All the little lost boys and girls (Update: 26/5/12)

[White Haven]

Given the ease with which the unknown ship obliterated Kerrigan and the mention of the terrifying warships of the former owners of DROP 47, it's entirely possible that the most powerful warships in this particular universe are guarding it in the first place.

[Darth Nostril]

Guarding it or would that be containment?

[White Haven]

You say tomato, I say horrible murder by Gibbering Horrors That Should Not Be. Simple pronunciation difference, really.

[Bladed_Crescent]

wow does anyone ever win in your stories?
great work!

Thank you. And yes, they can win as much as anyone ever does... in a horror movie.

And now we know what the ship is keeping sealed up

One such something, certainly...

God damn, Bladed. To paraphrase Tooms, 'If I owned DROP 47 and Hell, I'd rent it out and live in Hell.'

He was a philosopher ahead of his time. Besides, DROP 47 has some things to recommend it...

Damn.

You really hate your characters, don't you?

I've said it before and I'll say it again. If they didn't want to suffer like this, they wouldn't have been in one of my stories!

Love the scene where all various body parts are spasming crawling and twitching over each other on the floor trying to put themselves back together. Hmm what happens when multiple zombies are shot into pieces and dumped together?

Ah heh. Ah heh. Ah heh heh heh heh heh heh.

I hope someone sends the most powerful space warship available in this universe to cleanse those abominations with FIRE

Given the ease with which the unknown ship obliterated Kerrigan and the mention of the terrifying warships of the former owners of DROP 47, it's entirely possible that the most powerful warships in this particular universe are guarding it in the first place.

I plead the Fifth.

Guarding it or would that be containment?

You say tomato, I say horrible murder by Gibbering Horrors That Should Not Be. Simple pronunciation difference, really.

I wish I had a moustache to twirl...

I'm just about done the next chapter; it's taken about half-dozen false starts, but I think it's working now. I've been trying to do another flashback, one that doesn't give too much away (so there's still a chance for Shannon and the readers to figure things out, without just repeating the same information over again), but still has some meat on it to make it interesting. Hopefully it's worked out; I just need to tidy it up. Should be up in a few hours.

[Darth Nostril]

You say horrible murder by Gibbering Horrors That Should Not Be, I say AI controlled systems designed to prevent anything from leaving to contain the outbreak running on automatic for six centuries and being ruthlessly efficient about it.
Unless AI cores can be infected, or just plain gone insane after 600 years without any maintainence then it's anybodys guess.

[Bladed_Crescent]

Whew. This chapter gave me a lot of trouble; hopefully it works without giving too much away.

Flashback: The work being done on DROP 47 and a glimpse into the shadows.

Coming up: Return to the present; the remains of the expedition continue to take fight and Shannon decides that Orpheus had an easier time of it.

Chapter 12:

Then:

Project Director Everett Lucien Hayes stood on the upper level of one of R Section’s many observation decks. The entire complex extended throughout several subsections, from R-2 to-R7. It was a sort of honeycomb structure, with isolation rooms as the ‘cells’ and shielded walkways, lounges and on-site laboratories and small research kiosks sandwiched between them. This was not the only such structure, it was only one of several such complexes within the gargantuan Elysium station.

DROP 47 was a truly massive construct, with a central core as large as some small moons. A flattened sphere, it appeared as if it had been impaled on dozens of massive sensor arrays and comm antennae, kilometers-long spines jutting from the top and bottom of the core, into the Mists. Far larger than their counterparts on other stations, their size and power was necessary to allow them to penetrate the shroud caused by the strange nebula, to maintain communications, guide supply runs to the station and scan Abyss.

Extending out from the large central hub were four massive arms. Although spindly in comparison to the bulk of the station, they were nonetheless as large as starships in their own right, used as docking hubs, cargo storage, crew quarters and more. Equally large support girders helped brace the arms to the station, protective ‘bracer’ arcs looping off the station’s hull like frozen solar flares, the harsh crackle of their energy fields repelling the bulk of the dust and gas from the station.

47 had a complement of nearly thirty thousand, but it could easily accommodate several times that. Researchers, administrators… soldiers. There to protect DROP 47 from any threat, whether external or internal. Since Everett had arrived, two additional infantry companies had been dropped off to bolster the station’s own security forces. For the Imperium to divert even that handful of men to DROP 47, protected as it was by the all-concealing Mists, showed how much they valued the research being done here. And how much it frightened them.

With good cause. What they’d found in Abyss, buried in the depths of Acheron… what’d they’d created with it… fear was an understatement.

Hayes braced one hand against a support pillar, looking out the one-way glass, down into the enclosure below. His lips thinned into a disapproving slash, thankful that his division was not responsible for this… barbarism, that it was not on his hands. He had made other horrors.

But here I stand, watching and doing nothing. That makes me culpable for this as well, doesn’t it?

More than likely.

Could he accept that? Of course he could. It was why he’d been recruited here, to this damned floating purgatory. Because the Imperium had seen something in him that they could use. And with the Coalition pressing them on all fronts, they needed every resource they could lay their hands on. They needed Umbra.

He’d seen the latest reports; the Coalition was fighting a war of attrition. Every Imperial ship was worth two, three, four – five! – Coalition ships, but they could afford those kinds of losses. Earth could not. They were fighting to hold on to every planet, every system, but they were being forced back. The disparate nations of the galaxy had actually managed to unify in the face of Imperial aggression, far faster than anyone had predicted – even Halo’s strategists had believed that the Imperium’s potential victims were too disjointed and fragmented to unify before it was too late. But they had and they were throwing everything they had at the Terran forces, paying a cost that no one had expected they could endure or afford. Extinction before enslavement.

The Imperium was losing, losing badly and it was getting desperate. Any weapon, any plague, any ship that they could unleash, they did. Anything to force the Coalition onto the defensive, even momentarily.

That was why they were here. Originally just another DROP – perhaps a bit blacker than the rest thanks to Hadley-Wright’s discovery of the Obelisks – 47 had had all records of its existence – and probably a few personnel – purged when Razorback had found Umbra. The first Obelisk – that had been shocking enough to bury DROP 47, but Umbra… what was there could win the war. Reason enough to erase the station from every record, remove everyone who’d heard of DROP 47 and keep its black secrets hidden. If they could use them. If the Imperium could survive long enough. If those same secrets didn’t kill everyone and everything on the station first. If. If. If.

And if Earth fell, Halo would fall with it. That was why he was here. Making the best out of a bad choice. Out of so many bad choices.

“Amazing, isn’t it?”

Everett Hayes didn’t turn away from the viewing window. “It certainly is, Justin. In a manner of speaking.” Everything had a price. And for all the secrets it possessed, Umbra guarded them jealously. As it was supposed to, he imagined.

Senior Researcher Black rolled his eyes theatrically. “No need to go out on a limb, doctor.” He stepped forward next to Everett and stared down into the enclosure, watching the movements of its inhabitants, chewing on his lip. “I do consider it amazing. What we’re witnessing is without precedent, Hayes. Something that other people only consider in their nightmares. This is what we’ve brought about.” He sighed, almost remorseful. “What we’ve had to bring about. Sometimes I wish this wasn’t so. That we’d never come here, you know? But we’ve been pushed to this point by the outworlders.” Harder: “They’ve left us no choice.”

“Even if they hadn’t, this discovery is still beyond anything else, isn’t it?”

Black brightened. “Yes, it is. I suppose we’d still be here even if wasn’t for those outworlder trash.”

“Someone would,” Hayes observed. “Better, I suppose that it be us.”

“Exactly. Do you think something like this could have been left to the Coalition?” Black sounded scandalized at the very idea. “Or to the corporations? Suppose those fools at Hadley-Wright hadn’t thought to mention what they’d found to us.” As quickly as Black’s bright mood came, it was gone. “We’d have no hope at all. Neither Earth nor Halo. That’s why what we’re doing is so important. Why we can’t ever let ourselves lose sight of that. We’re doing it all for the greater good. The greater good,” he mumbled again. “That’s what I see. Hope, and the future.”

“I see much the same,” Hayes assured his fellow researcher. “But I also see the Hand of God,” Hayes quipped the proverb.

Black wasn’t familiar with Halo’s culture and the full meaning of the term escaped him. “The hand of God. That’s… an unusual way of putting it.”

“Despite their love of science, Halos do have some poetry in their souls,” Project Director Amelia Constanza interjected, smiling at the men.

Everett nodded in greeting, careful not to let any of his dislike of Constanza show. He despised the woman. She was Terran-born through and through and saw most non-Earthers and certainly all non-Imperials as just a little bit less than human. She was also brilliant. She’d been the one to discover the R-type, the one to discover how it worked. The one to suggest to General Jung what it could be used for. Oh yes, she was definitely a Terran-born Imperial.

“We like to think so,” Hayes replied. “Even the Primaries believed that not everything could be stripped of everything but rationality and equations. As a result, we Halos tend not to fit into the ‘emotionless science drone’ archetype. At least some of the time, anyways.”

Constanza smiled back. She thought they were colleagues-in-arms. “You’ve seen Justin’s latest work?”

“I have. It’s impressive. Very much done in such a short time. Owing in part to your influence, of course.”

Amelia beamed. She was a very attractive woman, but Everett would have rather slept with a viper. “I’m glad you think so. If you two are finished? General Jung is waiting for us.”

~

“I’ll be blunt,” Jung said, as if he were capable of anything else. “Most of you already know or suspected this, but Earth is in danger of losing this war. The reports you’ve submitted had made an impression on the Senate and the Joint Chiefs and they’re throwing their full support behind this facility, particularly where Umbra and the Obelisks is concerned. Director Sampson-”

“I know what you’re going to say, and it’s impossible,” Alfred Sampson interrupted the General. Despite his infamous temper, Jung never seemed to care about such breaches of protocol… as long as it wasn’t also a waste of his time. “Despite the modifications to the sensor and communications arrays, we still don’t have reliable real-time remote control of our automated surveyors and recovery units and without a human riding shotgun on them, even our best AIs are just as incapable of functioning in the relatively low-level disruption fields created by the Mists, let alone the stronger vortices in proximity to an active Obelisk or Umbra itself. I’m pushing all my teams as hard as they can, but we’re making very little headway. Which is at the heart of the matter, you’re well aware.”

Jung nodded. “I understand. The effects of the Mist’s disruption on mechanical systems is one of the biggest stumbling blocks to the project. Our superiors on Earth understand this intellectually, even if they don’t fully realize it. However, DROP 96 was forwarded some of Senior Researcher Delwight’s,” he nodded at a dark-skinned woman. “Data several months ago and they’ve managed to refine it into a workable prototype. The first modules should be arriving with Beryllium’s next cargo run and Engineering can add them to the fabricator’s inventory.”

Sampson’s eyebrows shot up. “I’d like my team to review 96’s technical specs, but if they were able to get Delwight’s idea into practice, that should make it far easier to navigate the Mists. However, we still have no appreciable defence against exposure to the disruption field.”

“My department is working overtime on the problem,” Director Svenja said. “But we’ve been unable to come up with a suitable counter-agent. We can delay and minimize the symptoms, but until the subject is removed from the area of effect, there’s nothing else we can do. And,” he nodded towards Constanza deferentially. “When combined with the R-type, it is irrevocable.”

“Yes, well, that’s why we have the work in I,” Jung grunted, tapping his fingers impatiently on the table. “Speaking of which, how goes your own project, Hayes?”

And there it was. If he indeed had a soul, he’d already sold it in the vain hope that Halo would survive. What was one more loan against his conscience?

“Better,” Everett said. “I’ve uploaded a full report to your personal network. I don’t want to commit to anything more than that, but I’m optimistic. In fact, I think that the series 7 batch is the most promising…”

~

Evertt’s favorite place on the station was a small observation lounge, a short distance away from his quarters. It was usually empty – there was little to it except for a pair of couches, some chairs and a handful of potted plants, tended automatically by the station’s maintenance units – and he found it a very… soothing place.

Turning off the lights, he sat down on his favorite couch, spreading his arms across the back of it and letting the shifting, distorted light from the Mists filter in. Far too dense to communicate the light of distant stars for very far, the Mists produced their own illumination from massive static discharges and radiation bursts, giving the entire nebula the appearance of a churning, multi-hued stormcloud. Another reason for the paucity of people in the outer observation decks: it was disturbing to look into the Mists for too long, but Everett found it calming. He didn’t know why.

What he found less calming was the telltale slight chemical scent of freshly-applied paint on the lounge’s walls, the slight moist glisten of it, where a maintenance drone had recently painted over something.

The higher-ups called it simple stress. They either weren’t seeing it, or choosing not to see. One reason the Imperium liked to hide its DROPs away in the deepest, darkest corners of space was to build on that sense of isolation, to cut its researchers off from the outside world, to distance them from everything but their work… including their ethics. Here, that had been a miscalculation. It was eating at them, all of them. Whispers you didn’t quite hear, a person you didn’t quite see. Shadows seeming to move… That was how it started and then… and then…

It was in all of them. Every soldier, every scientist, every soul.

Almost every soul.

Everett Lucien Hayes, Projector Director on Imperial Deep-range Research and Observation Platform 47, closed his eyes, letting the lights of Acheron play over him as he imagined the sunlight of a distant world and the bright, eager eyes of his children.
Spoiler

[Master_Baerne]

I've said it before, and I daresay I'll say it again - You, sir, are a twisted, twisted man. Brilliant, yes, but twisted.

[Darth Nostril]

This is the last time I ever ask for a happy ending seeing as your idea of happy is the station staff eating everyone

[barricade]

I dunno. I'm actually enjoying this. But then, I play Doom3, Dead Space, and Halo with the lights off, max difficulty, at midnight, and think its a hoot. And my two favorite sci-fi movies are Alien & Aliens.

[Bladed_Crescent]

I've said it before, and I daresay I'll say it again - You, sir, are a twisted, twisted man. Brilliant, yes, but twisted.

That's what the judge said, too...

This is the last time I ever ask for a happy ending seeing as your idea of happy is the station staff eating everyone

Hey, it's not even at the ending yet!

I dunno. I'm actually enjoying this. But then, I play Doom3, Dead Space, and Halo with the lights off, max difficulty, at midnight, and think its a hoot. And my two favorite sci-fi movies are Alien & Aliens.

Glad you're liking it! I loved Aliens, but could never enjoy Alien. Not after the alien's hugging scene with the captain in the vents. When he turns on the lights, it thrusts its arms out like it wants to be cuddled.

"Kisses now!"

"Who's a pretty xenomorph! You is! Yes you is! Does the pretty xenomorph want a hug? Yes you does! You has all the cutes! All of them!"

[Bladed_Crescent]

Even on a space station overrun with the insane and the living dead, there's always time for trainspotting.

Coming up: cat and mouse, hunter and prey. B Company has met their friends. They've met the staff. Now it's time to meet the other guests. DROP 47 does not discriminate. All are welcome. Please. Enjoy your stay.

Chapter 13:

“Come on!” Shannon shouted. “Keep moving!” Louis groaned in pain as Shannon and Emily struggled to keep him upright between them. Shannon was stronger than she looked, but Emily was on the small side and even with the Halo’s help, the doctor was struggling to keep Louis from falling. “Ramone!” Shannon shouted up the corridor at the other corporate doctor. “Get back here and help! Now!”

Luckily, Salvador heard and obeyed, about to take Emily’s position when Shannon’s autosenses picked up a low warbling exhalation; it would have been a screech had it been any louder. And it was behind them. “Take him!” she shouted at the other doctor, already turning to confront whatever was coming up the corridor. Schematics flashed past her mind’s eyes, snippets of information from Control played over in her ears. Yes. “Past the first intersection, take a left on the second – it leads to a tram station – that one should still have power. Move, both of you!”

It was a bisected once-human thing. Some injury or mutation had broken it in half long ago and now it skittered rapidly towards Shannon using its powerful arms and sharp, six-fingered hands, completely unhampered by its lack of legs. Its spine had become a long, muscular tail. Fully as long as a man was tall, it was knobbed with short protruding neural spines and ended in a wicked scythe of bone. The creature’s mouth was agape, its canines extended into massive tusks, intended to slash and disembowel its prey. Its tongue-tentacles flicked in and out over its mouthful of smaller, but equally sharp teeth. Shannon had less than a second to take its abhorrent form in as its hand-feet braced against the deck and it threw itself through the air, slamming into the young woman, razor-sharp teeth gnashing and gnawing at her helmet as the monster’s talons scored deep rents in her cuirass.

The mercenary jammed the barrel of her pistol up against the creature’s neck, blowing a geyser of pustulent flesh out the other side. The monstrosity reared back with a gasping, slurping, hollow roar of surprise, slick tendrils bursting through the entry wound, knitting its flesh back together.

An injury like that would have killed any other creature in the galaxy, but Shannon didn’t give this one the chance to recover and she fired again. Again. On the third shot, the creature’s head was literally blown off its body. Like the first attacker, this was only a temporary inconvenience and the thing reared back just long enough for her to squirm out from under it. And just in time; without its head, it went into a frenzy, slashing back and forth blindly with its forelimbs, its tail cracking like a whip as it sliced through the air, so powerfully that it cut scratches into the bulkhead. Its head, trailing ligaments and burned, blasted clumps of flesh amidst the carpet of tendrils, was slithering back to its berserker body.

“Run!” Shannon shouted at Ramone and Emily as they gawked at her fight, both of them frozen with shock. “Run!”

As they fled, carrying Hernandez between them, Shannon was smashed against the bulkhead by a lucky strike of the creature’s tail. Fortunately, it had only been the flat of the blade and not its edge, but the impact bounced her head against the wall, her vision dimming briefly from the force of the blow and she was temporarily stunned. Not long, but long enough for the decapitated creature to re-attach its head, and lock onto her. It leapt again, slamming her once more against the bulkhead, its hands clasped to her arms, one pinning her gun-hand down, as her other arm fought its grip and tried futilely to push it away. The ruined thing’s head drew back and its maw opened again, wide enough to fit her entire head inside, intending to do so and use its teeth to saw through the body glove on her neck.

Shannon pushed her free arm up to its neck, forcing its mouth back, as it gnashed at her, its tusks skreeking over her faceplate. Even her armour’s filtration system was overpowered by the foul reek of its mouth, the sickening mixture of rotting meat and some strange chemical odour.

“Fuck you!” she screamed at it, still trying to get her gun free. Its tail curved up over its body, the tip pointing at her face. There was a momentary shiver in its muscles-

-the young woman ducked her head to one side as the bone blade slashed forward. So fast she didn’t even register it moving, there was only the crack of the air and the sound of it thunking into the bulkhead, millimeters away from her ear. The creature howled in frustration, wiggling its blade free from the wall, preparing for another attack. She couldn’t dodge forever…

Gauntlets closed around the monster’s tail. “Why won’t you fucking things just die!” Abigail shouted, so loud that Shannon could hear her, even without the comm. Three’s neck was bleeding, a thick red trail running down her armour. The Darkknell dug her fingers into the stretched flesh of its tail and pulled bodily.

The thing yowled, scrabbling at the medic, but Abigail had loosened its grip just enough and Shannon’s pistol was free. She screamed, a hoarse, wordless mixture of fear, exultation, revulsion and hate as she unloaded it into the monster’s torso, spraying guts and bone across the far bulkhead. Its grip finally slackened and Abigail was able to pull it off her partner, down to the floor. It was already healing. Greasy, writhing tendrils slid in and out of its ruined body, sewing itself back together, burst organs shivering and pulsating as they restored themselves.

Hutchins brought a boot up and stomped on the thing, feeling it convulse under the blow. “I. Asked. Why. You. Wouldn’t. Die!” Ribs cracked and vertebrae snapped with each impact, both women now kicking and stamping the twitching, mewling carcass to death. At some point, they realized they were simply grinding a pulpy, bubbling mass of tissue into the deck, that whatever threshold for regeneration these organisms possessed, this one was long past it.

Sweating and panting inside her armour, Shannon looked up. “You’re hurt.”

Abigail waved it off. “Fucking thing bit me. It stings like a bitch, but it’s better now. When it got me, I could barely move.”

Ignoring her companion’s nonchalant response, Hayes ran her lume over the other woman’s wound. “It’s not too deep, but I’m reading traces of formic acid.” She started fumbling in her kit bag for a general antibiotic. “Come here.”

Knowing better than to argue, Abigail let Shannon administer the medicine and a synthskin covering for the open wound. “Formic acid. Is that bad?”

“Variations of it turn up a lot in nature. Terran ants sprayed it into the wounds they’d made in larger animals; it’s intended to hurt as much as possible to drive off larger animals and incapacitate smaller ones. There was one species called ‘bullet ants’. Their bites hurt as much as getting shot.”

“Then they could take a lesson. I’ve been shot before. It didn’t hurt nearly as much as this.”

“Larger dose,” Shannon mused. “Your attacker was probably hoping that that would be enough to keep you down.” Even though she couldn’t see Abigail’s face, she could imagine the woman’s grin. “Clearly, they underestimated you.”

“Damn straight.” Abigail touched a finger to the synthskin. “Feels better. What happened to the docs and that idiot Hernandez?”

“Shit!” Shannon snapped her medical kit shut, tucking back into her kit. “I sent them up the tram station.”

Abigail hefted her carbine. “Let’s head there, then.” Hutchins paused a moment. “I haven’t been able to raise anybody else. Have you?”

“No. The station shouldn’t be blocking comms and we’re protected from the Mists.” A beat. “Delta had equipment problems too.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was afraid you were going to say.”

~

“Motherfucking fuck fucking shit.”

Major Jeremy St. Cloud pulled himself along the wall, leaving a bloody smear on the dusty bulkheads as he did so, his left arm hanging uselessly at his side. His right clutched Betsy, his Mag 5 repeating shotgun. He paused in his walk, but not his epithet-laden diatribe as he fumbled a fresh speedloader into the weapon, a rotary clip of sixteen cartridges.

His shoulder throbbed painfully; there were several deep lacerations torn into it. Which, while bad, weren’t as problematic as the IED someone had thrown into his face. His breastplate was scarred and pitted from the blast. His helmet had kept the shrapnel from going into his brain, but it had cut up his face, taken out his HUD and, even worse, knocked out his link signal – he’d be counted as dead. Without a radio and knocked unconscious by the blast, he’d woken up in the aftermath of the battle, the hangar crawling with actual honest-to-God, zombies. Betsy’d had a workout then. Not enough of one to keep one of the other fuckers – and what the Hell were they? – from cutting his shoulder up pretty damn good.

The major paused to take a breath. He was feeling lightheaded and dizzy and it was getting hard to breathe. He knew that that meant; the blood loss was getting serious, if it wasn’t already. “Fuck,” he paused, letting himself slide down the wall, reaching into a belt pouch for some gauze. “Beta Four, you out there?” he tried the comm again. No response. Only the crackle of static from a dead channel. He didn’t think his comm had been damaged, but that would just be the icing on the cake, wouldn’t it?

“Sure wish you were,” St. Cloud said into his mic anyways. “Heh. Never much cared for the sight of blood, you know. At least when it was my own. A medic’d be nice right about now. So would knowing I’m not the last one left. Don’t think I am; been hearing shots every so often. A shout here and there. Someone’s putting up a fight. Just hope we’re winning it, is all. If anyone can hear me, I’m going to head for the security sub-station on corridor… North-4 7.” He winced as he tightened the gauze around his bleeding shoulder, feeling the useless limb fire every nerve it had in protest. “That’s Sec Station November Four Seven Gamma. Hope to see someone there. St. Cloud, clear.”

He stood back up, using the wall to keep himself on his feet, ignoring the pain in his shoulder as the wound was squeezed against the cold metal bulkhead. From ahead, he could hear the rattle of something moving in the ceiling and he brought Betsy up, cocking a shell into the barrel. “That’s right, fuckface. Come to papa.”

~

Brilliant beams stabbed out of the unknown vessel, searchlights sweeping over DROP 47’s hull and through the debris field. It was looking for something. Survivors from Kerrigan, probably. Come back to finish your damn murderer’s work, have you? Calvin Meyers stared hatefully up at the evil silhouette, though he kept one eye on Lieutenant Godfrey. She was still crouched on the hull, her armour powered down – all but dead, clearly hoping that that would be enough. He was tempted to shoot her, but even if they hadn’t scared the shit out of the berserker Ghost, there was no way he was going to make it easy for Kerrigan’s killers to find him. He’d have to settle up with her later.

Slowly, Calvin backed towards a maintenance hatch. He brought up a direct comm-link to Jane. “So tell me,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant and not terribly succeeding. “Who are these assholes?”

“Eyes in the dark,” she whispered.

Meyers blinked. He hadn’t expected a response. “What?”

“Eyes in the dark,” she repeated. “Watching. Waiting. Killing. Eyes see you. Eye watches you. And then you die.” A beat. “They won’t let you leave.”

“I figured that out already, thanks.”

She laughed. It was dry and empty, the stir of leaves over a moon-lit tomb. “Where do you think you’ll go, friend?”

He wrapped his fingers around the hatch’s manual release. Though worn down by centuries of exposure to the Mists, it came loose with a little effort and the doorway popped open. “Away from you.”

“No one leaves Acheron, Calvin.” Quietly, without a trace of anger or threat, offered as a promise of such certainty that it was a fact in all but name: “I’ll find you.”

~

“Jesus Christ! What are those things? What is this place? Are those the original crew? Are they the people who came here after? What happened here?”

Emily gritted her teeth, trying to block out Salvador’s running monologue. Her shoulders and back ached from the effort of supporting Hernandez. Gunfire rattled through the corridors, distant and washed-out screams reverberating through vents and hallways. Twice now, she’d seen movement out of the corners of her eyes. Once, it had been the loping gait of one of those monsters as it rushed up a parallel hallway, past a debris-chocked intersection.

This wasn’t… it wasn’t supposed to be like this.

Ramone continued to gibber mindlessly. “We’re fucked! We’re fucked! We’re fucked! What happened… you know it’ll happen to us, too.”

“Sh’ up,” Louis murmured through the painkillers. “Givin’ m’ a h’ache.” He blinked through watering eyes. “Corp’ral said t’ g’ to the tram. Jus’ keep movin’. Now, which wunna y’ is gunna g’ me a w’pon?”

“Not just yet, private,” Emily said. “Maybe later.”

“Sol’ja needs a w’pon,” Hernandez mumbled, his eyes hazy; the medication was still dulling his mind. “Gotta pr’tect y’ afta all.”

“You’re doing fine,” Emily assured the injured man, noting the fresh blood dripping out of the tube Shannon had inserted. Hernandez had started bleeding into his lungs again. “Come on,” she encouraged him. “Come on. Almost there.”

The three of them staggered through the doors to the tram station. It was similar in appearance to subway and mag-lev stations the galaxy over, a wide loading area to accommodate large numbers of personnel and some cargo that opened into a massive magnetic rail system, capable of accommodating multiple cars at once. This tube was only a mid-sized one, with space for four trams; deeper in the station, there would be six or more sets of rails. The tunnel was dark; Emily could see the distant glow of emergency lighting here and there, but there was no consistent illumination. It was impossible to see what, if anything was lurking in the tunnel. More insane crew, or more of those things?

This wasn’t supposed to have happened.

There was another terminal closer to the hangar, but that was primarily for cargo and Shannon had said that this one was still working. Status screens, flickering in orange displays six hundred years old, announced the closure of all tram tunnels and advisories to evacuate the station immediately. The speakers, one of which was hanging from its post by a cluster of wires, gibbered with static and indecipherable voices. She thought she heard Vigil’s voice, still trying to save its long-dead crew.

The lighting was more constant here; glow panels from the ceiling shone down onto the floor and six centuries of dust and debris. Bullet holes were spattered across the door frame as some unknown personnel had fought a pitched battle here; whether in an attempt to fall back to the tram and flee to another part of the station, or in an attempt to fight their way to the docking bay and escape that way, Emily had no idea. Nor did she particularly care. Her attention was fixed on the terminal. The empty terminal. There was no tram car here. A low moan escaped her throat and Ramone began to whimper again.

Feet pounded up the corridor towards them.

~

There was a crash from behind them as something burst through a makeshift barrier, one of the many decades-old attempts to seal off side corridors and channel attackers into a killing field. Since its original makers were nowhere to be seen, it was easy to guess how well it had worked. Given their speed and the fact that the damn things took so much killing, it wasn’t really a surprise.

Shannon was keeping half her attention on the corridor; luckily her attacker didn’t seem to have damaged her suit’s systems and her blacklight was still working. There wasn’t much debris cluttering the halls – six centuries of desperate searches for spare parts, additional material for barricades and the desire not to trip in the dark had left them pretty clear. But there was the occasional broken crate, damaged or depleted weapons as well as a scattering of flimsies, datacards or other paraphernalia. The other half of her mind was busily running through the station’s schematics, searching the various levels and sections for anything that could be used as a rally point. Medic Station N4-9-R. Security Station N4-7-G. Tram Station N4-01….

“This way!” Hayes pointed down the corridor she had instructed the doctors to take, reloading as she ran. It felt as if she could feel the fetid breath of their pursuer on her neck. “Tram station’s right through here!”

The door still had power. Shannon was first through it, Abigail second and the Halo mashed her fist against the control panel. The door had been tampered with and slammed shut like a two hundred-pound guillotine.

On the other side, something screamed and threw itself against the barrier, the door shaking in its frame. Again. Again. Then silence as the creature gave up with a last frustrated batter at the door.

“Is it safe?”

Both mercenaries almost jumped, Abigail very nearly spraying a burst at the source of the sound, but she managed to control herself. It was only Emily. She and Ramone had set Hernandez back down. Neither doctor looked well: panting and flushed, with hair plastered to their heads their jackets stained with sweat and filth.

“I think so,” Shannon nodded, inspecting the door controls. She’d studied Imperial systems in preparation for the mission. Not as much as the techs had, of course. But enough to be able to find her away around their computers. “Someone’s monkeyed with the system here. Closing the door puts into it a full seal – it locks into the frame. It’s what they use for security breaches, to keep fugitives contained. They’ve disabled the safeties and I’d guess, done something to the internal mechanisms to make it close like that. To unlock it… yes. It can only be done from this panel.”

“Probably to isolate the tram stations,” Abigail mused. “So you can be reasonably sure you’re not getting off the train into a nest of those fucking things.” Remembering one of their modes of travel, she took a quick look around the terminal. The air vents had been welded over, several times, with holes punched in them to allow some flow, but also to prevent anything larger or more dangerous than a finger from sticking through. Probably as secure as this place gets.

“Let’s call a car.” Shannon said. “We can try and link up with the others.”

“A few probably headed for the other tram station.”

Shannon nodded. “If worse comes to worse, we can walk there.” She didn’t like the large open tunnel or the idea of leaving the others behind, but moving Hernandez wasn’t doing him any favours. Besides, at least Louis and the civilians wouldn’t be trapped here if something came down the tram system. “Let me see what’s been done to the call system and we’ll-”

Metal screamed against metal and the door jerked in its frame as something struggled to pry it open, a harsh grinding squeal as the door was slowly forced open, back along its track.

“You said that was a security seal!” Salvador shrieked, his voice rising to a pitch not normal to men of his build. “You said it would hold!”

“Abby!”

“On it!” Hutchins called back, raising her carbine. “Get that car, Halo!”

Shannon all but leapt up the stairs to the control cab. The computers were still working. A cracked screen here, a missing button there, but they worked. Good. She hit the emergency summon button. The nearest car was several sections away. Less good.

“On its way!” she shouted back. Come on, come on.

The door jerked open a few inches and snapped back as whatever was on the side lost its grip. “Is that it?” Abigail shouted. “You fucking pussy, can’t even open a door!”

Another pull, this time wide enough for the thing to jam a scythe-like appendage – its fingers fused into a single, wicked curve of bone – through the opening.

“Shoot it!” Abigail could hear Emily and Ramone shouting at her. “Shoot it now!” But it was a lesson she’d learned on the docks. You never, ever took the first shot at someone. You took the best. Sometimes that was the first. And sometimes…. With a burst of inhuman strength, the door was pushed wider, a second hand – this one with fingers – bracing itself on the door frame. There; she could see its eyes and, behind it, the movement of others, ruined and mutilated bodies stalking down the corridor. The one prying the door open was the first priority, though,

A single shot blew its skull apart and the thing reeled back, jerking its scythe-arm out of the door as it staggered into the ones behind it, still clutching the frame with its other hand. Freed from the pressure holding it open, the door slammed shut once more, neatly chopping the creature’s fingers off. “Security seal, my ass.” Abigail muttered. Well, maybe it had worked better six centuries ago. “We need to be leaving, sir!” the mercenary shouted.

Shannon jumped down the stairs. “Car’s coming. Everyone – get on the platform. Emily, Ramone – carry Louis.”

“Why can’t you-” Salvador began.

“Fine,” Abigail interrupted. “We’ll carry Hernandez, you can shoot the monsters.”

Ramone stooped to pick up Louis, the man groaning in pain as he was pulled upright again.

In the tunnel, the diffuse glow of the tram’s lights began to brighten as it pulled up. Behind the survivors, the door groaned as something else began to struggle against the centuries-old security mechanisms. “We need to be leaving,” Abigail repeated as metal skreeked against metal.

“Car’s here!” Shannon called as the tram pulled into the station. “It’s clear. Emily, Ramone, go!” The doctors carried Hernandez onto the transport car, the mercenaries following after. Back on the upper level, the door shrieked as it was finally forced open.

Shannon ran to the cab’s control panel, hitting the ‘return’ button. Magnetic rails hummed as the tram pulled out of the station, leaving the swarming horde behind. Abigail sighed, slumping down to the filthy, flattened and worn-bald carpet of the car. “Well, Corporal – we’re out of the frying pan. Where do we go now?”
Spoiler

[UnderAGreySky]

I don't think reading has ever scared me before.

[The Vortex Empire]

I stand by my assertion that they're all doomed, especially the Major.

[Themightytom]

Spoiler

there is a good tribe

[White Haven]

Knowing Bladed, they'd be as 'good' as, say, the Lefu. Which is to say 'The enemy of my enemy dies next.'

[Sky Captain]

Too bad I live in small town with no abandoned old warehouses or factories. What could be better than going to old abandoned factory to read this story in the middle of the night while listening to the wing howling through broken windows, creaking doors, rats running around and various other odd noises found in large abandoned building.

[Bladed_Crescent]

I don't think reading has ever scared me before.

Thanks! Glad you're enjoying it.

I stand by my assertion that they're all doomed, especially the Major.

No more doomed that the people in any other work of horror...

Spoiler

there is a good tribe

Spoiler

Don't forget Santa Claus!

Knowing Bladed, they'd be as 'good' as, say, the Lefu. Which is to say 'The enemy of my enemy dies next.'

Ooh, I like that saying.

Too bad I live in small town with no abandoned old warehouses or factories. What could be better than going to old abandoned factory to read this story in the middle of the night while listening to the wing howling through broken windows, creaking doors, rats running around and various other odd noises found in large abandoned building.

I could think of several things, but to each their own.

[Mr. Coffee]

Ok, that's it. We need to petition the Mods to give you the custom title of "SDN's Official Creepy Bastard". This story is like a combination of Aliens, Resident Evil, and Event Horizon minus all the lame bits and the AWESOME cranked to 11.

[Bladed_Crescent]

Ok, that's it. We need to petition the Mods to give you the custom title of "SDN's Official Creepy Bastard"

Heh. I certainly appreciate the sentiment, but I'm not sure that I'm either high enough in post counts to get a title change or that any visitors/users who haven't read the story would take such a title in any but the 'and how many restraining orders does this guy have'? sense.

This story is like a combination of Aliens, Resident Evil, and Event Horizon minus all the lame bits and the AWESOME cranked to 11.

Thanks muchly; glad you're enjoying it. Hopefully you'll find a continued absence of lame and more AWESOME in the ensuing chapters.

On updates: I've been side-tracked recently with courses and visiting friends, but I hope to get the next chapter up sometime this weekend.

[Darth Nostril]

Heh. I certainly appreciate the sentiment, but I'm not sure that I'm either high enough in post counts to get a title change or that any visitors/users who haven't read the story would take such a title in any but the 'and how many restraining orders does this guy have'? sense.

Well in that case I have no choice but to second the nomination, especially after reading 'Rabbits'.

[Bladed_Crescent]

What can I say? I have a gift.

To make people sleep with every light in the house on, but still...

[Bladed_Crescent]

Shannon has a plan. Mostly, it involves not dying, but it's always good to have a goal. Of course, The Watcher has one as well....

Coming up: Monsters, madmen and how to perform surgery with a scalpel in one hand and a gun in the other.

Chapter 14:

Dark. Dark and safe. A grainy, bleached-out image danced and jiggered its way across a grimy, static-churned screen until a short, sharp thump to the side of the imaging system brought it into a semblance of clarity.

A wretched, thin, greasy hand wiped away the most recent layer of dust and filth caked onto the monitor, whilst simultaneously leaving a fresh smear of sweat and grime behind. Taken from corrupted and modified security systems, the view danced from one blurry, black-and-white image to another; corridors lit by flashes of gunfire, rooms where fresh corpses lay slumped against whatever substrate was there; sprawled over tables, leaning against newly-spattered bulkheads or broken and crumpled on the floor. In others, only pools of blood stretched into crimson drag marks hinted at what had happened. In still more chambers, survivors huddled together, tending to their injuries.

Dry, cracked lips smacked together as a tongue ran over them, fingers picking at tabs of dead skin. “Oh my my my yes. Yes, look at all the little lost boys and girls. So many. So many-many. Shouldn't have come here, should you? No no. No no. Should have listened. Should have known. Now they're coming. Now you'll all have to pay. Yes. Yes, that’s it. You’ll all have to pay.”

~

The tram slowed to a halt as it returned to its original station. Shannon and Abigail had both tried to stop it, but neither tech nor medic had been able to override the system’s lock-outs. Whether they were gimmicked on the fly, or part of its original programming, it was impossible to tell. Imperial technology was built to last and someone had obviously made an effort over the centuries to keep DROP 47’s systems running - as much as they were - but despite that, there was a lot of damage and even more degradation in their capabilities. The tram was refusing to accept a new destination and head to the damaged cargo station, which meant Shannon and the other survivors had ended up further away both from their attackers... and their comrades.

Shannon and Abigail swept the station; like their previous locale, the air vents and maintenance hatches had been bolted down or welded over and the door locked from the inside. The tram control cab was just as functional as the previous one, but other than that, there wasn’t a lot to see. The group took a moment to catch their breath and the medics to check on their patients. Louis’s temperature had dropped and his skin was turning an unhealthy grey. Abigail tried to scratch at the synthskin covering her wound, but Shannon slapped her hand away every time she made the attempt, the Darkknell finally giving up.

It still itched, though.

Sighing, the private pulled off her helmet, sliding down the wall to the floor. Her short, dark blonde hair was plastered to her forehead and neck, her pale Darkknell skin covered in a sheen of sweat and a puff of steam escaped from her armour as soon as she removed her helmet. Her nostrils flared as she took in the atmosphere of the tram station. The air was stagnant and cold; the circulation systems were barely working as it was and she wasn’t surprised that the faint scent of ozone and chemical propellant still clung to every surface in the tram station, detectable even over the thick smell of blood, sweat and stronger traces of weapons fire that was wrapped around each of the survivors.

For the benefit of Emily and Ramone, Abigail called up a holo-image of the station’s schematics on her IDS. “This is Tram Station North Four. Not to be confused with section North-4, even though some idiot named them the same way. We’ve got a medical station, security checkpoint, a lot of minor storage and some security barracks.” Each docking arm could be a station in its own right; several kilometers long and multiple decks thick. “Crew quarters are deeper off this terminal and there’s an engineering substation,” she pointed vaguely towards a bulkhead. “That way and down. Security means weapons, medical means health, engineering means something I can kitbash together and crew quarters might mean all of those.”

“Along with whatever personal records are left,” Shannon noted. If there were any, they’d be less secure than the station’s computer and less likely to have been purged.

“Doesn’t it also mean more of those things?” Ramone asked.

“If this had happened a few days ago, I’d agree,” Abigail shook her head. “But DROP 47’s been like this for six centuries. They’ve already gotten in wherever they’re going to get in; there’s no reason for them to congregate in a habitat deck, not if there’s been no one to inhabit it for six hundred years.” She shot a smile at Shannon. “See? I can answer stuff too.” From anyone else, it could have been a petty snipe, but the corporal was long used to her ‘big sister’s’ sense of humour and the familiarity of the joke helped ease some of the stress.

Some. Shannon thought for a moment. “I’m more worried about the rest of Primal’s crew. There had to be dozens more left on the ship before we pulled out, and if Michelle,” Shannon kept in a wince for the helpless woman whose stretcher had floated off into a gunfight. “was any indication, some of them weren’t on-board when Shelby sealed Primal.”

“You... you saw what those things can do and you’re more worried about those psychopaths?” Ramone asked incredulously, a touch of hysteria working back into his voice.

Shannon ran her gauntlet’s fingers along the grooves the monster back in the hallway had carved in her faceplate. “Yes,” she said. “They can’t use guns. They weren’t making their own grenades, or taking cover. And they have to brute force their way through the station. Primal’s crew - at least some of them - were keeping it together well enough to use the ship’s weapons. In the long run, I think they’ll cause us the most problems. Here and now...” she checked her pistol. Full, with two reloads left. Abigail had 47 bullets in her carbine and three clips. Given how ammunition much it took to disable or destroy one of those things, that was a lot less impressive then it sounded. “We’ll have to watch out for those...” God, what are they? What do we even call them? “...those things, but re-taking Primal is our priority for now.” Five-step mission. One: Injuries. Two: break the jamming. Three: re-group with survivors. Four: take Primal. Five: Avoid whoever’s out there and get home.

“Shouldn’t we be keeping our heads down?”

“If we can’t get in touch with the others,” Assuming they’re still alive. “That would be our best option, but I think we can agree waiting for the Old Man to send another team isn’t what we want to do.” She saw got three frightened, determined nods. Shannon looked back at Abigail. “Put your helmet back on. We’re going for the medical sub-station.”

Abigail complied and stood, giving her weapons and armour a quick once-over. Shannon did the same, slipping her kitbag off her shoulder. Emily and Ramone would need the supplies for Hernandez more than she or Abigail would. Hopefully. “I want you to stay here,” she said to Emily. “Both of you. We can’t risk moving Louis again unless we know that there’s something in that station we can use to help him. Stay on the tram, stay quiet and out of sight. This place looks like it’s supposed to be a safe zone, so you should be all right. If Three or I don’t come back,” she mulled over the schematic briefly. “In an hour, I don’t think we will. Stay on the car. If anyone else from B Company survived, sooner or later they’ll make use of the transport system and they’ll find you.”

“What about weapons?” Ramone whined. “You’re just going to leave us here?”

The mercenaries exchanged a glance. Even without seeing the other’s faces, their expressions and thoughts were obvious. Shannon twitched her head towards Emily. Abigail stared for a moment longer, then finally shrugged and drew her pistol. Unlike Shannon’s HCP, it was a fairly standard sidearm. Abigail had modified it with a laser sight, rangefinder and flash suppressor; the Darkknell used it when she needed to be ‘subtle’. “Have you used one of these before?” She said to Emily. Neither woman was about to trust Salvador with a loaded weapon.

The petite doctor swallowed, but she nodded. “They suggested we all take a basic firearms course before leaving,” she looked at Ramone. “Not everyone took it.”

“Fine. Just make sure what you’re aiming at is actually an enemy. Aside from Four and I, there are still lots of friendlies out here, yes?” As she spoke, Abigail ran through the gun’s handling twice, pointing out the safety, laser sight and proper way to hold it, before giving it to the young doctor.

Delphini nodded, holding the gun as if she expected it to go off in her hands. “Yes. I’ll be careful.”

“Good girl. You, Salvador - come lock the door behind us. Open it only for Kerrigan’s people. I don’t care how loud anybody else sobs and begs, that door stays closed, got it?”

As they walked away, Abigail’s voice was very quiet in Shannon’s comm. “You think it’ll actually help them? One of those things finds its way up here...”

“I know. But they think it will,” Shannon replied, casting one look back over her shoulder, watching Emily check the safety on the pistol and tuck it into her jacket. Hayes bit her lip, hoping she wasn’t making a mistake.

“Fair enough. Next question.” There was a long pause, as if Abigail knew what she wanted to say, but was trying to figure out how to say it. She took up position in front of the door as Shannon moved off to one side, her hand over the control pad. Ramone was hidden in the shadows on the other side of the door. “Do you think any of this will actually help?” She nodded.

Shannon hit the open button and the door snapped out of its security lock. The beam from Abigail’s flashlight shone down the hall, a harsh white cone, illuminating another dark, empty hallway. She gave Ramone a thumbs-up and stepped through, Shannon taking a moment to wave at Emily, hoping to reassure her.

The door snapped shut behind them. “It can’t hurt,” Shannon said, following Abigail’s lead. The mercenaries snapped off their flashlights, letting the blacklight vision in their helmets guide them through the inconstant illumination of the hallway. “At the moment, that’s all we’ve got.”

“I guess so. Huh,” Abigail said, staring at the walls. A large arrow had been splashed on the bulkhead, pointing along the guide lines to the medical station. Next to the arrow, several symbols had been drawn. She tapped the crude representation of a knife next to a medical cross. “What do you think these mean?”

~

Something moved within the ceiling, sending some loose piece of plate, a discarded weapon or tool clanging over the pipes. St. Cloud turned towards the sound, his eyes on the shadows, trying to pick out movement amongst the bent and twisted metal of a mutilated vent cover, a dust-covered fan broken from its mounting and sitting discarded on the floor. A long, low cry echoed through the air system followed by the skittering of feet over metal. There was a hungry, malicious hiss from an adjacent corridor and Jeremy spun, bringing Betsy’s barrel around, the light attached to it catching a flicker of sick flesh as it pulled itself into another exposed vent, clattering over walls and ducts and piping as it slithered into the maintenance crawlspace.

They were stalking him. He didn’t know why they hadn’t attacked already and fought the insane urge to scream a challenge. Wouldn’t do any good, except draw in anyone who didn’t already know he was here. Ahead, he could see the stairs that led down to the security station’s upper level. It was only a small ‘rural’ outpost, fit for a handful of officers and a brig for petty offenders. Serious infractions would be punished in the larger prisons in the station’s core.

The stairs were set off the hallway, across from an elevator whose shaft and call buttons were completely dark. The door to the stairs was broken inwards, gashes and dents battered into the distorted metal slab. As a refreshing change, the stairwell was lit by an occasionally-flickering set of glow panels. St. Cloud eased his way in, mindful of any sound that could indicate an attacker coming down or up to him. He wished his blacklight was working, but that system was one of many that the IED blast had disabled.

He was sweating, though he still felt cold, still felt as if he weighed less than he did, but at least he wasn’t getting worse. His shoulder throbbed painfully. The major moved down the stairs carefully, testing each step before putting his full weight on it. Someone had made crude repairs here, securing the supports to the bulkheads, bolted and welded time and time again. The metal itself hadn’t rusted - and wouldn’t, not for thousands more years - but whatever maintenance systems DROP 47 possessed, they clearly hadn’t done much work here and the major could feel the stairs sag slightly under his weight. Not much, and hardly enough that they were in danger of collapsing even with two, three or four people on them. But enough to notice. Sixty decades of feet pounding up and down them had taken their toll.

Spray-painted over the wall in giant block letters was another nonsense phrase: THEY ARE CALLING US TO ASCEND.

St. Cloud shook his head, paying for it as his lightheadedness made him wobble on his feet, his good hand clutching tighter to the guardrail. The door on the next level was his destination. Naturally, it was sealed. Someone had painted crude pictographs on it, a lightbulb and a knife. The latter had been crossed out, almost in its entirety, with thick, heavy scrawls of a grease pencil, whereas the former had simply been written over - in both a different colour and instrument - with the word ‘LIES!’ St. Cloud mentally shrugged as he pulled open a well-used hatch and took a hold of the manual release, pumping the sealed door open. Whatever messages those authors had been intended to convey, he wished they’d been a bit more fucking clear about it.

The stairs opened into a hallway that was one arm of the ‘T’ of a three-way intersection. Where the stairs opened on this stretch of hall, the other arm had a lower access for the elevator. Even if had been working, there was no way he was going to trust that not to jam or drop him to the bottom level of North Arm. There was a distant wash of light filtering up through the middle corridor; it was coming from the substation. It had to be. Despite himself, St. Cloud felt a small surge of hope. Better lighting meant something was working. Security, supplies, people. It didn’t matter. It was the first thing that had gone even remotely right.

Careful not to let his optimism overcome his caution, St. Cloud scanned the corridor in front of him, but the beam of his light exposed nothing, and the sounds of movement in the vents and crawlspaces sounded more distant. Taking a breath, he swung around the corner, into the hallway leading to the security station. He froze. There, silhouetted by the light pouring out of the open doorway, was a child.

And she was holding a knife.

[The Vortex Empire]

A knife next to a cross? Could mean surgical tools.

[LadyTevar]

A knife next to a cross? Could mean surgical tools.

kGo check the last spoiler pic with the wall paintings.

Cross = supplies
Knife = Bad Tribe

[Bladed_Crescent]

Whew. Way, way too long between updates, n'cest pas? Sorry about that. Courses and so much - standard reasons.

And Lady Tevar's correct. For those who don't partake of the graffiti, I drop hints in them, but nothing that you need to know to understand what's going on in later chapters. Everything hinted at in the graffiti will be done so - or stated - in the story. Of course, that assumes that whoever wrote a particular passage was not off their nut at the time. Seems like an awful lot of people on DROP 47 have gone buggy for some reason...

Next installment below. Plus, a bonus graffiti - I finally got my tablet hooked up to this computer and decided to play with it. Neither image really 'grabbed' me, but I figured I'd inflict post both on for any interested parties anyways.

Also, I've recently been told that my writing is "too epic" and "makes people want to know more" and that this is a bad thing*, so I've decided to change All the lost little boys and girls from a desperate battle for survival aboard a long-lost station between mercenaries, madmen and monsters to a middle-aged housewife's musings on her decades-lost children and husband, who went out for a sail and vanished in the middle of a clear day. Stay tuned for melancholy! Whistling teapots! Grief and internal monologues! Wistful remembrances of smiling faces!

*no, really.