THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"Only a day," you say, rubbing the base of his horns very gently. "The higher greens are starting to go off their feed, I'll be having to heckle everyone into having a proper breakfast pretty soon. There's no infected teals, which is, you know, excellent, considering what a humongous whiner Lainey is whenever she gets the least little bit sick, but it makes for a bit of an information gap."

Especially about how much worse he's likely to get. He started out just about like everyone else, initially, only presenting the first blush of fever a handful of hours sooner than anyone else, but he's pulling out ahead frighteningly fast, with the onset of hallucinations already– you made the call overday to split him and Murfey up, stagger their presence in any particular area, as the Sergeant's following a similar downwards arc. You decline to mention any of this, and the sedatives the blood filtration device is introducing to Kadros's system seems to be kicking in. The pain-tightness around his eyes seems to be smoothing out.

 

You notice the easing of a pervasive anxiety that you weren't aware of until it began to abate. You close your eyes and relax against him, and every few breaths a choppy fragment of a purr escapes. You finally realize what you should've realized as soon as the door closed on your quarantine block: you're not responsible for anyone but yourself now. You are, as the regulations say, 'incapable of command', and won't functionally be an officer until you're cured. This makes you simultaneously dizzy with relief and grief-stricken for your own failure, and you resolve not to think about it any more than necessary.

It's actually less uncomfortable to consider the possibility of your own death, because that, at least, you've gotten to grips with before on a number of occasions. "Pancho and Whitey were going to be shaving it close even by the standard progression of the disease," you muse. "Listen, if I don't make it, you take care of her, okay? She's salty and stubborn but she's a fine sergeant and she cares about doing a good job. You keep her busy so she doesn't have time to flip out."

 

Your first instinct is to shush him, or laugh it off as another delusion, but— no. You ease on to the cot with him so you can hold his head and shoulders against you, huddle protectively. As if that could even help.

"You're going to be some amount of alive, even if she takes two weeks," you say. "You feel like absolute shit right now because the spore's trying to clear out your immune system, and it's alarming that that's happening early. But. It's in the spore's best interests to keep the body going as long as possible, even chunks of the brain. There isn't... we haven't found records of. Late-stage, er, patients, being treated in any way other than culling. But it's possible brain and organ damage can be reversed. If... if it isn't possible. Er. What." God, this is disgusting, you're disgusted with yourself, you hate this. "What stage might you like us to pack it in, hypothetically? You know I won't think any less of you for hanging on till the very last, so, so, none of this 'oh as soon as I'm a danger' nonsense. Or, or, or even, even 'Oh I don't want to live without every single one of my faculties', you know, lots of us are mad on this ship, few eggs short of a clutch, you know, it isn't— it isn't so bad."

 

You squeeze him gratefully, so glad he's willing to be practical. "I guess... as long as I can still interact with reality. I mean I know for a while I won't be able to, but after the treatment, if there's enough left of me to, you know, talk to the person in front of me instead of to screaming angels in the ceiling, then I think keeping me around is worth a try. If I get trapped in a nightmare, cull me."

 

You nod thoughtfully. "That's... good, yes, that's reasonable. We'd have to give it a night or two. To make sure. But— absolutely, that isn't. Any kind of life at all, is it, that'd be worse than what vegetables get. Or at least I hope, can you imagine if potatoes got bad dreams? Haha. Er. Should I put you down or d'you want Pancho to do it? Or. Or Sal, I suppose. Impersonal."

God, you'd better go around and ask everyone about this. Tonight's going to be so fun.

 

"You or Pancho. Or Galley, I suppose, he could just -- fttz! -- turn my brain off. But maybe his hardware wouldn't let him do that even if it was best for me. If I don't recognize any of you I guess it doesn't matter." You sigh and pat his hip. "It's all right, Erskin, death is an old friend. You know what the average life expectancy is for planetary marines on active duty? Even officers? Three sweeps. Some wily old bastards live centuries, sure, but I never expected to be one of them. I'm not scared of dying. I'm scared of hurting my friends and my crew, and I'm scared of not being me."

 

You hold— huddle over— him a little more intently. "Well," you say roughly. "Well— fuck that. I didn't just get to know you in order to chuck your sorry rind in the incinerator, you know, I have plans for when you're better, and I'm not at all enthusiastic about fucking anyone's corpse. You've got to at least try to hang in there, you, you stupid. Old thing."

You are not crying. You just happen to be tremendously upset all over your face.

 

"I'm not giving up, you idiot," you grumble fondly, "just making contingency plans. I'm fighting this. Fighting's the only thing I'm really good at, you goddamn bet I'm going to give it all I've got. Anyway, I think the dialysis is working, I feel less pukey already and I'm not seeing things out of the corners of my eyes anymore. We'll just... keep at it."

 

"Alright. Alright, good. Yes." You rub your cheek against the back of his head. "Good lord, you need a shower, why am I cuddling you. Do you think you could get some sleep?"

 

"I'm game to try," you say hopefully. "I'm a bit cold, is there one of those scratchy medbay blankets around?"

 

"Mmm. Let me see if I can hunt something down for you."

By the time you're back he's dozey, which is reassuring to see, and you fuss around a bit getting him all tucked in. You tweak the tip of his nose as you finish up, just to let him know you haven't gone entirely soft, and are rewarded with a brief, groggy little smile. Then you go make the rounds of the rest of the medical block, logging everyone's decisions on— on how long to hold out for, and who they might want to end things for them, and you forward the notes to Sal. You'll swing by in another four hours, you figure. This isn't the sort of thing Sal should be handling, he's an asshole, your crew deserves for you to work this out with each of them personally. They're your, your friends, your comrades, you've worked with some of them close on three sweeps, you know their favorite foods and quadrant mates. It's awful thinking of them just left to rot and then tossed out like garbage by some cold, uncaring authority.

You're signed on for ending quite a lot of them, by the end of the circuit, but it cheers you up to see Kadros sleeping peacefully. He looks so tired, greyish and ragged, but if he could tell the blood filtering was helping— if he gets at least a few hours here and there to feel better. That's good. You can all work with this.

Pulling yourself away takes an effort but— again, this is your crew, you've got responsibilities. And, and even if— even if the way the bluebloods are degrading is terrifying, there's hope. You can all hold out. So you go off to check in with the other quarantine blocks, your shoulders set, your face all put together bright and confident.

((skip forward as you like from here.))

 

Night Three:

The leaden misery that's kept you all but bedridden for the past 24 hours or so is finally lifting. Even though you know that's a bad sign, and means your immune system is losing the fight, you can't help being happy about the end of that infernal headache. You don't have much appetite, but you make yourself hydrate and eat a protein bar. You lurch into the quarantine block's tiny shower and scrub down with water so hot it stings, which makes you feel much more alive.

As you're combing your hair, you get mad at a tangle and yank hard, ripping out and breaking hairs, and throw the comb at the wall. Then you freeze for a long moment, terrified of yourself. Deep breaths, you remind yourself, and take several. You just sit and breathe until your hands stop shaking. You collect the comb and finish combing your hair, deliberately taking long, slow strokes. For good measure, you braid it into two plaits like you used to when you were little. You wish you had a couple of your lusus's feathers to decorate the braids with. You feel like that would comfort you. But you weren't allowed to bring your sylladex into quarantine. Maybe you can ask Erskin to bring you some.

Someone's feeding your lusus, right? Did you arrange for that? Is anyone doing that? Who's protecting Dad from whatever's making those skittering noises in the walls? Wait, no, you've been over this. There's nothing in the walls. That's an illogical threat. That only happens in movies.

You need to distract yourself. You locate the presumably tantrum-proof tablet you were given and text Murfey.

- crossfireHurricane [CH] began trolling flamingPearl [FP] -
CH: * Hey Waffle, what's your favorite delusion so far?
FP: YOUR LUSUS.
CH: * Funny. You're a funny guy.
FP: DON'T FRONT, YOU LAUGHED. OK REALS, MY BEST ONE IS THE EYE IN THE CEILING.
CH: * That's a hallucination, not a delusion.
FP: NO LIKE, I CAN'T SEE IT, I JUST KNOW IT'S THERE. I'VE TRIED TO STICK MY FINGER IN IT HALF A DOZEN TIMES, EVEN THOUGH I KNOW IT'S NOT FUCKIN REAL.
FP: LIKE WTF MURF, WHERE DID YOU EVEN GET THAT IDEA FROM.
CH: * That's weird as hell.
FP: IKR?
CH: * I hear skittering sounds in the walls. Like tiny claws.
FP: THANKS A LOT, FUCKWAGON, NOW I'M GONNA HEAR IT TOO.
CH: * I've been actively visualizing it as fluffy nut creatures carrying candy hearts. That takes a lot of the horror out of it.
FP: DLSKFJGLDKFJG
FP: YOU'RE A CREDIT TO YOUR HEMOTYPE, DEUCE.
FP: OK ARE YOU RESTLESS AF? CUZ I'M RESTLESS AF.
CH: * God yes.
FP: FRONT LEANING REST POSITION, RACE TO 50 REPS, GO!

You drop your tablet and start doing push-ups immediately, because you know Murfey doesn't fuck around. He still beats you by about a second and a half.

The activity makes you feel a little better, though, so you periodically challenge each other to minor feats of strength or endurance to encourage your immune systems, maybe sweat out some of the spores, and remind each other to keep hydrated. You mock each other's delusions, which helps you not succumb to them. Neither of you actually says how much it helps to have a friend to go through this with, but you know he feels as grateful as you do.

(maybe have galley call him?)

 

The second time Bel is challenged to sit-ups, his tablet pings. Galley makes an ostentatious throat-clearing noise after that to announce himself.

"Two things," he says, his voice sounding almost as distantly amused as usual. "One, it's your turn to pick the movie on this shitty long-distance date-type activity we're going to completely fucking mangle. Two, can you do the acrobatics with your shirt off?"

A pause. Then, accusingly: "Murfey took his shirt off."

 

"Murfey probably doesn't have a clean shirt to change into afterwards," you point out, but you obediently pull yours off and toss it aside before resuming exercise. Between crunches, you continue, "I'd rather have a mangled long-distance -- red date type activity with you -- than a smooth and perfect one -- with anyone else. Just so you know. Movie, hmm -- how do you feel about historical -- like -- with sailing ships?" You flop back, mopping sweat. "Damn, I lost count. Just a sec."

CH: * Forfeit, I got distracted.
FP: OH SHIT BRO, MORE HALLUCINATIONS?
CH: * No, Helmsman Enkidi "Cutie Patoot" Galgal wants a movie date.
FP: SAY NO MORE
FP: YOU GO GET THAT BONY BOOTY.
CH: * Don't you talk about his booty, I'll piss on your bunk.
FP: LOL YES SIR COMMANDER KADROS

"Okay, I'm all yours."

 

"Like with... sea-ships?" Galley asks. "Those had helmsmen too, didn't they, I don't know if I want... to... no, never mind. I do. Put on something where the helmsman is really heroic. And handsome. And possibly named Enkidi Galgal."

 

"I have just the thing, though you've probably read the book." You hunt through the tablet's media library for 'In Which A Mad Captain, Obsessed With Hunting A Rogue Lusus Skywhale, Etc.', and find it in short order; it's a classic, after all. "The helmsman's name is Starbuck, not Galgal, but he is pretty heroic. Also, Ishmael/Queequeg was my first fandom ship."

 

Galley hasn't read the book, loves the movie, and roots shamelessly for the skywhale. Ahab's ultimate fate is met with delighted cheering.

 

You blubber shamelessly at Queequeg's death, just like you always do. The fact that your tears stain the handkerchief gray is significantly less upsetting, you think, than it would be if you weren't talking to Galley.

 

"Was that a bad movie?" Galley asks hesitantly. "Uh, you're leaking from the cry glands, my sources indicate that you are in emotional distress, and I am not equipped to deal with this. You can pick another movie if this one wasn't any good."

 

You laugh a little. "No, I'm crying because Queequeg dying always makes me sad, but if it wasn't a good movie it wouldn't give me feels."