solemnly, to no one in particular, as if shaking the idea out of his head. An apprehension festered within him like mould on a loaf of bread. Not painful or overwhelming, but distracting enough, and he could imagine Silvan, his father, saying to him: “Stop wasting food, just cut it off and eat the rest of the bread.” And just as he had done with the mould; he opted to ignore this feeling as well.

The captain brought him out of it when she addressed who she wanted onboard the MHS-Desdemona first. As expected, he wasn’t amongst them – and felt indifferent towards it. Everyone sectioned off to their various departments, but Virgil stayed put; he had already packed the rucksack in his living quarters. He fished for his locket from beneath the hem of his t-shirt. Upon opening it, the bulging, green eyes of his daughter bore into his own. Caressing the photograph with his thumb, a pale smile stretched across his lips.

Soon.





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hana madeira








location
the azael's lounge

mood
let's get this over with

song
swan lake op.20, the black swan pas de deux iv. - tchaivovsky

tags
virgil maschera, lisbeth lisbeth




The night before she boarded the SS Azael was an exhausting one: one filled with tea, and pacing, and of course the muffled goodbyes.

But now, at the ship's mercy, Hana was missing it desperately.

Her eyes had flickered across the crowd of faces sitting by her countless times, trying to lock down the names and titles that were flying around in her head. It was something she'd done countless times before, and something that came easily to her, but not this time. It was the nerves, partially, but nevertheless an inconvenience. But there was one name that had instantly stuck: Jordan Chapman.

The title captain was one that instantly curried favor with her, and the visage of the imposing woman certainly backed it up. Her words seemed to sit in the air of the stiflingly glum air of the lounge. Hana bit her lip and sat up taller as she continued, mincing no words.

A hand shot up. Already? She peered over at the man, the messy folds of his shirt accentuated by the harsh lighting of the place. What about don't get yourself blasted into space is so hard to understand? She fought to keep her brow from raising as Chapman stared down at him unforgivingly, his only response a meek gulp. Her gaze settled on his nametag, and held it for a breadth too long before she turned away.

Usually, when she played this game, Hana was comfortable. At home. Now she was neither, physically nor emotionally. In this place, in this ship, all she could do was tell herself that she hadn't lost her grip yet. Relax your shoulders, Hana, her brain commanded in a whisper. She did. She had to count on every single person in the room being more ready than her, paying more attention, being better.

Her field had never been one of subtlety. Back before she had time for the stars, anything subtle was a waste. It was still hard to shake that feeling, that twinge of sharpness behind her forehead, the same one that played across her still-stiff shoulders and locked legs. It was an animal she kept on a leash, but one that nonetheless pulled her along with it. When she had first ventured outside the company nest, she'd wanted to crush it under her boot and run far away. But as the years went on, and as she found the leash still curled around her wrist, she had learned to forget about it. People, after all, were the same on Kepler, inside a conference room and out.

But she didn't doubt it would be different here, amongst the decrepit décor and cold glow of space. She could already see it on their faces, the faces of people she didn't yet recognize. Stories. She knew she was the same: she wondered if any of them had already bothered to look at her and think. If they did, she hoped they hadn't gotten far.

It was, she'd found, harder to learn names when she instead wanted information. Her eyes narrowed as Chapman listed off a run of completely unknown names, most of the ones she hadn't already caught a grip on. But even still, the people left in the sickly lounge with her were vastly unfamiliar. Usually, she'd know everyone she interacted with before ever meeting them. Investors, board members, even colleagues: none of them were wild cards in the way the people in front of her were. Knowing their names was the bare minimum.

Her gaze locked in on the blonde girl as she stepped towards the captain, her hands knotting in her lap. Hana couldn't discern anything past the whining nervousness in her voice. She'd noticed her earlier, frantically scribbling something down. Now, with the sweat clinging to her temple for dear life, she really looked the part of crazy.

She turned away and stood from her chair as Chapman left, careful to keep her posture straight as she lifted her briefcase. Most of her hours on the ship had already been spent standing faithfully by the ship's few windows, notebooks in hand. In some way, it was easier to look at it from the safety of Kepler. Up here, with her fingers barely feet away from touching the stars themselves, it was almost too mesmerizing. It made it comfortable to relax—relax into those distant stars, and to lean away from what was real. What was important. Because as silly as it may sound, Hana had never wanted to step foot into endless darkness for the stars. It was never just about them.

But they were familiar here, perhaps the only thing she knew for sure. Always pulling her towards them. Always a comfort she couldn't have. They were lovely, and they were enchanting in a way she knew those around her would never be, but they couldn't protect her.

For a moment, she paused, clasping her hands around the briefcase's handle. The time she had to hesitate was limited in her mind. The longer she stood, the worse she looked. Back when she was barely old enough to know what she was doing, she would count each beat she paused. Never over 8. A wistful smile curled over her lips. Now was not the time to break that. Her gaze darted over the few that had remained in the lounge after Chapman's orders, and she cursed under her breath. Too little time, too many unknowns.

And then there it was. She zeroed in on one of the figures, a man looking downwards at something small clasped in his palm. Before, when she'd passed by him, she'd wondered if his hands felt as callused as they looked. For a psychologist, it was odd. For the small piece of shining metal he clutched now, it was a picture of endearment. She wouldn't ask about it, no. It was clearly personal. But she knew who he was, and that was enough.

Her footfalls were silent as she approached him, not daring to peer down at the necklace he held. She tapped his shoulder lightly before stepping back, her wan smile spreading into a grin. "We've met before," she said brightly, careful to keep her voice level as she extended a hand. "Hana Madeira." For a moment she paused, glancing away thoughtfully. "Color me embarrassed if I'm wrong, but you're the psychologist, yes?" She already knew he was. The question was for him, not her.

As Hana looked him over again, she finally remembered his name. Virgil Maschera. She renewed her grin, letting her shoulders untense. One side of this equation was already solved. She knew who she was, and what business she had on the ship. The same didn't go for Virgil.

It wouldn't happen instantly, or come easily. The game she was in for was a long one. But she would find out what she had to for the job to be done.

The SS Azael would not fail.

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dr. amos miller




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fleetwood mac



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Even after all these years of joining in on odd temporary missions such as these, he couldn’t manage to shake the massive unease that came with the very idea of being in space. The vagueness of their first full-body meeting didn’t help put his nerves at ease.

Amos spent a lot of his alone, quiet time contemplating the source of his discomfort. All things considered, there was nothing inherently different about placing his feet on solid ground of a planet versus a spaceship. Both were infinitesimally small compared to the empty vastness of space, both hurdling through a frigid vacuum faster than humans could even attempt to comprehend. Both subject to the whims of astrophysics where anything could theoretically happen.

But they key difference between his apparent bliss on solid earth and his experiences on spaceships were the windows into the abyss. When Amos gazed out of the side panel windows, he was always met with two things: the first being a pervasive darkness, unbroken by the occasional celestial body, and the second being his own reflection in the glass, always insisting itself over the view so many people marooned on either Earth longed to see.

It was these fleeting moments where he came face to face with how unkind the years had been to him and how his body was bearing the weight of time’s cruel hand and memory and guilt. New streaks of grey, new or deepening creases in his skin. These instances of self-reflection were only brief because Amos could only stand to bear it for so long—and then he was back busying himself with whatever medical nonsense he could conjure up.

Space could also be immensely boring. He likened this experience where he always felt mildly claustrophobic to that of being a cruise ship passenger, or in his case, staff. Even if the doctor didn’t have many notable hobbies or favorite places to frequent on Second Earth, he always felt acutely aware of his limitations on a spaceship. It made his mood always a little more sour, his choice of words a little more terse—mainly because he couldn’t possibly take the edge off during working hours.

Perhaps that was also part of it. His reflection facing him every time Amos sought some sort of respite from the metal corridors and same revolving cast of passengers, the deep need he couldn’t address until he was off-duty. Space was a constant reminder of his alcoholism. The escapism he looked forward to wasn’t as easily obtained when he was the only MD present.

Staying busy, even with more inane work that usually was delegated to nurses and attendings, helped to stave off the uglier thoughts.

Amos had no complaints about this particular nurse he’d been assigned for this mission. Amelie was hard-working, motivated, and most importantly, not overly friendly; she wasn’t the type that needed to fill the silence he found comfortable when they were both working on their respective tasks. And he respected her own expertise and training.

He glanced up from his own work with trying to interpret some indiscernible product labels on the side of a box when she addressed him. Amos blinked, brow lightly furrowed as he thought over the options for a short moment.

“Let’s stock up with AstraSanitas,” he answered flatly, “They also optimized this formula for the altered gravity in space. It’s never bad to order both, though I hope we won’t need either one.”

Some of the worst injuries he’d seen in space were nothing compared to his routine work in the emergency room: mostly limited to cuts and burns sustained by engineers, though technology was improving so rapidly that they hardly needed to work with their hands anymore. But Amos had learned it was always wiser to be over prepared, rather than the alternative.

He set down another box of supplies (specialized wound dressings, maybe?) to help Amelie zip up and secure the back of her space suit.

Amos sighed as he considered her question, careful hands attentive to every zipper and lock on this suit he wasn’t so familiar with. “My guess is that this crew suffocated. Either due to a pressure leak or carbon monoxide,” he answered, voice matter-of-fact. “I’ve heard of freak accidents happening with rogue space debris causing damage in enough of the right places.”

His anxiety nagged at him just slightly. He’d gone morbid again. He paused to pat his nurse’s back, letting her know he’d finished. “Though I do hope it’s just a comms or fuel issue, and that maybe the most we’ll see is some hypothermia and dehydration,” Amos quickly added. “But it’s hard to predict what we're walking into.”





♡coded by uxie♡
 




://ACT_ONE_WARM_WELCOME




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gazelle twin



nocturne








://VALENTINE_LACASA_

In one of his sober moments, Valentine’s father explained that God possessed a magical paintbrush that was capable of creating anything. He painted everything into existence, from her favourite ice-cream flavour – mint choc-chip with cherry swirls – to the unruly mop sat atop a young Valentine’s head.

Yet, it made Valentine question the ugly things God painted.

Why did he paint a bottomless bottle into her father’s hand, weekly hospital visits and never-ending tears in Valentine’s eyes? Her entire childhood was painted in nothing but dull and hideous colours.

She tried to amend what God had done, sketching colourful scenes of non-existent childhood memories. Day after day, the crayons soon turned to nubs, the edges of the paper curling as the stack of drawings faded from the sun beaming in her small bedroom window.

It took eight years for Valentine to realise God didn’t exist.

Now in the present, Valentine couldn’t help imagine God with that magical paintbrush; painting broad strokes of blue, yellow and pink hues over the black canvas that was outer space. In the centre of the painting was a monstrous colony ship with stars haphazardly speckled around it. The MHS-Desdemona. About bloody time, Valentine thought.

“Wait...” Valentine squinted out the bridge window, enamoured by what she saw. She had never seen anything like this before. Dozens of tethers snaked down from under the Desdemona, piercing the surface of a planet chunk that mirrored the size of the colony ship. Yet, everything remained in place, as though frozen in time. Below a planet was in view, a gigantic crater present; Valentine assumed that was where it came from…but how?

“They are gravity tethers,” Daksha begun, as though reading her mind, “planet cracking they call it. Attaching the tethers to a planet, it is capable of literally ripping a chunk of the planet into orbit.” Daksha explained, adjusting his thick-rimmed glasses.

“Okay…but why?” Valentine twirled her seat in his direction, thick brow raised, “and why isn’t the ship being dragged down?” The colony ship sat unmoving, as though frozen in time.

“Planet cracking is mainly used to mine valuable resources from the comfort of one’s ship.” The walking-talking dictionary, Daksha, spoke with excitement laced in his hurried speech. “The gravity tethers can then target a specific area and extract the sample into the ship’s mining deck.” Valentine couldn’t help but smile, he had to be the biggest nerd she had ever met. “Anyway, to answer your question, the ship is equipped with a high-tech gravity centrifuge which keeps the ship stable.”

Interesting, Valentine thought, but that means…

“The gravity centrifuge thing-o is still active then,” Valentine noted.

“Precisely. Which means the crew didn’t plummet to their death at–” Daksha paused abruptly; mouth ajar.

Oh shit. Valentine swivelled around to be greeted by Amaia’s sweet face.

For once, Valentine was speechless. She hadn’t taken the time to study Amaia’s angelic features and golden complexion; her skin appeared roughly kissed by the beaming sun that was exclusive to Earth residents. Valentine missed the sun, the sizzling heat reminded her she was alive. Maybe I should visit after this gig, Valentine wondered.

“I meant no offence, Am– sorry, Holt.” Daksha choked on his words as Valentine woke from her daydreaming. Pull yourself together, Val.

“Exactly,” Valentine flashed her charming smile, resting a hand on Amaia’s shoulder, “I’m sure your brother is perfectly fine.” Her hand lingered a little too long before she finally turned back towards her station. Valentine hoped her words were true.

“Now, let's get this rodeo started,” Valentine adjusted her reliable, old-fashioned comms headset onto her bouncy mane.

After pressing a few buttons, Valentine spoke.

“MHS-Desdemona, this is the SS-Azael, we are requesting entrance aboard the flight deck.” Valentine’s methodical, customer-service voice rung in everyone’s MHC-branded earpieces; specifically aimed at Desdemona’s crew.

Silence.

“Do you read me, Desdemona?”

Dead silence.

://TONY_VARON_

Tony always trusted his gut.

It started with the bad taste in his mouth as the SS-Azael landed with a solid thud. The pilot had gained entry via the Desdemona’s flight deck which was sketchy in itself. Who let them in? And why wasn’t anyone speaking aboard? This is all wrong.

“Helmets will be mandatory until Jin-Sook can verify there are no breaches to life support.” The captain ordered and Tony couldn’t help but see the similarities to his wife – demanding and cold.

Tony leaned against the airlock’s padded walls while the rest of the expedition crew crammed into the airlock chamber. The door closing behind them, the decompression began with a hiss.

His stomach twisted as everyone’s helmets retracted from their suit and sealed around their heads. Tony hated wearing his helmet, it made him feel claustrophobic.

“Formation is as followed,” Chapman’s voice rung in his earpiece, “I will take the lead with Carreira and Demarco in second.” Those eyes devoid of colour settled on Tony and the medical staff – apart from the cute blonde who was ordered to stay aboard.

“Varon will follow with the medical crew and Jin-Sook behind him, while Sullivan covers the rear.” Clever, clever. Tony had to give praise when it was due; the woman was strategic. The army brat, Sullivan, was a liability for a mission like this. The brat’s finger was itching to pull the trigger. Placing him in the back would solve such an issue.

“Ready?” The captain’s question was followed by stifled nods.

The heavy door opened with another frighteningly loud hiss.

Chapman wasted no time, hunched forwards with her pistol in hand; the captain stepped through the exit and onto the flight deck. The two soldiers followed before it was Tony’s turn.

Despite the doubt clouding his mind, Tony took one step after the other, his boots clunking loudly against the Desdemona’s interior.

The flight deck was a vast, open space, mimicking an airport of sorts. Several transport ships were scattered around with a scant waiting area for flights and a receptionist desk. The sparse ceiling lights dimly illuminated the path ahead.

A glass panelled room was situated to the right, which Tony recalled from his research, was the tram’s control room. The Desdemona had a tram line snaked throughout each section to aid travel among the sizeable ship.

That was when Tony realised the deafening silence.

Not a single soul could be found on the flight deck – no passengers eagerly waiting for transport, no bored receptionist or tired pilots manning their ships.

The only sign of life could be found in the strewn about belongings; with bags seated on the cushioned-metal seats and discarded rubbish on the ground.

Something was definitely off.

“SS-Azael, do you read me?” Chapman broke the silence.

“We read you, expedition team,” The comms kid responded, “we are also receiving live coverage from all body cams.” Tony forgot about the small camera strapped to his chest’s suit. That computer nerd with the glasses had fitted everyone’s suit with a camera.

At the confirmation, the captain signalled for everyone to follow her.

Slowly, but surely, the team made their way into the heart of the flight centre. Situated in the flight lounge, Tony’s observant eyes searched.

For something.

Anything.

Just a sign of life on –

Holy shit.

Tony’s mouth went dry at the sight.

Up ahead the metal floor was smeared in the telltale colour of blood. Dark and thick, the bloody mess streaked around the corner and out of view. Up above, the words, 'CARGO BAY'
were printed on the wall with an arrow pointing towards the corridor. Towards the blood.

Before he could say anything, the captain’s light illuminating from her pistol settled on the blood trail.

“Weapons at the ready,” the captain merely whispered into their headsets, “and silence on the comms.” Her voice was oddly devoid of surprise or shock, Tony noted.

He unholstered his own pistol, clicking off the safety.

Tony’s gut was always right.





♡coded by uxie♡
 








Space was a peculiar thing. It forced you to put stuff into perspective. Amelie never really considered herself a romantic dreamer, at least not in the last decade of her life. Sure she had her hopes and end goals, but often these seemed like the twinkling of a faraway galaxy, faint against the backdrop of making through each moment of her arduous existence. Not that she felt the drag. There simply was no time to count each rolling second when your ears were tuned to the constant beeping alerts of patients in distress, as your subconscious was stretched taut to monitor the requests of assistance from triage all the while you were trying to recount the conditions and medication responses of innumerable patients to an indolent locum physician who clearly didn't give a flying fuck; as long as their last breaths weren't signed in his name. Nevermind the fact that simply accepting care within his means - instead of the cash it would bring - would ensure no one had to leave healthcare so debilitated in wheelchairs and walking aids, they were probably better off in a body bag. She was the one who had to smile and lie through her teeth, telling family members it was the best they could do. That they were lucky. That she'd seen others who didn't make it.

That they should be thankful for the half arsed job their loved one received because someone wanted more than their fair share of the pie.

It was white noise. Like the stewing gossip behind her back. A backdrop hum that susurrated in her ear as she pored over mountains of texts; in an effort to 'up-her-game' so she could roll better dice. And even as she slept, fretful dreams of how she was failing that little girl with strawberry locks and impish smile stole away what meagre rest she had. It never stopped. She never stopped. Stuck in fourth gear of the 'fast but not too fast', careening down the highway with snapped brakes and broken lights. It wore on her axels and weighed on her soul. So the only way was up. Into the blue-tinged darkened ceiling of borrowed peace, her lender the tip of a syringe and her creditor the pellucid azure cocktail only a barista of her accreditations could access. They called it lyrium. It was her debt of mounting interest rates. But it was a damn good one.

Perhaps that was why she was so afraid of the abyssal blackness. The void that both seemed infinitely large and infinitely confining at the same time. Space was silent. It demanded silence. You could scream till your lungs tore and nobody would hear you. Amelie didn't know how to deal with silence. No, not the one that bashed on your eardrums. The ones that scratched in the corners of your mind. The ones that enveloped you in stifling colours of umbral blacks and maddening grays.

Or maybe it was just her claustrophobia acting up and she was overthinking things. Standing in the crowded airlock and watching their approach of the derelict Desdemona on the observation screen. It was difficult to gauge its size. Not until they approached the flight deck did the nurse fully comprehend how large the colony starship was. It was comforting in a way. Larger ship meant more solid ground. At least that's what she told herself in an effort to trick her unevolved irrational fear of confined spaces. She checked her pulse reading on her visor's HUD.

121 to 79. Not great, but not terrible. She would be fine once they boarded. She was wrong of course.

Captain Chapman was giving them a final briefing, her austere tone crackling in her earpiece, a welcome distraction that pulled her thoughts back to the task at hand,
"-Varon will follow with the medical crew and Jin-Sook behind him, while Sullivan covers the rear.”


"Understood."
Her voice cracked, but nobody seemed to notice, or at least say anything. She wet her lips and swallowed the lump in her throat.

Finally, she felt the rumble of the landing gear and then the airlock opened with a loud hiss. Their little group wasted no time in disembarking and stepping into the vast area at a brisk albeit controlled pace. It was a moment of brief respite for the nurse, thankful for the expansive area which did much to alleviate her anxiety. But barely a minute in and that same anxiety returned, though this time it was from a different source.

"Where's everybody?"
Amelie's voice crackled over the comms in puzzlement. She remembered Dr Miller's prognosis of what they might find. Wondered if the absence of people was because everyone had been downed due to contaminated air. But even covered with all her layers of protective clothing, she could feel her hairs stand. The nurse paused at a scattering of luggage at the foot of a bench. The purple canvas trolley bag looked so unassumingly innocent as if its owner had left it in the care of another to go to the bathroom. Only they never returned and whoever was watching it, had to leave in a hurry. She turned and hurried forwards, careful to maintain her position behind the captain, Cave and Gen.

It was all too eerie.

If it was some kind of fatal malfunction, where were the bodies? If it was something minor-

"Oh my God."
She couldn't help herself. The involuntary exclamation spilling out of her mouth perhaps at the exact moment everyone else caught sight of it. It wasn't a sight the nurse hadn't seen before but it certainly wasn't what she was expecting. The fact that the first sign of human life they'd encounter was the crimson liquid of someone's veins painted all over the floors and walls chilled her to the bone.

"There's too much of it,"
her voice dropped to barely a whisper at Chapman's request for silence. Her mind churned. Nobody who had lost that amount of blood could move. Definitely not without help.

This much blood. . .

If it came from one person, they were most likely dead.

Why were they moved?

How did it happen?

A part of her wanted to hurry forward. The instinct to respond to an emergency situation. To see if someone needed help. To rush around the corner where the crimson fluid was smeared out of view like the streaks of a calligraphy painting.

But her rational mind won out. Something was definitely off and against her better judgement, Amelie wasn't about to run headlong into whatever that something was.








the nurse



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genesis demarco




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queen



another one bites the dust








As Genesis suited up, she quickly ran a mental crash course on everything that she'd learned while in the military, despite how short-lived that era of her life had been. Along with the flashbacks of training came not-so-gentle reminders of why she was now aboard the SS Azael. She heard the voices of everyone who had ever told her she wasn't good enough and kicked her while she was down. "You'll never make it." "You're too weak." "Girls just weren't cut out for this. Don't take it personally." The memories were bitter and left a sour taste in Gen's mouth as she clenched her jaw and pushed the taunting voices to the back of her mind, where they swarmed like an angry hornets' nest, threatening to spill back out to the surface again, but she couldn't let them. She didn't have time for that right now.

I am good enough, and that's why I'm here.

More than anything, Genesis wished she could take a short smoke break to ease her nerves, but she didn't have time for that, either. To prove her point, Captain Chapman's voice crackled over Gen's ear piece as the woman began giving orders on how they were to board the Desdemona, and as Gen glanced at the observation screen, it became apparent to her just how little time she had. Out of habit, Gen's fingers tightened on the gun in her hands as the shape of the large ship grew nearer. This was what she was here for. This was what the past five days had been leading up to. So, why was she so nervous all of the sudden?

They had no idea what was waiting for them on that ship, and that was what scared Genesis the most. At least in war, you knew who your enemies were. This was different. There was no way of telling what they would be up against once they set foot on the MHS-Desdemona.

There was a shudder as the airlock at last made contact with the Desdemona's landing dock. Genesis followed Chapman out, as had been instructed, and scanned the atmosphere that awaited them, her gun at the ready. The flight deck was void of any sign of life, save for the belongings that had been left behind. Abandoned luggage was strewn among the empty benches, and Genesis would have assumed that their owners had simply up-and-forgotten them, were it not for the copious amount of ships that still sat awaiting passengers, their pilots long gone, though for how long, Gen couldn't tell. There was no evidence at all of where the ship's travelers had gone. It was as if they had all simply disappeared into thin air.

It was eerily silent save for the clanking of their feet on the metal floor and the occasional update from the comms team aboard the Azael. This wasn't right. They should've seen someone by now. An entire crew of people couldn't just disappear. Something had to have happened to them. Something bad.

Genesis nearly bumped into Chapman as the woman abruptly stopped in her tracks, causing Gen to do the same. Following the Captain's gaze, she caught sight of the reason. Blood was smeared all along the far wall of the corridor, causing Gen's own to run cold as she repositioned her weapon in her hands. She'd seen the brutality of war, but this wasn't it. This wasn't the result of gunshots or stab wounds. Even if the victim had gotten up and walked away, they wouldn't have left a trail this big and widespread. This was like something straight out of the horror films that Genesis used to watch as a teenager. The blood coated the metal surface like some sick and twisted child's finger painting, snaking down the hallway and out of sight. There was no telling what they'd find if they followed it.

They didn't know what they were up against, and now, Genesis wasn't so sure that they wanted to find out.





♡coded by uxie♡
 

://OPEN_JIN/
://OPEN_JIN/
://OPEN_JIN/
“I hate being right…” Jin muttered to himself.

The short trip to the Desdemona gave the Brit little in the way of positive vibes, the lingering feeling of dread the only thing to cross his mind about the mission. What he was looking at before him, the usual buzzing flight deck of engineers and pilots was deserted, not even a cleaning drone was operating.

The Captain was cautious in her approach, going as far to ensure that the group stuck to a defendable formation while the order to remain wearing helmets was just common sense. The last thing anyone wanted was the wonderfully brutal vacuum of space filling their lungs. Unfortunately Jin had seen the damage that exposure to vacuums could do and it certainly wasn’t something he wished to see again. The movies made it seem far more violent than it truly was but it still wasn’t pleasant witnessing someone die in such a painfully horrific way.

Jin followed those before him but his attention was firmly on the surrounding area. HIs paranoia of ambush, a remnant of his previous trauma, made him alert and attentive even in the safest of spaces. Such a dark and apparently deserted space was sending his focus into overdrive. He noticed on a nearby transport that one of the external engineering hatches had been opened, with a large spool of cables and wires collected on the floor beneath. It was clear from the mess that it wasn’t someone in the middle of repairs, they had clearly been pulled. Jin’s eyes moved from transport to transport and he felt his stomach knot.

“The transports look like they have all been sabotaged, wires and parts have been torn from them all. I suggest we potentially look at some sentry’s around the Azael...just in case,” he said over the comms.

As they continued across the deck he raised his left forearm, tapping away at a small keypad on his arm. His H.U.D brought up a progress bar, moving quickly towards one hundred percent. When it hit the magic number a soft beep went off within his helmet and a transparent panel appeared on his display screen.

“Captain, the flight deck's life support seems to be operational. All parameters are in order but until I get to a console I won’t understand the situation across the entire ship. It may be best to keep helmets on until we know exactly what the ship's status is.” She hadn’t asked him to give his opinion on ways to move forward, but he was going to give it anyway. He wouldn’t make the mistake of keeping his thoughts to himself again.

Suddenly the group came to a stop and those in front of Jin all snapped their attention towards the Captain’s flashlight. The engineer followed the beam of light with his eyes, spotting the trail of crimson heading off towards the cargo bay. Before the Captain even gave her order Jin had taken his plasma cutter in hand ready. Far more crude a weapon than the military grade gear of the group's soldiers, but no less deadly. The tool was capable of cutting through metal and rock so flesh and bone were no great challenge for it. However it came with a far less effective range which meant that if he was going to need to use it on the Desdemona, he would need to get up close and personal.

One of the soldiers, Carreira he believed his name was, suggested he be given the opportunity to recon the area ahead. It was a fairly typical grunt reaction and reinforced his preconceptions of the man but in this situation, someone with that want and need to lead the way was needed. He hoped that the man was going to be an asset rather than a knuckle dragging thug like many of the soldiers he had met during his service. Either way, Jin had another option for the group.

“Captain may I suggest an alternative?” The question was rhetorical in nature and Jin continued before giving her a chance to respond. “I have a mining drone that we could use.” The mining drone was a piece of kit that was used in a variety of situations. A small, metallic orb that floats through the air and slowly works its way through the around it is in. Utilizing lasers and heat sensors it can be used to not only map areas and cave systems, but also to detect bodily heat. It was the perfect tool to try and find survivors of cave ins during the often dangerous mining process that was used by the big corporations. Even so, Jin has found much use for them in previous jobs. He awaited the Captain’s decision.
://Play_Music
STATUS
://Display_Vitals/-- █ █ █ █ █
://Location/-- Desdemona/Flight_Deck
://Mental_State/-- Concerned
://Show_Tags:/-- Boarding_Party
coded by reveriee
 




://ACT_ONE_WARM_WELCOME




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martin g.



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://GRIFF_PRITCHARD_

The phone buzzed to life in Griff's clammy hand causing him to jolt with fright in the seat. Dammit. Take a breath.

Griff let out a shaky sigh, still recovering from the embarrassment that was the crew meeting. The cold, menacing stare from the captain was burned into his skull. He knew she didn't like him. She hated him, he could tell. He didn't even want to think what the rest of the crew thought.

Yet, Griff didn't have much of a choice; anxiety crept up behind him and forced its way into his brain. Infesting his thoughts, Griff was consumed by it in seconds. Did they like me? No. They laughed at you. You can't even iron your bloody suit properly. They hate you, they-

"You work for MHC, right?" Griff's eyes flickered from his lap to the chunky, platformed boots. It didn't take long for him to take in the slight blonde girl, her arms crossed; a hint of a tattoo peeking out from her distressed tee. The medical assistant.

"Uh, y-yes," Griff stammered. Take a breath. "I'm the representative for MHC, yes," Griff tried again, welsh accent thicker than usual.

He recalled her name was Julie Dean. He didn't know that because she had told him but from the ship's inventory. In fact, Julie hadn't spoken a single word to him until now.

"Why would MHC send an external crew?" Julie began, "and why are they keeping everything about this expedition so hush?" Griff couldn't help but notice the criticising edge in her voice.

"Well..." Griff took a moment to consider his answer, MHC-jargon flowing from his mouth, "at MHC we care deeply about our fellow staff, including those aboard-"

"Yes, yes." Julie cut him off with a huff. She seemed disinterested but also impatient, "but why not send your own employees?"

"I-I cannot..." Griff could feel the perspiration collecting under his arms. His mind went blank.

"Why not?" Julie persisted.

"Unfortunately I cannot relay that information, I'm sorry," before he finished, Julie turned and hurried out of the lounge. Seemingly she had somewhere to be, Griff surmised, and honestly, he didn't mind as long as the interrogation ended. It had felt as though Julie had personally funnelled dirt and gravel into his throat. He needed water after that encounter.

Standing up, a quiet rattling perked Griff's ears. It was coming from the bridge and while it wasn't out of ordinary...the rattling was getting louder. Closer.

It was coming from above. The vents? The rattling became more distinct.

Griff swore something was scuttling in the vents. Rats? No, that was impossible. The thought of anything scuttling around gave Griff the shivers.

The scuttling rushed past above him and towards the back of the ship. Then it suddenly stopped.

Clunk.

Metal clanging together? Griff wondered. The sound seemingly came from the medbay. No, no, no. Absolutely not. Griff shook his head to emphasis the thought. There was no way he was going to investigate that.

Then he remembered - the notification!

Griff scrambled for his phone, swiping open the message. From MHC headquarters, the message was asking for an update on the expedition. He took the time to construct a message, thinking purposefully about each word. After some thoughtful consideration, Griff pressed send. Yet, the message quickly bounced back. What...

He pressed retry.

Still nothing.

He probably pressed it a dozen times to be met with the same result. How is this possible? Maybe it was just his phone?

He recalled the bridge had access to comms, maybe he could contact MHC headquarters from there? Plus, whatever got him further away from that noise sounded swell.





♡coded by uxie♡
 






yananovic borgov




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SON LUX



flowers









He felt excited and nauseous for the others departing from the SS-Azael. It made Yanan want to throw up. Not on the DNA samples, дурак. This is the only job for you to handle, there’s not much to fuck up. The temperature has to be constant. While shoving them back in the cooling trays, he hesitated.

It did cross his bright and messed up mind a few times within the five days. Nominating a few lucky samples to get a bit more cozy with the members. Reading their humane codes like a newspaper with their physical details and medical conditions. Who’d he take a fancy to read? Varon sure aroused his curiosity but so did Demarco or maybe even the captain herself. His fingertips twitched at the bare thought. Slowly the man moved his left arm towards one fortunate sample, no one less than- “MHS-Desdemona, this is the SS-Azael, we are requesting entrance aboard the flight deck.”
So it was time, huh? His headset was already tuned into the communication channel. And that was enough to put all of Yanan’s programs on standby, cancelling the action he was about to commit.

“Do you read me, Desdemona?”
.
.
.
“Weapons at the ready.”

Everything in his stomach turned. He wasn’t even there and yet he felt the tension. It reminded him of when he felt the dreadful nervousness and astonishment before. Right before their journey.

Timing is important, if you’re too late you lose. If you’re too early, you miss your chance either way. It’s frustrating. But if you’re right on time, there’s a small chance of something great being its outcome.

Adrenaline. Blood rushing. Heart racing. Not knowing when he’d be back was reason enough to do it now, or never. Yanan stripped down the lab coat simultaneously trying to rip the safety goggles from his head. The scientist always made too many unnecessary movements. Dressing in a clean shirt with a tie should do. The tie choked him but it didn’t bother him enough to fix it. Yanan was already out of the door, he stumbled back in for the flowers. Fine metal pieces welded together with care – resembling roses. His mouth felt dry, his heart still pounding against his chest like an animal in its cage. He couldn’t miss her.

Half running and half trying to get his right shoe on his foot, the man of a bit over thirty looked like someone who made an astounding discovery in his scientific field. Not quite this time, but just as important. Not an eureka moment in terms of science but maybe differently.

There she was. He could tell from her uniform, her hair was dark and curly just like his father said ocean waves would look like. She wore it in a low ponytail. Arlo was just about to approach the spaceship that would leave the russian station for quite a while. Her next expedition would surely be adventure material, he was certain.

She tilted her face over her shoulder. With a slight smile, she almost looked as if she awaited him. Yanan was out of breath, with his hands resting on his thighs, he needed a second. Half of her beauty was her brain, her sarcasm and high vocabulary was prepossessing.

"Before you go," he was heaving. "I have something for you." He felt so damn brave. It thrilled him what nature of words laid on the tip of his tongue. "I haven’t seen you in a long time, Borgov,“ she raised her brows as her eyes lit up - relentless. A good year had passed even though they used to spend every single day after their schedules together a few years back. They’d play old games from back on earth, vintage stuff. Arlo would always win ‘cause she’d watch the screen while Yanan was watching her. He enjoyed losing against her even. Arlo would throw a fit if he’d win, she was such a fucking bad loser; and he loved that about her. "You caught me right on time, I’m about to leave for the big mystery we call space…,“ she tried to sound overly poetic and rolled her eyes in the process. For a moment she checked the gates of her ship but proceeded to come closer.

"Indeed," he admitted and couldn’t hide his excitement from his big toothy smile. "I was wanting to give these to you." He carefully pulled the delicate bouquet of metal from behind his back. His shirt was sticking to his skin, he was sweating from running through what felt like the whole station.

"Oh? These are from Vasili, right? I’ve always wanted some! I really like them, Yanan!“ She inspected the roses and smelled them despite knowing there was no scent to them. Please… as if that was just a lucky catch. He knew Arlo wanted these. She only whined about them more than Yanan can count on both his hands. "You’re welcome m’lady," he bowed dramatically but when he lifted his upper body back up, his expression changed. Nervousness and the urge to throw up. Not on her shoes, дурак. "There’s uh.. something else.“

She took her glance from the gift towards him. For a moment she seemed to really see him.

"How do I begin? I think I should start with the day- no. Nevermind.“ Yanan got frustrated with himself as so many thoughts and emotions roamed through his head and he had no idea which one he should follow. Then he just blurted it out.

"I’ve been in love with you since that night you knocked on my door to ask for cigarettes.“ He moved closer with caution. Usually people backed away when he did that. He didn’t want to scare her off too. His fingers nervously rubbed on each other. His voice sounded determined all of a sudden. "You had locked yourself out of your room, so we talked for an hour sitting on the cold floor till someone came for you.“ Yanan’s glasses slowly traveled down his nose while talking.

"I’ve been in love with the fact that you still can’t whistle, when you ambitiously trained it every morning.“ He had to chuckle a bit from the mere memory. He also loved how she never interrupted him.
"I’ve loved you for standing up for me, when I couldn’t bring myself to. That’s an absolute truth.“ He thought he’d stutter more but by now his thoughts were rushing out like a waterfall, he surely got carried away in the process. "I never told you, but at least now I get to. And yes, the flowers are from Vasili to answer your question.“ He knew she’d have to leave for now.

She listened clearly. Every last syllable of his words sounded sweet.
What he wanted to say was…
"Yanan“
…You can disappear.
"Look I know we both have work to han-"
Please just take me with you or let me follow.

"Gus proposed to me,“ she interrupted him.

Just let me follow.

"Gus...the guy who was your instructor last year?“
"Yeah," she nodded and put her lips together. "Much can happen in a year, you know.“
"Indeed." From one second to another everything shifted. His heart calmed down, at last.

The captain of the spaceship was signaling her pilot to finish up on her business. "I’m sorry but I need to get going now.“ She reached for his tie. "You look nice today but a loose tie might suit you a bit better,“ she tried to cheer him up while fixing it. "I’ll see you around, Borgov.“ She took the metal roses with her.

Timing is important. If you’re too late, you lose.

Recalling the farewell made his head hurt. Whatever. After finally taking his eyes off of the samples, he let his white coat slide off. He dropped it onto the stool in reach as he proceeded to exit the lab with his 'normal' clothes. On his way back a conspicuous sound reverberated through the vents. It reminded him of mice and rats back in russia, they were everywhere in the walls. Yanan raised his brows but didn't stop for further investigation.

He did smash the door to the lounge open though which had potential to give one or the other a good spook. "I'm back babeyy", he announced and raised his arms pretending there was nothing but applause for him. "Do we have a rat problem here? I'm not going to check. They're fine but they have massive balls," he shook his head as if he just had war flashbacks. He flopped down on one of the couches next to the mountain of a man Virgil.





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status



healthy, and channeling her inner chapman



location



the bridge, then the medbay



interactions



lacasa, holkar, pritchard, and a glance to the occupants of the lounge



tags



idiot idiot













AMAIA HOLT



THE FAMILY MEMBER






Five days and four nights on the Azael; maybe four and a half hours of sleep, which left over a hundred hours of anxiety-ridden wakefulness, and yet Amaia had never taken the time to just sit and stare out into space until just now.

Even though the lights in the bridge were dimmed, it was difficult to see all of the stars that were dotted throughout the neverending darkness of space. If she squinted too hard, her eyes focused on her reflection in the window instead of past it.

It seemed so lonely out there.

The Desdemona, floating silently amongst it all, appeared overwhelmingly gargantuan. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she’d known it would be—with over six hundred people living their lives on it for nearly a decade, of course the ship would appear like a Titan in orbit.

There was a part of her that had forgotten there was more to be found here than her brother, but who could blame her? It was clear that everybody else on the Azael was under the impression that the Desdemona’s crew had met an untimely, if not entirely unexpected, fate. Maybe they’d suffocated, or plummeted to their planet-shattering death—they could’ve even spontaneously combusted.

But her brother wasn’t just some nameless, faceless crewmate; he was brave, he was kind, and his name was Asier Holt. His last words to her had been, “I’ll be fine, don’t worry,” and he’d looked like he hadn’t slept in days or weeks or even months. He’d looked worse than her reflection in the bridge window. He’d promised her something that everybody else seemed to think was unattainable, and her brother never promised her something if he couldn’t keep his word.

Amaia sat forward in her seat and rested her palm upon the phantom weight of Lacasa’s, lingering on her shoulder like the devil in her ear that whispered things like, he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead. “I’m sure your brother is perfectly fine,” Lacasa had said, but even to Amaia the words fell flat.

Empty promises, false hope.

Lacasa called out to Desdemona, and it responded with silence, even as the flight deck welcomed their crew onboard. There was nothing but hisses and creaks and the crackle of the captain’s commands in her ear. The flight deck was devoid of life, but full of the signs of it; scattered luggage, abandoned endeavors.

“SS-Azael, do you read me?” Chapman asked curtly. Amaia wondered how the woman remained so stoic all the time; she wished she could appear the same, but she could already feel herself sweating at her hairline.

She nervously fiddled with the hair tie at her wrist as Lacasa confirmed, “We read you, expedition team. We are also receiving live coverage from all body cams,” and when she was done, Amaia had pulled her hair back into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. It did nothing to stop the sweat piling up in all of her nooks and crannies, but she felt more put-together. She tried to convince herself she could be like Chapman.

But then there was blood on the walls, and a loud bang—except the bang wasn’t crackling through her earpiece; it came from right above her head. As one, she, Lacasa, and Holkar all glanced away from the screens and up towards the ceiling, then back down at each other in confusion.

Lacasa fiddled with her earpiece for a second, then said, “You guys heard that too… right?”

Amaia only realized the comms officer had turned off her mic when Holkar poked at his own ear piece before explaining, “The vents are probably expanding due to the change in pressure from entering the Desdemona’s flight deck.”

Above them, the bang had turned into a scuttling, as though there were a rat in the vents. But that was impossible—they were in space. As it got further and further away, Holkar’s brows furrowed, though he had nothing else to add. Lacasa declared, “Something is in those bloody vents, I’m sure of it.”

Amaia switched her mic off, though she didn’t know what to say. She looked at Lacasa and Holkar, and they looked at her. The screens seemed frozen on the bloody trail the expedition crew had found, and Amaia felt sick to her stomach.

She stood up, and her chair squealed loudly enough to make her cringe. Channel your inner Chapman, she chanted internally; out loud, she found herself saying, “I’ll go take a look,” and to her surprise, her voice didn’t shake even a little bit.

Out in the hallway, she bumped into Pritchard, who appeared to be even sweatier than her. “Oh, um, hi,” she said, “did you hear that sound? In the vents?”

Pritchard smiled, though all it did was make him look uncomfortable. “A sound? Oh, yeah…” He peeked back over his shoulder, and Amaia could only assume it had headed down towards the middle deck, for the only other thing Pritchard said was, “It’s probably an animal or something. A-anyway, I must go—sorry!” and around her he went, back the way she’d come from, before she could even thank him.

How would an animal get into the vents on a spaceship?

Amaia creeped down the stairs to the middle deck, and scuffled through the lounge awkwardly, past Borgov and the others, who were looking towards the back of the ship curiously. That must’ve been where the sound had gone. She stood before the door to the medbay, hesitant to reveal whatever waited for her behind it.

“Inner Chapman,” she whispered harshly, then finally pushed the door open.









nine lives

 




://ACT_ONE_WARM_WELCOME




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gazelle twin



juliet's rage.








://JORDAN_CHAPMAN_

The first decision was awaiting Jordan's answer; her crew stood behind her awkwardly in anticipation. Jordan knew some were already sweating behind their helmets. Carreira offered a simple yet trusted solution to the bloody trail. On the other hand, Jin-Sook's proposal was reliant on one thing Jordan hated - technology.

He died because of technology.

No. Jordan couldn't let emotions cloud her judgement.

Nodding in Jin-Sook's direction, she watched the engineer throw a small, metal orb into the air. An alarming red flashed from the centre, strobing around them. Fond memories of Siana's soft hand leading her into the old nightclub aboard Mexico's space station flooded her mind. Their first kiss was on that dancefloor. She missed her warmth.

The orb floated towards the bloody trail before orbiting around the corner.

A moment later, Jordan's vision was invaded by a layout of sorts; red lines made up an L-shaped room with a door marked at the end. Jordan presumed everyone's HUD was being fed the same information. The bot must have been capable of providing a map layout, Jordan figured.

She then noticed a multi-coloured, vibrant figure in the layout. Heat signature.

"We've got a survivor," Jordan announced. Raising a hand, she stiffly signalled for her crew to follow.

The captain's boots clunked on the metal floor with each steady step. Her eyes were trained ahead, laser focus on her immediate environment. Carreira and Demarco covered her rear while the rest of the crew was only a few steps behind.

Approaching the beginning of the bloody trail, Jordan narrowly missed it.

About to turn the corner, Jordan heard it. Squelch. Thud. Squelch. Thud.

A sickening crunch made Jordan grit her teeth. Squelch. Thud. Squelch. Thud.

Her back against the cool wall, Jordan took a breath and turned the corner.

A figure was hunched over what could only be described as a butchered carcass. The figure's pale, naked body was littered in cuts of varying length; some fresh, some crusted shut. His broad back resembled a star constellation of sorts. Were they self-inflicted?

Dressed in nothing but a pair of stained boxers, the figure gripped a knife, using the dead body below as a human pincushion.

Jordan had a strong stomach but she could feel her throat burning with bile.

Dark blood coated the walls, floor and sealed door nearby; the figure's arms were painted the same gruesome colour as they continually plunged the knife forwards.

"This wasn't the warm welcome I-" Varon's words were cut short and Jordan could presume why as the distinct sound of vomiting filled her ears.

Glancing behind her, she saw Varon bent forwards, yellowly chunks by his feet and remnants on Schulz boots. His silver-speckled hair was exposed. He had taken his helmet off.

Jordan's attention was brought back in front of her as the figure stood.

"Drop the knife and turn around," Jordan barked. The gun remained firmly in front of her.

The figure turned around, more of the cuts exposing themselves. He offered the crew a crooked grin, dark circles surrounding his bloodshot eyes.

"They..." His voice cracked, "...need us."

Jordan's finger moved to the trigger as he took a step forwards; a wet slap from the blood on his soles.

What the fuck happened here...

://THE_AZAEL_

Amaia had approached the med lab's door which opened before her. She could see the heavy-set forensic pathologist, Dr Carl Imhoff, slumped in a chair. His mouth was wide open, his head resting against the wall as he snored loudly.

In the corner of her eye, she swore she could see a small tail flicker into the now opened vent entrance. The panel hung loosely by one lone screw, swinging slightly.

Amaia wasn't sure if her mind was playing tricks on her, but before the door opened completely, she thought she saw something small perched on the doctor's face. Yet, nothing was there.





♡coded by uxie♡
 






genesis demarco




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róisín murphy



ramalama (bang bang)








A red holographic map flickered to life before Gen's eyes, and she instinctually began scanning the layout of the room it depicted. It was shaped like a capital letter 'L'--long and narrow--and had only one point of entry. That meant only one exit, too--one way out if anything went wrong, and that was assuming they could make it from one end of the room to the other quickly enough to make a safe getaway.

Something flickering in the corner of the map caught Gen's attention, and her gaze was drawn away from that looming, red door. A heat signature. They weren't alone after all.

At Chapman's orders, Genesis followed her, along with the rest of their small party, toward the trail of blood. As they drew closer, Gen could feel her grip tightening on the trigger. Not yet, she reminded herself. There's nothing to shoot at yet.

Thud.

Or maybe there was.

Leveling her gun, Genesis followed Chapman around the corner. What they came face-to-face with was worse than the blood. There in the shadows, hunched over what Gen could only suppose was the remains of a human body, was a pale, naked figure, its knife plunging in and out of the carcass at its feet.

Squelch. Squelch. Squelch.

Gen clenched her teeth to fight back the nauseous feeling rising at the back of her throat. This was where the blood had come from. It wasn't a monster at all, not physically. It was a man, his arms and legs coated in the blood of his victim. Was he the reason this ship had been suddenly emptied of its passengers? This lone, blood-thirsty individual had caused all of this destruction?

Surely not. It was one man. One man couldn't take out a crew's entire population. Something had, though, and Genesis wondered how long this man had been left alone. How long did it take for someone to be driven to insanity?

Genesis was vaguely aware of Varon saying something in the earpiece, but his voice was quickly replaced by the sound of heaving. Had her helmet been off, she would've smelled the acrid scent of vomit as it pooled to the floor at the man's feet. As much as Gen felt inclined to do such a thing herself, she knew she couldn't. She wouldn't. She'd seen plenty of morbid things during her time with the military, and somewhere down the line, she'd become numb.

Now, though, she was beginning to wonder just how numb she really was.

Squelch. Squelch. Squelch.

The first time she'd seen a battlefield, Genesis had been sick. Corpses littered the blood-strewn ground, the smell of flesh left to rot in the scorching heat burning her nostrils. It wasn't just the sun doing damage on the bodies, though. It was the animals, too. Birds pecked at whatever soft parts they could get their beaks on, mercilessly ripping apart the victims of war. The birds, she could almost understand. The birds were hungry. This man was not. This man was bored.

Chapman's words came as a distant buzz to Gen's ears. The man's mouth moved as he said something in return, but Genesis didn't know what had come out of his vile lips. The only sound she could hear was the echo of the man's knife as it punctured the limp, mutilated body on the floor. He'd since abandoned his sick game, but the noises lingered, ringing incessantly through Gen's head.

Maybe he is the monster, Genesis thought, her finger pressing down on the trigger.

Squelch. Squelch. Squelch. Bang.





♡coded by uxie♡
 








Amelie knew what it was like to work with a team that didn't know what they were doing. Bumbling along with their duties like headless chickens. It always started with an irritated tsk as she scanned the listed names first thing in the new week, to a resigned sigh. Finally ending with a staring match with the ceiling of her modest bedroom, thoroughly exhausted at the end of an arduous week but in that weird state where your brain was stuck in hyperdrive, taking is damned sweet time to gear down so you can finally pass out into sweet oblivion. The saving grace of such weeks was that she'd developed the ability to just get 'in the zone', industrially performing her duties on a kind of autopilot such that she couldn't even tell how long time passed. Perhaps it helped that carrying the weight of a dozen other lazy asses meant that some days she didn't even see the light of day. Lying on steel work tables feeling the cold metal pressed into your back, trying to blot out the beeps and bustle of the A&E as she attempted temporary hibernation in-between shifts.

"We've got a survivor," the Captain announced as all eyes trained on the holographic projection relayed by Jin's robotic boy-scouts.

At least, this particular group didn't seem like bumbling headless chickens; for the time being.

Hanging slightly back, she could not immediately see what their forward guard saw. The only warning she got of the grotesque sight was a gurgling choke as their Security Chief emptied the contents of his insides all over her boot, after having peeked around the corner.

"Hey, watch it-!" Being no stranger to having bodily excretions splattered all over herself didn't mean she didn't flinch backwards in a futile attempt to dodge Varon's lunch. But the sheer horror-disgust on his face caught her off guard. Her heart dropped into her stomach the moment she turned around the corner.

Squelch. Thud.

Doc, we've got a white male med built, approx. in his thirties. Presenting with multiple linear incised wounds, range 1 to 7 centimetres, smooth edges, down to and possibly through the superficial and intermediate back muscles. Spinous process visible in one location, multiple abrasions and hematomas observed along forearms and back.

Squelch. Thud.

Amelie shook her head, dispelling the echoes of the A&E which seemed to have followed her all the way out to the Desdemona.

It was horrible.

There was no other way to describe it. Blood everywhere. There was so much of it that she was taken aback when the madman spoke. The man turned and stood as they approached cautiously. He spoke in a crackly crinkly voice, she could barely make out the words. Her skin crawled, peeled back by the sandpaper of a scene before her.

"They? Who's they-?"

BANG

Amelie froze, her breath caught in her throat. The man tottered unstably then collapsed.

Some shot him! Who shot him?! Who-

"Gen- why?!" The nurse nearly screeched into her mic, her brows furrowed as she stated appaled at the soldier with her smoking gun. Or at least, she thought she could see the smoke, as her rigid stance said it all. She'd pulled the trigger. The man was clearly out of his mind and he clearly held a dangerous, albeit useless at that range, weapon. But as far as the nurse could tell, he'd done nothing that warranted the immediate execution. Her gaze shifted back to the figure on the floor. Her heart pumped in her ears as she tried to make sense of the situation; the blood, the madman, the trigger happy soldier.

He moved!

"He- he's still alive!" The nurse started forwards, her instincts as a healer urging her onwards but as she began to move past Chapman, she abruptly stopped; she'd remembered the Flight Nurses' briefing. Her primary charge was the crew of the Azael. They'd made it unreservedly clear about that. Plus, as much as she wanted to see what she could do she wasn't stupid enough to make sure the others didn't have her back. She wasn't about to throw her life away, as altruistic as she could be - which really wasn't much at all. Amelie swallowed the lump in her throat.

"Captain?" She didn't need to say it, but the question was clear. "We- He's our chance to find out what's going on here." If Chapman gave her the green, Amelie would hurry forward and attempt to stabilize the man, though she'd make sure the knife was well out of the way first.









the nurse



amelie.








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♡coded by uxie♡
 






Virgil Maschera




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Jóhann Jóhannsson



WASTE








He only noticed the figure next to him once they spoke. “We’ve met before,” a soft, eager voice said; they had approached with such deft silence it almost startled him. Virgil closed the locket, tucked it under his t-shirt, and turned towards them. Beside him stood a young, svelte woman—presumably one of the youngest among the crew. Her outfit was well-put together; and her brown hair spilled over her shoulders. One hand outstretched for a handshake, and in the other she clutched a briefcase. After a longing glance, he lightly grasped her free hand.

“Hana Madeira,” she added, smiling.

He gave a nod of acknowledgement, though he remembered her name as he did with everybody else on board. To learn the most rudimentary of information about an individual was well mannered. Over the years, however, he had realised its service. It catalogued you in the book of decent people: as an excellent listener, as knowledgeable, as reliable. Work and jobs reaped the benefits the most, he had discovered. Employers had always taken a swift liking to him, and not for his size and strength alone—albeit it played a part more often than he cared to admit.

Hana then asked, “Colour me embarrassed if I’m wrong, but you’re the psychologist, yes?”

Virgil’s eyes narrowed; on what principle was this asked? A topic of strict curiosity, or it veered into the field of divulgence, fenced by the pretence of camaraderie.

A lesser, more trusting—or logical, or naïve, whatever manner one looked at it—part of him knew how contrived his fretting was; and he also knew some would construe it similarly, because he had no absolute reason to believe anyone meant harm otherwise. But if one was cognizant of his thoughts, they could very well forgive him for the concern. Whilst he couldn’t speak on behalf of the space station or Second Earth populace, the Original Earth—his Earth—had degenerated into a war zone of deceit and odium. Faith in the humanity of kindness no longer sold truth. Indeed, there were many who maintained a sense of altruism, but he had found trusting too much was far more detrimental than trusting too little; Sam, his older brother, taught him that young. Although, here wasn’t Earth: he had considered this before. But even here, was it acceptable to expect the same? Was it inherent for those who did not live on Earth to behave in such a way—an evolutionary self-preservation trait? So, they would blindside him no matter what.

Letting out a dry chuckle, he sat back. “You are correct. I don’t quite have the zeal to be a soldier or doctor type.” He linked his hands and rested them upon his vast stomach. “Forgive me for being so formal, but please, call me Mr. Maschera instead.”

Despite his uncertainties, he felt drawn to Hana in a way only a parent could understand. She reminded him of his daughter, without knowing exactly why. There was an abrupt glint of recognition in the woman’s eyes, as if she had figured out the answer to a tough equation, of what he was unsure; it eased him regardless.

He rose, an instinctive groan escaped his lips as he collected his balance. The cybernetic leg melded to his left knee had been losing its mobility across the preceding couple of years. He had suffered a blood clot back in 2139 which demanded amputation from the knee down. The standard issue cybernetic limbs sufficed for about four to six years, perhaps longer if you took good care of it, then they needed replacing.

He hobbled over to a tap on the far side of the room. “Is there an issue at hand you would like to discuss?” Virgil said as he collected two small glasses and filled both with water from the tap. Upon returning to his seat, he sat directly facing her, leaning forward so their eyes aligned. He proffered one glass to Hana.

Julie Dean and Griff Pritchard had remained in the lounge as well. Though neither appeared too bothered about listening in on the discussion. In fact, Julie was busy hounding Griff with regurgitated questions about the company he worked for, who had employed the rest of them for this duty. She had been mighty persistent in her attempts at retrieving information from any and every accessible source. Give it up, Virgil wanted to tell her. You will learn nothing by spouting uncensored queries. Mr. Pritchard has produced nothing so far and will produce nothing else for as long as we are here. Yet she was at no fault of her own. Everybody desired answers, including Virgil; Julie simply had the temperament to pursue them.

“You are here about—” he drew a shaky gulp from his own glass—“astrophysics. How are you getting along? I have never been one for space myself. I imagine it is hard work. Hard, but rewarding. I bet it’s nice to work in a career you’re fond of. Keeps you grounded.”

Transitioning roles from an undistinguished farmer into a psychologist had, to his surprise, been smooth so far; like the way a toddler’s paper boat drifted along a street gutter in the heart of a rainstorm, and occasionally it would lurch from a gust of wind but an extra push set it off once again no problem. It had been nine years since a formal engagement, sat in a cushy square office, attending to somebody who poured their soul away to him. Be that as it may, it was now intuition for him to lend an ear: a primordial, paternal urge. Like a sleeper agent (or whatever they called them) you saw in those pretentious, convoluted action films. Where a particular word would trigger his conditioning and he would spring into action no delay. No matter the character of whom he lent it to.

A few minutes afterwards, Julie finally left Griff alone. Virgil thought he had never witnessed a man sweat so hard from talking.

“I-” Virgil began before a distant clatter cut him off. It approached from the right-side doors pertaining to the bridge. “Do you hear that?” He paused, listening, trying not to create any unnecessary noise. The clattering shot above them like a Japanese bullet train, resounding through the vents, and carried on towards the back end of the ship.

“By God, what was that?” he remarked, more to himself than to Hana, a little nonplussed.

He barely had time to collect his thoughts when Yananovic Borgov barged through the doors that led to the medical wing. “I’m back, babeyy.” He proclaimed, in what Virgil could merely describe as imaginary triumph. He watched as the scientist meandered over to them and flopped onto the couch beside himself. “Do we have a rat problem here? I'm not going to check. They’re fine, but they have massive balls.”

Virgil ignored the offhand, idiosyncratic comment about rat genitalia. Yananovic’s eccentricities were amusing, sure, and he warmly appreciated the man’s openness and good nature, but he did not wish to entertain the folly of genitalia talk any longer than he had to.

He readjusted the small oval-shaped glasses perched on his nose. “You heard the crash too, Mr. Borgov. And you determine it to be rats?” Rats—no, couldn’t be. They had travelled too long for any rodent to have a sudden emergence, especially one grand enough to generate a sound so loud.

“Hm, I’m not sure,” he continued, scratching a cluster of stubble on his jaw, “maybe a mechanical fault? I am no expert, so I can’t tell you for sure. Or we are all just imagining things.”

Amaia Holt came through the lounge no less than a second later, her face contorted by a pale worry. She hurried past, not speaking to any of them, and departed through the same doors Borgov had entered.

She must be searching for the noise.

“I’m going to check on her, make sure everything is alright. Either of you may accompany me if you choose.” And he set off towards Amaia.

Every passageway was a burnished, bone grey, each one looking no discernible from the previous one. Flat, rectangular lights ran parallel to one another, facing downwards diagonally, on both sides; they were the sole source of light within the ship. If all blew out, he’d be damned if he could remember where he was anymore. This ship may be small, but you could easily get lost in here if you weren’t careful, Virgil thought. The walls puffed up a fresh chemical smell, as if some had painted them several days ago.

He caught sight of Amaia up ahead, stood in front of the open doors to the medical bay. As he neared, he provided ample distance between them. He was conscious of her timorous stance on him, of which he took no offense. In truth, he deemed it more unusual when someone wasn't attentive of his physique.

“Ah, hello Ms Holt. I’ve just came by to see how things are. Did you find the source of the noise by any chance?” He inquired.





♡coded by uxie♡
 
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status



healthy, struggling emotionally



location



the medbay



interactions



imhoff's sleeping body, maschera



tags



lisbeth lisbeth idiot idiot













AMAIA HOLT



THE FAMILY MEMBER






Amaia blinked once, twice. Harder, thrice.

The doctor was asleep. He certainly seemed comfortable, and could almost appear kind, under these fluorescent lights. But she swore she could see the shadow of something on his face—maybe it was just the way the darkness pooled in the time-worn gorges carved deep into his skin; maybe it was just the way his under eyes dipped and curved. Maybe she was going crazy, and it was just the way Amaia didn’t like being around him, because he was a bit of a dick, sometimes.

She shook her head and rubbed a hand across the back of her neck. Sweat glazed her palm, and the ship felt like a kiln around her. A part of her worried that she’d get stuck there if she didn’t move quick enough, but she wasn’t sure what she should do. Where was her inner Chapman, now?

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw it: something long and thin, waving like a flag in the wind at half-mast, a harbinger of mourning. It disappeared into the vent so swiftly, she could almost convince herself she’d imagined it, were it not for the fact that the vent was inexplicably ajar.

Was that a tail? Were there really rats on the ship? Since when could any sort of rodent manage to open a vent? They were in space. How on Earth would rats even—

“Ah, hello, Ms. Holt.” A greeting, completely unexpected. Amaia jolted, and felt like she’d awaken from a trance. Maschera, the psychologist who towered over her like a skyscraper, stood a couple of feet away from her and subsequently appeared more like a medium-sized apartment block. “I’ve just come by to see how things are. Did you find the source of the noise, by any chance?” he asked.

A part of her wanted to blame it all on the doctor’s incessant snoring, reverberating through the medbay like a siren before a storm. Another part of her wanted to scurry back to the bridge silently. But with Maschera lurking in the hall and Chapman in the back of her mind, the words dried up on her tongue, and she knew she couldn’t squeeze past him without it being excessively embarrassing.

She shuffled into the medbay awkwardly, and struggled to keep a wide berth between herself, the two men, and the mysteriously open vent. She tried not to back herself into a corner, either, so she ended up standing in the middle of the room, feeling foolish beyond belief.

“Um,” was, at first, the only thing she could manage to say, and then, “I think it went back into the vent. I don’t know what it was, but…”

The sleeping doctor snorted and snuffled. Amaia tried to figure out how to say, I think it was on Dr. Imhoff, but I don’t know what it was doing, and I’m not sure I really saw it, so maybe it didn’t do anything at all, and—actually, I’m not fully convinced it exists. She already sounded crazy in her head; she didn’t need Maschera doubting her sanity, too.

Deep breath in, deep breath out. Inner Chapman, she chanted, inner Chapman. “Do you have a flashlight on you? I want to take a look in the vent, but my bag is in my room.”

She headed for Dr. Imhoff, then, and stood in front of his prone body, paralyzed with an unspeakable fear. It was nearly impossible to shake it off, but after what felt like ten years, she finally stretched a finger out and poked at his shoulder like a doorbell. “Doctor?” she called out tremulously, “Dr. Imhoff?”









nine lives

 




://ACT_ONE_WARM_WELCOME




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gazelle twin



juliet's rage.








://CARL_IMHOFF_

Fiction and dreams were Carl's escape from the trash heap of reality.

Martha was always in his dreams; her soft face, warm smile and her strawberry-blonde hair tied back in that cascading braid. He remembered the moment he met her. Martha's father had developed a large tumour in the pit of his stomach. Dr Carl Imhoff was considered one of the best surgeons back then, they had travelled all the way from Earth to have the surgery.

Once he had finished operating, a slight woman entered the recovery room, those blue eyes settling on Carl. He remembers a spark, a bolt of electricity surging through him at that moment. Carl was lost for words as the woman hugged him tightly, her arms barely managing to wrap around him. He wasn't sure what compelled him but he kissed her. To this day he can't explain why. As a man of science, he struggled to explain it apart from...love. He loved her. He loved her even when they found out she was infertile. He didn't care.

In his dreams, Martha wasn't. They had five children; two boys and three girls. He wasn't sure how it was possible but his dreams were always the same, he would fall to sleep and be met by Martha and their children. Today wasn't any different. Martha and their children sat on a picnic blanket as butterflies fluttered around the picturesque landscape. Martha waved him over and Carl--

He woke with a start and an annoyed groan as his eyes adjusted to the fluorescent lighting.

"What is god's name do you want?" Carl grumbled. The old man's face creased heavily, clearly angry. He couldn't remember the girl's name but she wasn't part of the crew, she was here for her brother or sister? He didn't care frankly. In the doorway he spotted the psychologist, shooting him an annoyed glare. Did he put her up to this?

In Carl's lap was a novel that had been dog-eared numerous times. He must have fallen asleep while reading it.

Carl stood with more effort than one should, gripping the wall for support. His bones had begun hardening as he got older, making it difficult to move. The worst was his hands, they shook violently these days. He was a shell of a man, the once-great, Dr Carl Imhoff, world-renown surgeon.

He could feel a tickle in his throat and tried to swallow. Instead, he began coughing, reaching for his handkerchief in his pocket. He held it to his mouth, the coughing fit continuing.

Carl pulled the handkerchief away, his eyes spotting the blood staining the crisp, white cloth. Balling it up and tucking it into his coat, he turned to the pair.

"So...can I help you or not?" It sounded like more of a threat than a question, his German accent was still strong.





♡coded by uxie♡
 
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