⋆ ⭒˚.⋆ HAIL MARY.

it was rare to find survivors out here; it was rarer still to find them expressing much more than anxiety, anger, or fear (though he could hardly say that he blamed them). the distrust, however, he imagines is still there.

'good. last thing we need is both of us torn up.' not that he wouldn't be fine. in need of stitches or not, a wound like this would hardly put him out of commission. he could still move just fine, still fight, still shoot-- good enough to get by; that was all that mattered.

that said, it wouldn't hurt to find something to wrap this mess up with.

he glances down, arm shifting upward, the feeling of wet, of warmth, a small river trickling along tanned flesh, down his wrist, down the back of his hand. he breathes a sigh, heavy, fingers forming a first and the unfurling.

'i'm a merc, not a medic.' he states plainly, eyes once again on the man before him, upon his countenance now awash with curiosity. it wasn't as though he lacked the basic training necessary to save lives where he could but, at the moment, he wasn't really equipped for that-- at least not anymore; what basic first aid he'd had on him, he'd used on a comrade (one who was no longer with them, at that).

he was still well outfitted, of course-- stocked on weaponry and ammunitions, basic provisions, and his comms (although he'd received no response during his last check-in, which didn't bode well). on medical, though, he was now running short.

just his luck.

❛ yeah, no, i see that— jesus, would it kill you to at least bandage it ? have you not got a— there's got to be something around here. ❜ he might be searching the place more for his own delicate sensibilities rather than any outright concern for the other's wellbeing — he looks like he can handle his own — but he sifts up what looks vaguely like an apron or uniform and tosses it the man's way with a face of appalment. ❛ here. tourniquette, or something. ❜

realistically it's not that bad an injury, but it will at least save the droplets from continuing past his wrist, and thus my bile from continuing past my oesophagus. i try and focus on what he'd said before my distraction, face scrunching with recollection.

the familiarity of this will become something she misses. she's asked for drone footage of the ocean below deck to be installed in the wellness part of the ship, she hopes it makes up for the dire reality. maybe she'll forget all about it, maybe she'll forget him. her wrists roll frustrations, conducting the rhythm of her endless ire at stratt and her medical staff. a four year coma, it sounds fictional. the kind of thing that only exists in a poorly propped space films. this entire thing is the plot of a poorly propped space film, and yet it's their reality.

she wants to throw the idea out to the waves, to ryland. what if she just stays awake ? surely a four-year solitude wouldn't be as harmful as everyone is making it out to be, everyone and their papers and their degrees and their educated opinions. it's maddening to resist, yao and ilyukhina and dubois seemed eager at the presented idea. but they don't understand, this journey could be all they have. to lara it seems frivolous that they'd just fall into chaos and disarray, but lara also knows humanity all too well. all vulnerable to their whims and weakness and —

don't go.

the waves become white noise, falling to the background as his words play easily over and over. her distant eyes lose focus. lara's forearm slides painfully on the steel rail, until she grips it tight and pushes her body off so she can turn to him. maybe she's hallucinated it, maybe all this worry about losing her head under a chemically induced slept has actually done away with the logic. maybe she should forget him, because lara looks at ryland and she sees something she can't believe, and she feels something she can't forgive. hope.

the waves have become his sudden and sharp focal point, and while he can see her turn in his periphery he doesn't have the guts to look. he feels like he's committed a crime, uttered something from a cursed book that ought never to be read, has half a mind to dive into the ocean himself and be done with it. when he braves her gaze it is exactly as he imagined, no, worse. ryland has knocked something off kilter, he sees that clear as day, feels guilty for even planting this seed of doubt in her mind. it would be so easy to brush it off, to dismiss it as a wild thought and look back at the waves — except it wouldn't. she wouldn't let him writhe out of it, has never let him writhe out of it. he has yet to unpack what that makes her to him, how grateful he is for her being there, how woefully unprepared he is for her not being there. ❛ i'm not. ❜ it lands as a pitfall, rigid and unyielding. he doesn't think he's ever been more serious in his life.

there is a dinosaur on the hail mary.

she regards the man with large eyes, head cocking quickly to and fro. bird-like. she is a mononykus. a small, feathered theropod from the late cretaceous. and she barely comes up to his ankle.

how she got here is a total mystery. an eridian and a human stirred from slumber to be greeted by the fluffy sight of an owlish snout digging through old shirts and notebooks. she chitters softly, disappointed at the lack of insects to consume. she runs circles around their ankles, avoiding all attempts at capture and restraint.

grace is woken by the sound of chittering, of rustling. it is a weird thing to process in semi - consciousness, not quite as pleasant or melodic as birdsong but rather like a mouse scratching at plaster wall — a noise that wouldn’t be concerning should he not remember where he’s located and why that is entirely out of the norm. he double takes while he’s rubbing his eyes, sits bolt upright against the wall of rocky’s xenonite contraption. a preliminary investigation finds the source of the rummaging noises and freezes in a mixture of terror and awe : they have somehow harboured a stowaway passenger.

i wrack my brain through the planets we’ve scoured for nutrition samples ( meburgers get kind of lousy after a while ) but no obvious signs of fauna had revealed themselves on any of them. obviously we were wrong, and i’m more angry at rocky for not having noticed the intruder when he has senses a thousand times better than mine, but i guess i can hardly blame the guy when he’s out like a light.

the claws are fascinating. it shouldn’t be his first line of thought, but he can’t help himself as his own head tilts in an unconscious mirror of his newfound tiny friend or foe, a factor yet to be decided. it is not in his nature to pick up a shoe and aim it defensively, so instead he raises his hands up to claim innocence, his voice soft, tentative and curious. ❛ hey, little guy . . . arm— armando, back up, will you ? give the fellow some space to breathe. ❜ he’s not sure if it is a little guy, of course : maybe he should quit defaulting to male attributes for unknown species, but he doesn’t know how to sex a dinosaur and he’s not about to try.

* harleen quinzel's sexual prowess is greatly exaggerated. for those keeping score at home: no beds, one . . . desk.

ryland isn't convenient. well. he's in front of her, so maybe by definition he is. but he's also her only friend in this too cold city, so she doesn't think she can bear whatever comes next. she ought to think through it. there's a reason she only agrees to first dates with strangers ⸺ the last time she dared to do anything complicated, she ended up underneath her very married psychology professor. that's the desk. the laugh dies in her throat. they call her harley because every old dude in a mid-life crisis has ridden her skanky ass.

harleen opens her mouth, which never bodes well. her cheeks are flushed and she's already over-analyzing. he isn't trying to kiss her again. shouldn't he be? has she misread this entirely, burned their friendship on the pyre of her recklessness? her heart hammers for an entirely different reason now. her teeth sink into her bottom lip as she fails to find any words at all.

and then, because god has completely forsaken her, she winks at him and says, " never had any complaints. "

after that, she has no choice but to own it, though her cheeks flush even deeper. the extent of owning it is ducking her head and hiding her face against his shoulder.

" sorry, " she says. " i don't know why i ⸺ said that? oh my god. what the fuck is wrong with me? and now i've made it awkward. and now i've made it worse by saying it. sorry. i don't know what to ⸺ do? " and she peeks up at him, eyes flicking from his eyes to his lips.

oh, shit. she wants to kiss him again. her jaw burns from where his fingers pressed before she hid her face. he kissed her back, didn't he? what is she freaking out about? perhaps that she's imagined this whole thing, that he's only obliging her because he feels too awkward not to.

she is close again, her proximity and his nerves making a heady cocktail. it is potent in its power, so much so that he has to remind himself to consciously inhale before she kisses him again, as if he were submerging and needed one last gulp of air beforehand. ❛ mm— ! ❜ still the noise of surprise surpasses him, but his fingers curl around her wrist to keep her there, keep her close, brows that had shot sky - high lowering with a relaxation that comes slowly, settles like dust motes atop closed eyes and moving mouths. the way she stays nearby afterwards is its own comfort, careening into the light scratch of her fingers, enjoying how their foreheads and noses touch with considerably less momentum and clumsiness than earlier.

equally, my chest feels tight. alarm bells ring in my head — as much as it feels good and i want to do it again, as much as her peck lands and i want to riposte with three of my own, i also can't shake the feeling that tectonic plates have shifted. there is an unknown that reveals itself now, as thrilling as it is terrifying. i feel like that stupid spinning top at the end of inception, not quite knowing whether i'll fall flat on my face or keep going.

ryland's soft grasp still lingers at the join of her hand and forearm, fingertips trailing the skin in slow paths, each move seemingly fatal, a fear of missteps coming in hot and heavy. he hopes this doesn't come across like a rebound. he isn't rebounding, is he ? his break - up with linda had its official finality months ago, and truth be told the spark of that relationship had died maybe a good six months before that, even. still, he frets. ❛ i'm— um. that's good. ❜ it is a weak response and he knows it, senses the tension he might well bring into a conversation that has otherwise been pleasant and surprising until now. he tries again, throat a dry rasp, hands fighting a looming tremor as one curls at the crook of her elbow — she said stay close, is this close enough ? too close, closer ? — and the other rubs flat against his jeans as if to rid his palm of static.

she knows it's not exactly his intention but her mind's made the connection, their frail little amphibian friend is now wilson, the third member of their crew. ryland goes on, entirely in a star system of his own, putting together a list that's confounded her from her awakening. the issue that glares the most is ... does tau ceti even have astrophage in its system ? they've gone and poured years of their lives, actual lives of others, on a theory that couldn't be confirmed. she's not sure if the answer is the start or the end of the line. they're fully equipped with sample collectors, but if there's no astrophage, no petrova line, what are they even supposed to collect ?

do they have a back up that's buried in the memories or in document hidden inside their gargantuan servers of information ? do they have time ? lara's arms quickly slip around her torso, she forgets about wilson as he spins in ryland's palm, she forgets her own amused smile as his tangent leaves him more entertained than her. lara's face becomes pensive, her posture loses the self proclaimed leisure of her crossed legs as she lowers one foot to the padded floor and presses her elbow into her knee. ❝ what happens if we don't find a petrova line in tau ceti ? ❞ she finally asks, there would still be a reason, why in the heart of calamity this one particular star thrives.

she rubs the tip of her thumb into a callus at her index finger, unsure of whether to pour out her worries when she's only just gotten grace back to shore. ❝ we know the stars around it are infected. but do we know for how long ? i think i remember something ... a threshold that stars stop dimming at, and astrophage just move on to the next system. do we know that they're just done with tau ceti's neighbors already? and if perhaps this has all just been an incubation period, have we checked if tau ceti's still as bright as when we left ? can we check ?❞ she knows a thing or two about how germ theory works, but it's arrogant to apply terrestrial concepts to space. she can't discount human error, for all the faith she's had in the project. this is a hail mary after all. they could just arrive and all of it be for naught.

she's sure all of this has been theorised and dissected at length. they're not working with blank canvases here, but theirs have been splashed with ugly red paint, and they could either wait for it to dry and scratch it off or paint over it. they can't afford to wait. they had no back up plan, no way home, no exit strat —

they have an exit strategy.

her head darts too quickly to the storage hatch that it almost throws out her neck. she's not properly rummaged through yao's belongings yet, neither of them have had the heart too when they've just dispatched their bodies to vacuum, but the strange pull is almost suffocating. she wants to find it. and hide it. their exit strategy. unless grace has chosen another. she can't remember. she can't remember if she has. they should talk about their exit strategy.

i just don't know what we'll find, or not find. but whatever we do will be a domino effect, narrowing down the list of actions to be taken, of questions to be answered. croft has only followed the same line of thinking as me, but i know it'll be infinitely easier to discern once we have some foundations set. which means getting to tau ceti.

❛ and when we do, we'll have a lot more time than you think. ❜ he hopes to be reassuring, but grace's calculations are also steeped in truth. the bittersweet truth is that the deaths of yáo and ilyukhina have essentially doubled their resources, and thus their lifespans, their time. it remains undetermined if this was a worthy trade - off, if time will be a necessity to solving the puzzle, but he'd still give anything to have them here, alive. the bigger question is not at all how much time they have, but how much time earth has. ❛ we're working with time dilation, though. the hurry isn't for us, but . . . ❜ he thinks of the golden records, of him tracing his fingers over the grooves that mark their species. ❛ but even then, four years in a coma will have been the bulk of it. i don't imagine anything we do will take up enough of a duration to really make any drastic difference. so, we get there, we see what's up, we . . . ❜ grace tosses her creation gently back to her, the return of masterpiece to maker.

“ grace. ” his name is parroted back, the diamond nodding as she commits it to memory. “ my species does not 'do names,' as you said, the way human beings do. albeit, we do have them. i'm pink diamond, or just pink. i much prefer that over any of the silly titles. ” ( your radiance, your brilliance, your excellency... ) hand raises, finger now pointing off in the distance. “ pearl is back there, within my ship. that is her name, though she is merely one of many pearls. we are denoted by our colors, of course, to help with confusion. ” arm drops to her side once more. “ what is your companion's name? ” curiosity returns without hesitation. her mind is going a mile a minute, hundreds of questions lingering just below the surface.

denoted by their colours ? huh. that seems a little questionable, something that on earth i thought we finally got past in the sixties : naming traditions based on colour or appearance just seems like a little bit of a dated move, especially when everything else about her seems so futuristic.

she asks for his companion's name and he realises his hypocrisy mid - thought. because what did he name the spidery creature that somewhat resembled a rock ? ❛ . . . rocky. ❜ he takes his own point and crams it somewhere deep in the realms of eating his hat, admits that he is no more creative in his naming rituals than any diamond or pearl or whatever gems they have going on. ❛ well, we're actually trying to get home. his home. but i saw activity down here, and— well, i couldn't not have a look. ❜ grace reads between the lines, recognises that she is not in fact from here either.

eva is patient but she is not that patient. the moment of reprieve should have long past gone now as their feet carry them on a predetermined path back to her office, her private cabin really, but privacy is required when a matter this delicate needs to be handled. she trusts ryland to find the issue before she even divulges it and she's once again correct. it strokes something familiar, be it confidence or pride, she's not been wrong about him yet, and there's no prayer nor hope that she isn't ever. somehow grace doesn't fall short of her expectations. she's never spoken them and yet he's always met them, albeit with some reluctance at times. but she's figured him out on paper long before she's met him in person.

his question lands with another mouthful of coffee that sharpens her focus almost instantaneously. there's a way about spinning words to sway the proposed to to her own perspective without making it too obvious. she has the authority to do what she wants but she also prefers an agreeable acquiescence to her methods, even if she's had to pry some skin from teeth to get people to see her intentions. intentions imply subjectivity, she can't let anyone think she's anything but objective. an overseeing eye over it all, the one that fits the pieces into the big picture to make everything work. and yet this problem in particular, she can't untangle herself from it.

❝ tau ceti is 11.9 light years away, relativity accounted, our astronauts would be experiencing this journey in four years time. ❞ stratt doesn't delve into the math or detriments of this calculation, he already knows. she sweeps a hand to usher him into the office, sleeping arrangements in the form of a couch in lieu of an actual desk and seating as she moves around to find the helm, ❝ four years in space is ... a problem. i could go on about studies that dissect and correlate violence and deteriorating mental status in solitary confinement or death row, but i'm sure you get where i'm going here. ❞

and yet this is not the pressing issue. volunteers are well aware of the manifest, of the sacrifice. ❝ but we may have found a solution for that. ❞ she plucks a printed paper to slide across the desk towards grace, neglecting her own seat as she leans over to read the title out for him, the abstract, the solution. ❝ this paper is about survival rates of primates after prolonged medical sedation. it correlates a successful awakening with an underlying gene. a gene that apparently a percentage of earth's human population has inherited. ❞

here is the segue. she hands me a paper and i am greedy in shoving my glasses up and skimming its title and contents as quickly as possible, flicking back and forth to briefly view the citations it refers to, coming to the conclusion of what stratt is getting at long before she actually says it.

his eyes never leave the paper, brows pinched in an expression all too familiar to the task force as he concentrates on lines of frankly insulting claims. the research itself is solid : what is rapidly infuriating is the willingness to compare humans in a four year coma to a whole other adjacent species sedated for far less time. he takes his sweet time reading, knows she will allow for it — doesn't care if she doesn't. ❛ you're hinging their survival . . . on a gene ? ❜ disbelief almost draws out the ghost of a laugh, spectacles momentarily drawn down past his chin to hinge from one ear. ❛ they're not macaques, stratt. ❜ grace is willing to bet the difference would be negligible, that if she really is steadfast on the coma route then there would be losses, either way. she might as well send five, six crewmates to account for collateral damage — it would certainly be the stratt way to use brilliant minds as fodder. no, perhaps that was too harsh a thought, but he flings the paper aside with discredit anyway, a scientist offended.

❛ they are trained for isolation and confinement. we've already been through this, but if you're going to knock them out cold, i don't see how this makes any difference. ❜ he picks the paper back up, can't resist really, licking his thumb to part the pages and following along with his fingertip until he finds the number he seeks again. when he reads it out loud it is with vigor, teeth sunk into the meat of it. ❛ ' eight NHPs survived and were extubated. ' eight out of eleven. we're talking a seventy - two percent chance, and they were only under for ninety - six hours, tops. you're killing at least one of them before they even reach the darn star. ❜ he pauses, the wind out of his sails for a moment, holds her gaze. she brought him in here for a reason, and he won't have his opinion unheard.

whatever lockdown had been enforced has rendered grace well and truly clueless ( rocky had been able to discern things through the walls, the breaches he sensed making his carapace shudder and let little more be said on the subject ) and having a whole new director practically overnight doesn't bode well for his already ramped nerves. he eyes the weapon on the table dubiously, like a particularly venomous snake he dare not come in reaching distance of. layers of meaning untangle themselves, gaze finally tearing back upward to its newfound owner, wielder, and much to his adjustment, director. ❛ and trench ? the others ? ❜ his query teeters on a knife - edge, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

there are 2,755 personnel aboard the vat and ryland grace almost shrinks that number by a gargantuan one as his eyes watch the skies. unlike everyone she's not ready to put up her hands and deem the effort acceptable. their problem still very much glares, they can't shy away from it otherwise they will turn to icy stone.

❝ careful. you'll fall over. ❞

i know it's cowardly, to avoid other pressing tasks at hand under the guise of being busy or otherwise pre - occupied, but i guess launch day had seemed like some grand hurrah, when actually it's just been business as normal since it passed. i know that, i always knew that, but the placebo effect is strong. i just need a gosh darn break.

stratt's response to his question leaves him wanting as always, hardly a response or even an acknowledgment so much as a deviation, a course set back on track. grace replies with a sigh, repeats his query, except this time the tonality is different : not question, but statement. he gives as good as he gets — he can be stubborn, too.

@astrophager

Rain stares at him for a moment. Then she takes a sip of her drink, and she stares at him some more. It’s not the conversation that she was expecting to have at the bar, but he seems to be quite emotionally invested in what he’s saying. And she stares just a little bit more, before she finally speaks up.

where's marissa ? and why has she left me to fend for myself in the wild ? i get that people's primary reason for going on nights out to bars is to hook up, but i didn't think she'd actually do it. now i'm stuck talking to strangers about kidneys, or lack thereof.