THE SPACE NAVY AU (18+)

"I can't, I can't, they got him, Galley, do you think they're going to let him recover? Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit..." For several minutes all you can do is repeat that to yourself and rock back and forth.

Then there's a sound outside your door, and you're instantly in a fighting stance.

 

The medics that peer in look tired, scared, and heavily armored. The overlapping plates and thick leather joins are covered in scratches, bites, and burn marks. One's got a tranq rifle already loaded and aimed.

"Sir," the other one of them says, putting her heavily gauntleted hands up in appeasement. "We're here to take you to your second shift of blood filtration. No one here wants a fight. Do you think you could you come along with us calmly?"

 

"Verify your identity," you say tightly. When they do, you relax somewhat, straighten and nod. "I seem to be lucid, and of course I want my blood filtration, and to see the captain. But you need to give me lots of room just in case," you chide them. "I won't always be in touch with reality."

They back away sensibly, spread out enough that you can't attack them both at once, and the one with the tranquilizer covers you properly. You nod approval.

The walk to medbay seems interminable. You're not fatigued like on previous walks, you're alert, your pulse high and your eyes flicking around as if you're in combat. You spot the owls behind vent gratings a few times, but none of the gratings are damaged and you ignore them. Right now you need to get to Erskin. Get to him and not leave his side no matter what you have to do to stay there.

 

You're somewhere soft and cool, but you can't understand anything else about it. Sometimes things are put on you, or put in you, but you don't know why, and it doesn't stop when you struggle. You don't know where you are. You can't tell. Only touch makes sense. Everything else is an aching, sickening blur of color and noise and electrical flickering.

"Lainey," you mumble plaintively. "Wan' my... Lainey." But hands keep pushing you back on to your cot. You cry a little. Everything hurts. "Lainey? LAINEY."


((he's been put squarely in the middle of the zero-sum side-section of the medbay area. it's a ways away from the blood filtration scuffles, the zero-sum has the manpower and spare time to guard him, and also his helpless pain flailing isn't as likely to upset the infected so much if it's tucked away from their direct observation. watching their captain get fried in front of them has sent a lot of borderline cases straight into violent hysterics, and everyone else is pretty damn freaked out too.))

 

You hear his voice, and you get tunnel vision. Getting to him is all that matters. Someone gets in your way, tries to stop you. Someone you barely recognize, from the Zero-Sum -- they brought this here, after all, and the owls have had plenty of time to get to them. You know it's a trap, you know they're using him to lure you in, but what other choice do you have? You swat them aside, using the flats of your hands, they're only tools of the enemy, they're victims too. But when you get where you can see him, there, standing over him --

Sal. Sal with a syringe. The syringe is black, black as death and so are you. Sal has always tried to keep the captain isolated, hasn't he? Sal thought he could bully you, he pulled your horn as if you were a slave or a robot, and when it didn't work -- oh, no doubt he was loyal at first, but that's how they get in, any little crack in the armor, and now what looks out from behind his eyes isn't trollish. It isn't alive.

His body, at least, is still frail and small. Maybe the real Sal is still in there somewhere, so you only knock him out. You pull some empty shelves out of a refrigerated medical-supply storage unit and stuff him in, jam a fistful of tongue depressors through the handles to bar the door.

Then you grab a clipboard off Sal's desk and turn around, and sure enough, tranq guy fires as soon as you hold still for a moment. The dart seems to float through the air like a bumblebee, and it's so easy to swat it aside with the clipboard. "I'm here, Erskin," you say through the growl that's been coming out of you for who-knows-how-long. "I'm here, I won't let them touch you."

 

"Kadros," you say, confused, into the swirling mess of sensations— it's— more? "Kadros?" It's happening more at you. Things are faster, louder. Whatever sharp hot stuff that was put in you is spreading, glittering under your skin like moonlight off water. It smooths over the worst edges of the pain, but it smooths over everything else, too, blurring everything together in a sickening churn of movement and intensity.

"I can't... I can't see..." you mumble. "Are you...? There...?"

 

"Always. They'll have to go through me, and that's not going to happen." They've backed off a little, they're consulting amongst themselves. You dare a moment to glance at him -- oh god his poor fins you know how sensitive those are -- and take his hand.

 

You cling desperately to his hands— too hot, you think vaguely, much too hot, but the shape of them, you know.

"Come here," you tell him, trying to shape the words clearly when you can barely tell them apart from the buzzing of the ceiling lamps or the frantic flickering of his heartbeat. "C'mere, sit. You— you cabbage. You're sick. C'mon."

 

"I can't, love," you say softly, soothingly, but that growl won't quit. "You're not safe. Sal is one of them now."

 

"Mmnfgh. An... an owl...?" You ask, sort of climbing him via his arm. He's solid. You recognize what you've got your hands on. "'S not n'owl, Kadros. He's jus' a... a bastard. Ah, fffuck, it hurts."

You want dearly to tuck your face against his shoulder but you can't, it's all you can do to hold your head stiffly upright. Every involuntary little twitch of your fins feels like knives in your brain. When his breath goes over one of them you cringe and whimper.

"Lainey," you mumble. "I want... You're sick. You can't. Do this. Need Lainey..."

 

Both your arms are around him now, but apparently your glare alone is enough to keep the Zero-Sum's crewmen from charging you. He's right, you realize. Though you want so badly to guard him to your last breath, that's selfish, you're too sick to succeed and he has to live.

"I'll take you to her," you decide, and scoop him as gently as you can over your shoulder so you can have one hand free to fight. To the people in your way, the corrupted, the unfortunate cat's paws of evil, you snarl, "Move." And then you begin the long, desperate process of fighting your way to the edge of the quarantine zone, where you pray Galley will have Lainey waiting.

 

Lainey isn't waiting at the edge of the quarantine zone. She meets Bel a good third of the way into it, wreathed in a hellstorm of blue-green fire that vaporizes paint off the walls as she approaches and leaves red-gold footprints pressed into the metal floor behind her. In one hand she's got a sword that's mostly butcher knife, and the steel glows pure white.

"PUT HIM THE FUCK DOWN," she orders Bel.

 

Even in the midst of your panic/rage/fervor, you're brought up short by the sheer magnificence of her. No sinister owl-shaped theological monster is going to get past her. Their deadly dust would puff to plasma an inch from her skin.

You go to your knees and lay Erskin gently on the decking like an offering to the warrior goddess she appears to be. "Protect him," you beg. "I can't anymore."

The sounds of crewmen chasing you are loud behind you. Your throat tickles. You turn away from Erskin and cover your cough with the hem of your shirt and both hands. When you take the cloth away, it looks like someone hit it with charcoal gray spray paint. And that's the last coherent thought you have.

 

Lainey hastily decaptchalogues a huge pot of icewater and shoves her arms into it, raising a huge cloud of steam as she splashes around, dousing her head and shoulders, pouring handfuls of ice down her front. She grabs up Erskin, still steaming, and he whimpers— then wraps his arms around her, recognizing the touch.

She surveys the scuffle of trolls— mostly brave, furious Zero-Sum survivors, and a few medics with tasers and tranq guns — and comes to the conclusion that there's nothing much she can actually add to the situation that isn't third-degree burns. She bundles Erskin into a wheelchair and pushes him off, the rubber of the wheels hissing a little when they're rolled over her still-glowing footprints.

 

DAYS IN THE FUTURE, BUT NOT MANY
( about four, actually )

You've managed to argue your way out the door on the strength of no less than six separate oaths that you'll behave yourself, take it easy, and not indulge in any risky nonsense, but Lainey's still hovering around your elbow like an obnoxious ghost.

Ghost might be a bad comparison, actually. Two patients and a medic have died since you were hauled out of the quarantine zone, and it's hard not to feel personally responsible for not being there somehow. A good number of the Zero-Sum's survivors are infected now, too. It gets harder to keep your chin up and carry on every night.

But not this night! The Ammonite is in the business of docking, and somewhere inside the splendid contraption of brass and glass is Sergeant Pancho, who will, with any luck, be able to assist you all out of this mess. You would dash over and push the hull around with your bare hands if it would make this go any faster. Instead you stand carefully with your cane like a good Captain while Lainey keeps a stern eye on you. The minute you stumble she'll have you popped back in that damn wheelchair and whisked off to some triple-locked bunker and you will go bonkers with frustration.

The beautiful ship finishes settling into its berth. The gauzy film of psionic shielding between the hangar space and the raw void is gradually eclipsed docking bay doors roll closed and seal themselves. You trot forward eagerly and in a very nearly straight line to go greet whomever climbs out of the Ammonite first.

 

==> Be Sergeant Pancho

Accept no imitations, you are the real thing.

You are real sick of Whitey's shit, also, which makes it lucky for both of you that the trip is over. Bratty Bratface clearly wants to be the first one out the airlock and make a big entrance, but he's also got his little pilot thing going on and likes to have his hands all over the gilded ultra-retro controls, and you're not interested in waiting around. You actually have a job to do. So you make a fanfare-free beeline for the airlock as soon as docking completes, and the door opens for you even though Whitey surely didn't want it opened. The duty helmsman's doing, no doubt. You throw a small smile at the nearest camera as you go out, Loggan trotting at your heels. (Loggan's matesprit Itsy and their five adorable pups are, sadly, stuck aboard the Ammonite until Whitey gets paid. But at least they'll be safe there.)

Captain Aspera himself is waiting for you, though he looks like he's been through some shit. You march up to him, salute, and introduce yourself: "Saniza Pancho, Sergeant, Medical Corps, reporting for duty. I've got a modus full of meds, sir, and I'm ready to start immediately."

(in a minute whitey will come out and be a troubleface, whether erskin sends pancho to medical post-haste or not)

 

You grin delightedly, and give your very best go at a return salute. You're actually not sure where her face is but you're hoping it's the bit with the yellow bits.

"Absolutely splendid to see you, Sergeant, I hope the trip wasn't too rough. Er, I'm Captain Aspera, evidently, and this is Lieutenant-Commander Gawker. She can—" you squint at Lainey. Lainey nods at you, probably. "— see to the rest of the docking business, and I'll take you to the quarantine area. Do you have armor? I don't mean to imply you're underprepared or anything, it's just that we can rig you up a set if you had to dash off without any."

 

You give Lt. Gawker a respectful nod, then follow the captain. "I've got my power armor, sir, I've done field rescue under fire before. I'll be fine. I'd like to start with the worst cases, if that's all right. Let's not make them wait any longer." You study his face for a moment, and like what you see. Bel has been happy with him. So you add honestly, "Plus I gather my moirail is one of them."

 

You grimace. "Yes. I'm very sorry I wasn't able to—" take care of him for you seems overly familiar. "—well, er. I'm sorry about all of this, really. Here, it's this way to the carts." You turn and make your way carefully out of the docking bay, through the locks and halls. Every significant passageway outside the quarantine area, and a good number inside, have been fitted with better doors. Kadros and Sid have turned out to be absolute fiends for escaping. Most of the others rampage indiscriminately, though Murfey and a few ochres just attempt to mangle themselves if given the chance.

The cart ride takes longer than usual, though at least the Sergeant has no way of knowing, and betrays no impatience during the code locks you have to stop at, open, and get back in the cart for.

"Kadros is still bright enough to get past thumbprint locks," you tell her. "We set them to screen out anyone with an irregular temperature for their hemotype, but he just picks someone up and uses their hand instead. He figured out he couldn't use a ripped-off hand fast— we actually recovered an abducted ensign a whole night after he'd disappeared because Kadros was just toting the man around under his arm to open all the doors. Leagues 'round the twist and still outsmarting half my security team." You say this last bit with possibly inappropriate fondness.

"Alright, armor on, he's somewhere past this lock," you say, slowly and carefully tapping in the code. Numbers and letters are crisp and regular enough for you to parse without much trouble. "He mostly sticks to his old quarantine block where the light's brightest, but you never really know. He stole a dialysis machine, tied it to a set of wheels, and pulls it along after him now. It's actually sort of funny."

It is not actually funny at all. The machine broke down two days ago and no one can get close enough to fix it— at this stage of infection, any tranquilizer load heavy enough to knock them out runs a very serious risk of stopping their heart.

 

First, you unload five boxes of antiparasitic ampoules for other medics to get to work with. Then your power armor, jungle camo painted, scuffed and bullet-creased, still smelling like a gym sock inside from the last time you wore it. "May I ask Helmsman Galgal to help me find Commander Kadros, sir? I gather they're friends."