Tea40ne

Your hand twitches painfully; you momentarily lose your grip, sliding back down to where you started. You grumble as you pull yourself back up, this time with your non-injured hand, eyeing the last generator you need to open the industrial door. If it had a voice you’d think it was mocking you.

You look up, attempting to locate the searchlight again. It had just swept over you again — making a diagonal to the opposite side of arena. An opening. You take it.

Scrambling to your feet, awkwardly bumping into the ajar door, and landing haphazardly onto the concrete floor, you make an, admittedly, poor dash to the sparking generator. You glance up as you crouch to one knee in front of it, eyeing the searchlight that was starting to make its returning arc in your direction. You physically startle at this, wrenching the door of the generator open as you do so: you’re already falling behind. Great!

It’s really REALLY hard to identify and fix what the hell has been wrong with these god-forsaken generators beyond the salient water damage from the too-humid lunar dock. You physically stutter for a second, before identifying the issue: one of the two primary gears is dislodged and embedded into the wiring lining the generator’s interior. On instinct, you go to pull the gear. A loud crack echoes through the air, and you jolt back. Ah yeah. Right. You glance at the arcing sparks of electricity dancing off of the generator; the searchlight is turning to return towards you. You hiss as the muscles in your hand lock, tendons painfully seizing. Right — no time for that. You look up again. It’s coming, something worse than panic seizes your heart.

You pull part of your shirt out from your belt, wrapping your hand in the fabric wrench the gear out of the wire. The gear’s axle is bent-you glance up again, getting closer— doing the best you could, you ram the gear into the axle, avoiding the other primary gear and trying to fit it “well enough” between the other gear’s teeth. It’s definitely not perfect, and this generator is certainly going to be much more broken than before— the gear jerks backwards, grinding against the twisted joint, and the generator sputters to life.

You slam the door shut, and pull the lever on the side of the generator harder than you intended to. Smoke billows out of the back of the casing, you ignore it. Surely it’ll work for now, yeah? Yeah.

…there’s a tense pause before the red, flickering light blinks green. Immediately, a larger, brighter green light cuts through the dimly-lit lunar dock, accompanied by an ominous, low blaring alarm. However short the alarm was, it’s certainly enough make panic crawl up your spine. The searchlight is drawing near — too near. It’s too close to try and scramble for cover, and sprinting for the, now opening, containment door is a risk you’re being forced to take.

You don’t think for even a second that cover was an option when refuge was fifty feet from you.

You waver when you attempt to stand, stumbling idiotically when you use your bad hand to push yourself up, before catching your balance and booking it for the stairs. You ignore the pain that was now crawling its way up the nerves in your arm again.

An orange light passes dangerously close to you as you continue your sprint; trying to slam to a stop on the stairs ends with your boot wedging itself into the lip of next stair. You stumble fecklessly, stopping inches from the second light passing in front of you. You definitely don’t miss the wailing coming from the searchlight that is now hovering above you.

You weave through another one of the searchlight’s beams. The door is so close.

It’s so close. One of the beams locks onto you. A wail. You keep running. A hook whizzes past you, imbedding itself into the concrete directly to your right. You’re right there.

Another hook, closer this time. More accurate.

You make it past the door. The light is still on you. You turn around—!

It happens fast. Imbedded right below your ribs. The large, serrated hook pulls against your stomach. Your feet, planted into the ground, slide forward against the rough concrete as the searchlight tries to yank you out of the saferoom. Your mind screams for you to get rid of it; a Hail Mary to avoid another violent death. So you do.

It’s a split second before both of your hands grip the hilt of the hook, you’re getting dragged harder now, before you wrench the hook out of your abdomen.

You don’t feel much when you do so. You stumble back momentarily as the force you put into ripping the hook out of yourself throws you backwards. The containment door shuts with a clang. The hook is shut in the door — it jerks once. Twice. Before the door bends around it to force itself shut.

You watch it clatter to the ground. How the hook was so friable, you wonder, goes unanswered. You don’t hear it. You DO hear a loud heartbeat. It’s yours? Yeah. It is yours. Huh.

You’re just standing there. Breathing. Hyperventilating? You know something is wrong. You should be panicking. Screaming. Crying. But you don’t.

You’re shaking really bad. Your vision is skewing, hearing fading. Something is wrong. It hasn’t hit you, not yet.

You step forw— wait, no. No you don’t. You meet the floor. You really wish you were unconscious right now. Or dead. Dying sounds great right now. You’ll just come back, yeah? You can feel the cool, dusty concrete against your face. Your diving gear weighs uncomfortably on your back. Your chest feels tight.

You can’t make much out any more. You know you’re in pain. You know that you’re on the ground, on your stomach. You want to sleep, but something in your mind prevents you from succumbing to the darkness. You feel halfway to death, though. You can definitely still feel the annoying prickle of pain as it dances up your hand and arm, a grim reminder of your incompetence.

You don’t succumb to the darkness but something different filters through your mind; fuzziness follows the dreary pull, filling your ears and replacing the buzz with something quieter.

…

You fail to make out the sound of one of the two doors sliding open in front of you. Faint, inaudible mumbling. Something—er— someone shuffles over to you.

You feel something pull at the satchel tied around your waist. Another pull. You’re shaken awake? Aware? by the tugging. A frustrated huff. Hands meet your shoulders, and you’re flipped over onto your back. You groan in protest as you’re sidled, diving tanks digging into your back. Pain pings in your head in response to the turn.

Whatever it was jerks back, likely startled by the ‘very-much-living’ corpse lying in a pool of their own blood, moving. And groaning. You weakly attempt to wave off the thief, blearily opening your eyes and muttering something incoherent as you try to bat away the hands trying to rob you of your own pilfered goods. Your head bumps against the floor as your, poor in hindsight, attempt to defend yourself fails.

Your eyes don’t give you much help to identifying your thief, either. You cough out another “mmmmmmge..t a‘way frm’e…” as you try to blink away the, weirdly thick, tears that are clouding your vision.

In response, you hear an exasperated chuckle. Or a disappointed one. You wouldn’t have been shocked if it was both.

Hands meet your shoulders again. This time, less aggressive. Softer. A little bit more careful. You’re gingerly lifted so the diving tanks are no longer digging painfully into your spine. Your head lulls as your torso moves from the ground — you groan in protest again as your head bonks against your diving tanks. The bullet shell pricks against your throat.

You feel too far into your head and a million miles away at the same time. The perpetrator speaks again, something like: “wh..happe…..idio……..—istening?”

You don’t respond. Well, you try to, but you just end up letting out an “auuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu….gh…uh….” before dropping your head again. Thick tears still cloud your vision, and your clogged sinuses aren’t doing anything good for your hearing. You really try and give into the darkness that had been dancing around your sightline, appearing in your peripherals and sneakily darting to the opposite side of your peripherals when you glance over.

You blink hard. Twice. You don’t open them on the second, trying to sleep, rest your eyes, before you’re shaken violently. Right, there’s still hands on your shoulders and someone’s face in YOUR face.

Wait a second.

There’s been something. Someone. In front of you, trying to steal your stuff, for the better half of like… two minutes. What? You feel your heartbeat leap and that’s where the darkness decides to humor you.

Instead of jumping to your feet, you pass out.

..Probably. You know that you’re missing a lot of information on what the hell was happening. Or happened. You’re vaguely aware of an, incredibly exasperated, grumble of your name and the dizziness that accompanied being shaken violently by your shoulders again. And the weird pressure headache. Especially the pressure headache.

You’re not unconscious for long; but because you’re trying to both keep yourself alive and awake from your heart wanting to explode and being impaled, memories come in short, scattered waves.

You’d been picked up with surprising care, straining as intense, ripping pain clawed its way through your abdomen; your diving gear shifting as your benefactor attempted to avoid the bullet shell on your neck and your wound, now coated with caustic, drying blood, stung as they did so.

You don’t recall much after that; maybe being jabbed in the forehead with a claw, or shaken again, but your stupor had only led you into lethargy.

…

….

“are… —kay?”

..

..

You come to; finally managing to blink the thick, uncomfortable tears enough away so you could actually see.

You feel awful. Pain rends its way around the underside of your ribs as you writhe.

You’re lying on your back, diving tanks removed (much to your relief). You startle for a moment, hand flying to touch the collar of your uniform— bullet shell is still there, pricking at your neck. You don’t know whether to be relieved that it was still there, or to let the dread sink in that you still have about a fourth of a gun and all its firepower steadily aimed at your jugular.

You let your hand sink to the ground again. You’re up, above the ground, away from a startling bright light and the faint rumble of a decrepit fan; resting on some kind of ledge. You’d been kindly placed on and amid several kinds of pillows and cushions, which were probably taken from the many abandoned couches and office chairs scattered around the blacksite.

Additionally, through the hole in your jumpsuit from the oh-so-kind-searchlight-hook-impalement, you can feel a patch of gauze and tape where the entrance wound lies; the tape pulls stiffly at your skin.

There’s another prick of pain centered near the patched wound, a ways below your ribs and to the side. It feels more like you’d gotten a tetanus shot rather than impaled; it has a dull, echoing throb. Shifting, you notice that there’s no gauze on your back — nor can you feel an exit wound. It still hurts like hell, though.

Your head throbs. The tension headache you’ve had since the stabbing thrums like a heart and rattles against your skull. Your attempt to wave the headache responds unfruitfully; only intensifying as you shift uncomfortably. A shot in the dark, and you missed. Horribly.

Familiarity strikes you. You know where you are.

Glancing to your right: the source of the light, recognizable fins and disheveled hair, was your mysterious benefactor. Hello, Sebastian.

You watch him for a moment. He’s facing away from you, so you can only see his backside; though his fins do flick toward the occasional bumps and crashes that echo around the blacksite. He brushes a strand of hair away from his face.

A pang of sizzling hurt shoots through your chest, climbing up your throat. You try to suavely(or as suave as exhaling with the bottom of your chest is) exhale to clear your throat, only to immediately choke on your attempt. His fins immediately flit to you; his head following after. He stares pointedly at you, waiting for you to stop coughing.

You cough hard again and let out a strangled grunt as you are, rather violently, reminded of the very much real likely-fatal wound you’d received. You still, tense, but still nonetheless. Right. He’s been looking at this charade the entire time; you follow his lead and also look his way. He looks oddly attentive.

“Here I thought you managing to get skewered by that searchlight —while being in a completely different room than it —would be the last embarrassing thing you did, huh?” He points out.

“What—“ you croak. “Why?” Why what? Why’d he save you? Why is he making fun of you? What’s happening? What did he do? why?? There’s a surge of things you want to say, to question, but the words catch.

“…so uncouth. I, with my last shred of empathy for you and your gaggle of idiots, chose to help you instead of leaving you to die in a pool of your own blood.” Sebastian snarks sarcastically, hands clasping together. He rises a little, to be more intimidating or so you could both see each other better, goes unanswered. “First,” he points, “you should be thankful.”

There’s another tense pause as you register his words. He makes a ‘thank me now’ gesture with his hands. Or— two of the three. His third hand holds a folder and is resting on his… hip. You blink. He doesn’t.

“I—? Thank you?” You echo, voice cracking at the ‘i.’ You wince, pulling yourself up with your forearms into a sit, straining the ‘thank you’ as pain creaks its way through your torso again. Sebastian bites back a mordant “don’t hurt yourself now,” and gives you a deadpan instead.

“You know, people who get saved from meeting their maker tend to be more grateful than,” he waves a claw at your pitiful form, “this.” Ah. He wants you to grovel. You don’t want to do that.

“I don’t—” you start.

“Second,” Sebastian cuts in, a canny, stressed smile accompanying his shift, “let’s not move, yeah? Ruin all my hard ‘saving your life’ work?”

You consider his words for a moment. Probably a moment too long because his face falls flat again. You just nod. Defeated? Not really. There wasn’t much of an argument, just him… lecturing you.

“Good.” Another, even more sly, smile glides over his face. One of his earfins flick. “Now, be a good little convict and stay put.”

Sebastian gives you another once-over. You bristle at the comment and give him a suspicious once-over. The feeling of “what the hell” settles deep within your soul.

Another surge of questions, thoughts, exclamations run circles through your mind. The pain still comes in agonizing waves. You VERY much remember the whole ‘ripping a gigantic, serrated hook that had hit you so hard that it imbedded itself through your abdomen and into the floor behind you,’ but the wound no longer matches. You can most definitely feel the entrance wound, as it continuously sends rounds of pain through your lungs and stomach, but thinking about your marred intestines makes you even more nauseous than you already are.

Sebastian had mumbled something about you being a dim-witted moron as he turned back to the Manila folder he was holding. You’re still sitting up and have half a mind to attempt to lay back down; “sitting still” is practically impossible now as weird, winding pain peaks briefly in small sections where you think you remember feeling the serrated hook tear through, before it sizzles out and numbs just as quickly. You keep shifting and rolling your shoulders to try and reduce the pain, but it proves to be an effort in futility.

It’s too little and too much— the hurt, the questions, the noise and the lack thereof. The headache. Especially the headache. And the whole impalement thing. The questions of how and why he’d done anything more than leave you to waste away to your death dance around your mind. There’d been an annoying, quiet droning hum in your ears that’d accompanied your earlier awakening. It grew louder as the room got quieter. It was loud now.

The silence that followed your awkward attempt to stave the pain ends abruptly. You’re too busy poking at the patch of gauze on your abdomen to notice that Sebastian had turned, again, to eye you. How long he’d been side-eyeing your efforts is unclear.

He huffs, snaps the folder shut, and startles you. Your startle consisted of you pulling your hand away from the gauze (and further causing pain) to look at him.

“You going to ask me something or are you going to keep poking at the hole in your abdomen?” He questions, quirking a brow at your current disposition. He looks like he’s about to reach out to grab you before stopping halfway and re-clasping his hands.

“I don’t understand.” You wheeze, voice still hoarse.

“Not a question. Try again.” Sebastian chides.

“The— you. Saving me.” And then suspiciously, “…why?”

“Mmm… give a little get a little, yeah? Maybe like giving to charity.” He snickers, accentuating the end of his sentence with a twitch of one of his fins. Ehhh…

Now it’s your turn to deadpan. “Charity?” You look down nudge the patch again. Ow. Pain ricochets through your stomach, further inducing the nausea you’d been trying to push through. It pulls at your skin. Still hurts. “…sure doesn’t feel like it.” You grumble, sotto voce.

Looking up, you nearly leap out of your skin. Sebastian had, somehow within the time you were looking down and messing with the patch, and silently, had risen up and was now very, very close to you, upper hands gripping the metal bars lining the edge of the platform you’re on. He’s squinting at you skeptically, and you do the same; though yours is much more terrified.

A beat passes. Sebastian speaks before you do: “you…. actually awake this time?”

…and that’s all I had. Thanks for reading. Assume reader gets healed, Sebastian tells you to kys or something, and you wander off and die in a hole idk

I do not plan on continuing this piece. I am stepping away from pressure, and deleting all of the content related to pressure that is not my own; my fics may or may not remain up.

The platform that you had ineptly landed on provided little cushion. You were immediately forced to scramble back onto your feet as the roar of the firewall nearby was a stark reminder that you that you weren’t done yet and to MOVE. NOW.

The adrenaline from getting pursued by a giant wall of fire had luckily provided you instant, temporary, pain relief from your bruised ribs and ego. You’d managed to make it to the final sprint without being charred to death, much to P.AI.nter’s chagrin, before reaching the “rest” area and immediately crumpling to the gross floor. “Your body will be capable of doing things you will never be able to do again,” NaVi’s voice rings in your head; it sure feels like you’re paying the price for the ego you gained from that statement.

Moving to stand, your breath is short from your bruised ribs and torso. You go to gingerly touch your ribs before oh—right, you still have the jetsuit on. Cringing as you start to slide the chestplate up and over your head, doing the same for your leg armor and then finally both of your arms. You let out an “auuAHK-“ as you go to take off the left armpiece; white hot stinging pain radiates from the back of your arm, right above the elbow. The armor piece feels odd as you delicately remove it, kind of like a liquid was trapped under the segment. It’s easier— well, as far as “taking the thing off” goes, it’s still the most painful part— than the rest of the pieces to slide off, because whatever it was had lubricated your arm.

You thought it was probably sweat at first. It was not sweat. A caustic liquid had coated most of your arm around a tear in your uniform above your elbow; you very quickly discerned that what you’d just been thinking was sweat was NOT sweat. It was blood. And a lot of it. The white-hot pain radiating from, now both of, your arms made much more sense now.

You can feel nausea pulling at your sternum as the adrenaline from the jetsuit course had finally waned. Honestly, with your situation, you kind of almost wished that you had plummeted to your death. Just a little bit. You wave the thought as you finish tacking up the mannequin in the locker.

You feel a lot lighter without the jetsuit. Though that might be the blood loss talking; your fingers are tingling and you can feel a deep-set feeling of doom crawl up your spine. Impromptu blood donations probably aren’t good for your health. The backs of your arms should hopefully start to scab soon, you really hope they are because the sticky feeling of blood makes you shiver(and the metallic smell makes you want to gag.) Walking forward makes the world tilt. You groan. How fun.

You cough and immediately regret it as pain rips through your chest. Okay. This is going to be a looong walk.

As you trudge up the steps, your eyes land on a green flare placed next to a crate. The lid of the crate opens with a whine that makes your ears ring, and you pick up the only item in it: a medkit. Fortunately there’s a relatively large amount of gauze in the box, but unfortunately that’s as far as it goes for pain relief. You don’t think trying to drink the bottle iodine as a last-ditch effort would do anything but make you throw up and… probably poison you. You have no idea why the thought crossed your mind; better to use it as an antiseptic, anyway.

You cautiously dab at the wounds on the back of your arms, using the stairs in the… elevator shaft? as a makeshift seat. There aren’t many cotton swabs in the kit, so you’re left messily attempting to wipe up the rest of the wet blood with the gauze. You kind of just end up smearing it all over your arms, so you give up and wrap them.

You heave yourself back onto your feet, and you immediately feel the blood drop from your head. You try to wave off the dizziness but the stairwell looks like you just experienced a very poorly-done dolly-zoom, like the floor was getting further but the wall was sliding closer.

You run your hand over your face, finally shaking off the vertigo. The stairs mock you. You hate stairs. Fuck these stairs. It feels like your brain is buzzing.

It was a very, VERY inconvenient traipse through the next several doors. An angler had barreled past, much to your own chagrin, intensifying the ringing in your ears. It hadn’t helped in any way as your eyes had begun to hurt; you were starting to get tired— and not in the “I just ran three times faster than any human should physically be able to without shattering all of their bones or blowing up their organs” way, like the “I need to lay down RIGHT NOW and take a nap” way. Alas, you couldn’t. The bullet casing that kissed your neck every time you moved too quickly was a grim reminder to the fact that death had her hand on your shoulder; keep moving or die.

Opening a door, marked “fifty-one,” you’re met with a bright light facing a vent in the wall and a hole-to-the-abyss with water spewing out of one of the many broken pipes strewn across this decrepit facility into it. Lovely. This is… familiar.

The vent flies off, smashing into the light and sending both the vent cover and light careening into the lovingly-watered-abyss-into-nothing. You don’t hear it hit the ground, or water. So much for a light. And that vent cover. Okay.

“Got something for ya, c’mere.” A flippant voice echoes through the vent. By now your face is hot and flushed, you’re starting to feel sick, and exhaustion pangs at the nerves in your eyes. You crouch onto the floor, onto your knees, and shuffle through the vent. The gauze you had put above your elbows makes your (as you’ve named them) stab wounds hurt, so you awkwardly use your palms to pull yourself through the tunnel.

“Ah! It’s you,” you try to suavely stand up after you reach the opening, only for your knees to give out; you dump yourself onto the floor with a groan. “…welcome back.” You hear him snicker.

There’s a few seconds of silence while he waits for an answer. You’re still lying on the dusty floor. Seeing as you’re only answering with silence, he does so for you:

“Woooow, you look awful. Pick a fight with a wall?” He jeers. “Looks like you lost. And miserably. How sad.”

You unstick your face from the floor, flinching as you instinctually use your right forearm to balance yourself, remembering that, oh yeah, new wound on your arms. And bruised ribs. You look up, expecting a sly grin to be painted across his face and to no shock, there he is in all his glory, slyly smiling at you.

“Yeah and maybe—ow— you should tell your friend,” you heave a groan as you balance to your feet, coughing as you take too sharp a breath “to not try and char me to death next time.”

“I’ll think on it.” He hums. He’s lying. Of course he is. “You gonna buy something or are you going to continue to be useless on my floor?”

You’re once again reminded of the gnawing exhaustion and nausea from your unwilling blood donation to that… wonderful suit. You wave him off as you shamble up to his tail, perusing the goods. What you’re hoping to see is not there— there’s a medkit, but you’ve already used a medkit. The kits here really only have the bare minimum, and nothing to help bruised ribs or to recover from the blood loss. You could really use something to eat or drink right now. Or some ibuprofen. Even Tylenol would suffice.

You’d been standing there for several seconds, slowly swaying back and forth. God, you were tired. You don’t think he’d let you sit for longer than a minute, and you can feel the vertigo starting to return. You look up with just your eyes at Sebastian, his main hands are clasped together while his third rests by his… hip. He’s tilted slightly and it’s making it look like he’s looming over you. He is intimidating, you can give him that, you’ve spent enough time around him to be a little less scared than you should be.

“What? You gonna fall over again? Don’t bleed on my floor, gross.” He bends further forward, squinting at your face and poking you in the forehead with one of his claws. You wobble a little. “What’s wrong with—“

“Can I sit here for a second?” You cut him off.

He pauses for a moment, narrowing his eyes more. At this distance you can see his pupils, barely discernible against his glowing irises. You’ve not noticed the stripes that line his face until now, either. He’s kind of pretty. You blink. So does he.

“What? My shop isn’t open to bums. Buy something, or get out.” He snarks, pulling back and giving you a flat stare.

“…please? Just for a few minutes, I— ow-“ you hiss, ribs aching. Your fingers had started to tingle again, and sitting down was enticing; feeling the satchel around your waist, it’s concerningly light. Right, the firewall had taken up most of your trek here, you don’t have much research. You shakily sigh. It’s filled with a couple floppy disks (does Urbanshade really still use floppy disks?), several small notepads and a handful of flash drives. You present it to him and an unreadable expression crosses his face.

“If I give you these, can I just sit? For like… five minutes? Please?” You beg, and he reaches down, gingerly taking the satchel out of your hands before….. dumping the contents onto the ground. Real nice, Sebastian. His eyes scan over it, before he drops your satchel; it skids a few inches and hits your feet.

“Fine.” He says, sounding particularly unhappy about his decision. What? Really? Did he feel pity for you? You probably DO look awful. You sure feel awful. Your head is incredibly hot and you can feel sweat starting to form in beads on your forehead. You’re still swaying, and the ache in your chest has done nothing but be a nuisance since you took the NOST jetsuit off.

You let out a breathless “thank you,” and then stand for a few seconds, awkwardly scanning the room for a place to sit down. There’s not many places that aren’t directly next to Sebastian and his… tail, so you ultimately decide to sit and rest against the crate on the opposite side of the room. Your diving gear makes it uncomfortable, so you’re stuck leaning against it with your shoulder.

Normally you wouldn’t be one to sit on the floor like this. It’s dusty and gross, but the coolness of the crate you’re sitting against and the ground offers you solace that you had been craving since your run-in with the blood donation and the platform you had oh-so-gracefully plowed into. Your fingers are still tingling, and all of your limbs had started to feel heavy. Your eyes slide over to Sebastian, if he was staring at you or had anything to say about your predicament, he was biting his tongue. He was currently preoccupied with the data he’d dumped out of your satchel, in which he must’ve picked it up when you had awkwardly shuffled over to the crate.

The “garbage noise” that the radio was generating next to you was good white noise. Or just noise in general. Your eyelids droop, and you’re finding it difficult to stay awake now. You jump up as your head drops, before you go right back to the cycle-of-almost-falling-asleep-then-startling-yourself-awake. Sebastian says nothing, and the last thing you hear was a sound of metal against metal, like the vent to the shop had been closed. You rest your arms and head on your knees, trying to pry away the headache, before finally succumbing to what your body had been trying to get you to do for the better part of an hour. Sleep. The darkness doesn’t call your name, yet you heed its call with open arms and closed eyes.

. . .

You have no idea how long you’d been asleep before you startle yourself, again, awake. Your eyes snap open to see—nothing, actually. It’s pitch black. You blink several times, trying to adjust your bleary eyes to the darkness. You’re no longer sitting against the crate — the sound of the radio is distant and muffled, kind of like you’re above it and behind a wall.

But that’s not as jarring as you shift slightly, attempting to get a feel of where you are and what position you were currently laying in. You can tell you were moved, but you’re still in Sebastian’s shop because you can still hear the radio. You’re laying in an awkward way, twisted onto your side, head resting on something while your legs lay over something else. You’re still really fucking hot, and dizzy, but whatever you’ve been put against is providing, once more, a pleasant cooling sensation which dulls your headache and the pulse in your eyes.

You also make note of the, not unpleasantly so, heavy object resting over your midsection. The fuzziness in your head immediately clears as you’re reminded that you are *still in Sebastian’s shop.* You tense, go to move and— whatever is weighing down on your stomach and chest prevents you from moving. You jostle the object, and whatever your head is resting on shifts and you feel it *ripple.* You freeze and wait for it to stop.

A realization smacks you in the face: you’re laying on Sebastian and he is laying on *you.* Wow. Okay. Okay so. Uh. Your eyes have focused more: Sebastian’s head is the weight on your torso. Your eyes sweep across his face. It’s.. particularly serene. His expression doesn’t hold the sly grin or sharp frown, nor does he spit or snark phrases at you. His eyes are closed. He’s sleeping.

You recall the sound of the vent closing, and your suspicions are confirmed when you crane your neck to look at where you think the vent is. You’re up on the balcony behind where Sebastian typically sits when you enter his shop. It’s hard to see considering the darkness of the room; the single light suspended in the duct positioned over the center of the humble shop provides little assistance.

You don’t remember being or feeling being moved. Something distant rumbles outside of the shop. Sebastian’s entire body tenses, and his head shoots up— you’re jostled as he does so. His ear fins twitch, pinning against his hair before flitting to and fro. His eyes are wide and you can see his pupils, bright against his now non-glowing irises, trained on the cover of the vent.

The rumbling increases, and much to your alarm, the ever-so familiar sound of chains rips through the air. Fortunately you’re more than far enough from it to where your fear of dying subsides, but the horrific smell of sulfur and smoke permeates the room. Chainsmoker.

You can tell that Sebastian wasn’t particularly overjoyed about it either. His eyes remain stuck to the vent, waiting, watching, as the rumbling increases. It crescendos, shaking the room and penetrating your nose with the horrific smell it produces. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, you shift uncomfortably, trying to rid the smell that is pricking at your nose. Sebastian’s eyes dart towards you, scanning over your form for a moment; you make no move(whilst barely keeping your eyes open) and it appears that he’s decided that you’re still asleep. He turns his head to peer at the vent again.

You can feel his tail ripple under your head as his muscles relax. Chainsmoker had passed you by; the putrid smell was fading rapidly as the air ducts above you cycle the air. You hear Sebastian sigh as he drops his head, moving his torso to lay over you again.

Your legs and head are still propped up on different parts of his tail, he remains curled around you. Okay. Cool. Yeah, sure. This is okay. You have a giant fish man curled around you on all sides, and he’s about to lay his head on your stomach again.

You bite back a grunt as his head hits your stomach. The ache in your ribs intensifies and subsides again as he moves back into his previous position. He rolls his shoulders, nestling further into you. His tail is still cold against your head and— oh. You’re still *really* hot. And he’s cold. He’s using you as a human space heater. He is siphoning heat from you. Bastard.

You’d call him a bastard to his face if you weren’t *also* so very tired and enjoying the temperature difference. The panic had cleared, and the lull of sleep pulls at your eyelids. You glance at Sebastian. His eyes are still cracked. He takes a sharp inhale, before exhaling deeply and shutting them. The weight on your stomach isn’t uncomfortable by any means, but *what* the weight is makes you apprehensive; the call of sleep and the aching of your ribs and wounds on the back of your arms reminds you that you’d much prefer a giant fish man resting on you rather than attempting another trek through the blacksite. His ear fins flick once. A rumble deep from his chest vibrates through your midsection. Is he… purring? Rumbling? It’s very quiet, but easy to feel.

His head and torso are akin to a very heavy weighted blanket. Numbness pulls at your limbs. Sleep beckons you, and you listen. The Hadal Division can stand to lose one of the personnel they deem expendable for an hour or two, anyway. It’s nice, a small escape from the hell you signed up for.

You never caught their names over the yelling. And you were pretty damn sure they hadn’t caught yours, either.

Following being soaked through the bone and ramming your shoulder(in which you’re surprised that the impact hadn’t ripped your arm off) into a broken fan blade after encountering— what was it? Whatever it was, it looked like an amalgamated crocodile…lizard? that had a penchant for human flesh. Pulling yourself up after hitting the ground hard, you were, admittedly, shocked that your companions had survived. …And had gone back to arguing about the, now wrecked, gliders. It was hard to hear what they were saying over the blood rushing in your ears; your coughing and wheezing to regain the breath that had been knocked out of you hadn’t helped in the slightest, either.

That landing wasn’t… great. Willing yourself to fully push off the ground into your knees, and finally onto your feet, you glanced at your companions and towards the three ruined hydro-glides— was that coming out of YOUR paycheck if you managed to get out of here with the crystal? That’d suck. You have no idea if you’re actually being paid, either.

Right, you’re still drenched. And injured. You roll your shoulder, only to hiss as you do so—pain roars from the muscles, shooting down to your fingertips. Your entire body tingles as the adrenaline from the chase wanes; there’d probably be a giant welt spanning your entire shoulder and side if you could, you know, see it under the impossibly tight Urbanshade uniform. It’s probably absolutely shattered, even, but you’re not keen on thinking about that right now.

You struggle forward towards the next door, ignoring the bickering and spotting a green flare that had been oh-so-helpfully placed next to a crate next to the door you were staggering to. Gingerly crouching down, careful not to disturb your injured arm and shoulder, you pull open the crate. Relief washes over your body and you almost fall over (again) as your muscles relax. Ah. Cocktail Perithesene. Your saving grace. You want to kiss whoever put these here.

“Guys,” you wheeze out, shuddering and holding your injured shoulder. Both of their heads immediately snap to you.

“WHAT.” One of them barks. The other says nothing, but still sneers in your direction.

The silence after thickens the air, heavy and suffocating; you kind of want to wilt under the scowl, but steel your own expression. They don’t deserve a reaction from you, not here.

“There’s Cocktail Pert—uh— perithesene? In these crates.”

“What the FUCK does that mean?” The silent one hissed. Did they really not know what these were? Huh.

“The red syringe thing,” you say, pulling one of the three cartridges out and presenting it to the pair. “It’ll fully heal you. I’ve used one before.”

They look at each other for a moment, before one shoves the other over the glider they had wrecked before shuffling over to where you were crouched. The ‘victim’ of the pushing barked something vulgar after the one who pushed them, before also getting up and skittering over to where you were crouched. You wanted to be nice, you thought, moving to pick up another syringe to give to them before your good hand was grabbed and one of them had ripped it away from you.

You give the perpetrator a dumbfounded look, as the other pushes past you to also grab one of the syringes lying in the crate. “How does it work?” One spits at the other.

“I don’t know!”

“How do you NOT know? You seem like the kind of person to know that-“

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“You know what it means!”

“You’re a fucking dick, you kn-“ You don’t know if you’d preferred getting ripped to shreds or listening to the two descend into another argument.

You turn back to the crate, tuning the dispute out and noticing that the flare that had been placed next to it had fizzled out. You’re grateful that there was three cocktails, or you’d be in deep shit; neither of them would’ve been willing to let you have your own. You can’t imagine the brawl that would’ve happened if there was only one.

The syringe felt warm in your hands, it was a really really weird sensation, like it was thrumming with energy that you couldn’t understand. Right. You’re still injured. And soaked to the bone.

You use your good hand to hold the cocktail, and rest your injured arm over your knee. You scan your arm for a few seconds—trying to remember how exactly you’re supposed to use this without killing yourself—before taking a deep breath. You exhale sharply and stab yourself with the syringe, ignoring what you probably should’ve done.

Pain explodes from the shot, immediately crawling up and down your entire arm before spreading to the rest of your body. It was like a mix of tingling, like all of your nerves had fallen asleep and had just re-awoken and having your entire body lit on fire; just as quickly as the sensation had razed your body, it was replaced with a numbing, cooling sensation. It felt like your entire body had been dipped in ice water—which also wasn’t a great feeling. By now you had fallen forward, the entire syringe spent; you could feel the muscles in your shoulder stitching themselves back together, painfully, but quickly.

You wheezed, nausea gnawed at your chest and behind your eyes. Vertigo had hit you like a truck, pulling at your brain and punching you in the chest. …You tested your shoulder, rolling it again, relived to find that it no longer roared with agony when you moved it. Damn, you wanted to throw up. You’d only ever used one of these things on one other occasion, and you weren’t keen on discovering why it felt so warm and what it was made of.

Glancing at the pair, one was on the ground with an empty cocktail, and the other was standing up, laughing at the one on the ground. Huh. You can’t say you were surprised. You then watched as the other used their cocktail and also fell to the ground. Okay then.

The feeling of wanting to explode and implode at the same time had, much to your relief, faded. You stood up from your place on the floor, with the nausea still chewing at your mind, before rolling and stretching out your shoulder again. It didn’t hurt. None of you did. Good.

The two had even argued during your encounter with Sebastian—something about how much research they had, or how they had both wanted the flash beacon resting on his tail. He had screamed something about blowing both of their heads off, and you still shudder at the threat; you’re glad you weren’t at the end of his gun—at least at that moment. He had given you a look at one point, and you weren’t sure if it was a look of pity or disdain. You didn’t ask.

By now the two had pushed ahead of you, and through the next door— which read ‘30.’ It was nothing short of a miracle that you had managed to make it through 70 doors, a searchlight encounter, Sebastian’s shop and now this… thing, with none of your party dying in the process. You’d even managed to both avoid and shut down several turrets piloted by the ‘rouge A.I’ or ‘hostile program’ as affectionately labeled by Urbanshade. (As much affection as they had to give something that they wanted eradicated, at least.)

It was P.AI.nter. You’ve met him before, and it was easy to say that you hadn’t…favored him. A feeling lingered in the back of your mind, telling you that maybe you should feel bad for him. And you did, just a little bit. Though it was pretty damn unfortunate that you had to be at the end of his gun, figuratively and literally; having an ass filled with bullets isn’t on your to-do list. You also can’t say that you enjoy getting your face ripped off OR getting your brain melted In your skull at the hands—er—wires of that machine.

You follow behind the pair. Through door 29, and then 28, before pausing. You note the large, gaping hole in the wall: strolling into the T-shaped room, another turret descends from the ceiling, sweeping across the room as if motion-activated by your group entering the room. It’s easy enough to avoid the turret, as it is VERY hard to miss the three laser beams that jut out, signaling the turret’s line-of sight.

The PA system crackles to life, obviously struggling to work correctly with the crumbling infrastructure, and HQ begins to speak. Odd. You hadn’t remembered them ever speaking to you at this point in your runs before; not that you made it this far very often, anyway.

“There’s a hostile program ahead of you that needs to be taken out of commission,” you glance wearily at the turret-guarded hole, and at your companions who had begun to argue about who’d go first into it, “but, only if you’re able to.

“It’s been a real pain ever since something rigged it up to the Blacksite’s systems. Smack its screen maybe, or, just unplug it. This task is secondary to your main objective, but it is encouraged.”

You… pause. Would you get something out of this? An easier escape, maybe? Money? Probably not. Is it really worth it? What’d his friend-er-Sebastian think? What would he do?

“We absolutely have to kill this thing.” You hear one of the pair say.

“Do you even know what it is?”

“Well—“

“Obviously you don’t, you’re too stupid. It’s clearly—“

“CLEARLY, I’ll be the one to do it,” ah. Okay. You didn’t know why you expected them to remain civil about this. They’re currently huddled behind one of the odd… cubbies? In the wall, out-of-sight of the turret currently sweeping the room. It was just one, and you had a nagging feeling that you weren’t going to be able to skirt going into P.AI.nter’s room.

Did you like P.AI.nter? No, not really. Facing the risk of getting holes blasted into you or getting burnt, exploded, or turned into a red smear at the metaphorical hands of that damn computer isn’t something you enjoyed having to worry about.

You did feel a little bit of pity for him, though. Just a little. You felt a tinge bad when he apologized, or happily greeted you when you saw him after a while. You’d just been cursing him out, why did you feel bad? You’re all fighting the same fight here, some fighting harder than the next. It’s the same hell and you stopped thinking you were on the good side when you hadn’t been allowed to stay dead.

Shuffling past your two companions, you “expertly,” or, as expertly as simply ducking under the turret’s beam is, enter the blown-out tunnel first. You take no pleasure in climbing through it, as stepping over fallen bits of drywall, cement, and stone whilst crouching and trying to avoid cracking your skull on the jagged edges of the roof was an… experience.

You step over the shattered floor and enter the room P.ai.nter was stationed in, only trip over a loose piece of cement, catching yourself with less grace than you hoped. You swore you heard the machine giggle at you. You sigh, the couple were now shoving their way through the tunnel, and into you, causing all three of you to topple over eith a cacophony of grunts and an “OW. Fuck.”

You had shimmied your way out of your place under the two, dusting off the pieces of cement and… other shards of things that had gotten wedged into your clothing.

“Oooouh, a visitor!” P.AI.nter calls out. Both of your companion’s heads snap to where his voice came from.

“I don’t get those often, especially recently. What brings you here?”

Ohh. He’s talking to your companions, who had been surprisingly silent through this ordeal. You don’t think he saw you, or he had chosen to ignore your presence, but you stepped out from behind a server you had been behind.

“Wait a second… oh! I… um, ugh, What do YOU want?” You gave him a flat look from behind the mesh fencing. What an asshole; and to say you felt pity for him.

“Oh my god isn’t this that thing that kept trying to shoot us?”

“Yeah, I think so,”

“Didn’t HQ say to..“

“This motherfucker! You’re the one who’s been fucking with us!” One of the two roars as the stalk up to the fence that separated your group from him. You could see painters screen-face widen before squinting nervously. Funnily enough, he had the three sweat drops drawn on, kind of like what you’d see in a comic or asomeone’s drawing. It’d actually be funny if the tension wasn’t so thick.

“Heh-hehh.. I mean. It’s nothing personal! I just needed to sidetrack you, just for a little-“

“Bullshit! You’re—he’s— YOU’RE the one who’s— the turrets! Those fucking turrets? That giant fish thing in the sky? Do you REALIZE how much of a nuisance you are? What you’ve done to us?

“And don’t hit me with that ‘sidetrack’ bullshit! You want us dead! For no fucking reason!”

“Okay now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,“ you jut in, trying to ease the tension. Both of their heads flit to you as you speak up, “maybe have a little pity, if you’ve read his file—“

“WHAT.” They both snarl.

“How do you get off with telling us that? You were there! You literally have a fucking hole in your leg because of this… thing!” They demanded, stomping to you and pointing in your face; their companion had moved and was now rifling through a locker on the wall. They… had a point.

“We need to move on, we’re not gonna get anything out of this,“ Maybe deflecting would get them to forget what they came here for, and what HQ said. You knew they weren’t stupid, and you couldn’t say that you hadn’t also held a dislike for P.Ai.nter, but a horrible feeling hummed at the base of your skull.

The other expendable had found a keycard to P.Ai.nter’s door. The keypad beeped unceremoniously as they fiddled with it, before the door slid open with a hiss. You’re quickly shoved to the side as the one who had been berating you steps over to… also shove the other expendable out of the way to move where was P.AI.nter first.

“Wooow, you’re a lot uglier up close.” P.AI.nter snickers.

One of them slams their hands down onto P.AI.nter’s desk. The crash echoes through the room and you flinch. You’re surprised that neither of them had replied to his… flattering comment.

“Okay so if we kill this thing,” They jab P.AI.nter’s screen, and he winces. You don’t think P.AI.nter could actually feel it.

“Do you mind?” Painter snipped.

“Do we just—“

“It doesn’t look like we can unplug it?”

“Then I’ll punch the screen,”

“No I’LL do it-“

“He-hey guys… no hard feelings… right?” P.AI.nter cut into their conversation. You hadn’t wanted painter dead. Out-of-commission, maybe— not dead. Maybe you did, but you hadn’t wanted to be involved in the murder. You stepped over to the entrance to the room, next to your arguing companions, trying to usher them out of the tight cubby. You grapple at the wrist of the one closest to you, trying to convince them to leave, and they rip their arm out of your hold.

“and YOU,” they warned, “trying to defend this thing? What is wrong with you?

“Fuck this, I’m getting this over with.” Their friend nods, sliding out of the way. You’re going to get yourself punched if you’d kept it up.

They put both of their hands onto the desk, inspecting P.AI.nter and his screen. “Getting a little close there,” P.AI.nter spat. They inspect for a few seconds further before ultimately deciding the best course of action, which was to lean back.

“Okay! Okay. You’ve made your point—“ they raise their hand, now in balled into a fist. You do nothing but stare in horror.

“I’ll leave you alone! I’ll leave you be!” They reel back.

“I’ll stop! I’LL STOP! I’LL STOOOP-“ their fist rams into the center of his screen, shattering it. P.Ai.nter’s voice struggles and fades as they wrench their arm out of the now decimated machine; they’re holding something, bent out of shape and worse-for wear, but as they pull it out a long with their arm, P.Ai.nter shuts down completely.

“What was that noise?” A voice crackles over the walkie-talkie stationed on what was P.AI.nter’s desk. “Kid, you okay!?” Oh shit. You look over to see what P.AI.nter’s saboteur was holding: a small, green chip. It’s in pieces, like they had just snapped it in half. Oh great almighty; you can’t say your knowledge on computers and machines was anything above amateur, but you knew that was important.

You could feel the world tilt as you stared at them both, moving out of the way when one of them barked at you to do so. They soon had shambled their way out of the room, bickering about who’d carry the chip(which you now had designated as P.Ai.nter’s heart,) leaving you to mull over what had just occurred. Alarms blared in your skull as the PA system crackles to life once more above you:

“This is a site-wide announcement!” It’s Navi-er- the Navi Ai. You had met her before, once. In person. She was terrifying to encounter, and your first introduction hadn’t been particularly… stellar. “I am happy to report that the parasite messing with my systems has been neutralized, and operations are now at an acceptable level.

“The internal defense system, as well as any other previously hijacked systems, will no longer pose a threat to all personnel.”

The PA system clicks off with its uninviting chime, leaving you, once more, in silence. Dying crosses your mind. You were going to absolutely die again, weren’t you?

“I’m coming over! Hang tight!” Sebastian pleaded into the walkie-talkie. You could here the terror at the edge of his voice, barely keeping it back; you’re not sure how close he is to your current location, but you were absolutely sure you were completely and utterly fucked if you chose to remain here. You let out a shaky exhale, before deciding to bolt after your group. You can hear a door closing in the distance, ushering you forwards.

You don’t make it very far before you feel ice claw its way up your spine. An agonized cry in the distance; your companions don’t turn around. You watch as they play in the beam of a turret, joyously unaware of what is soon-to-be lurking behind you. Another cry of agony, this time louder, and much, much clearer.

It’s Sebastian. Crying. Yelling something. You feel your heart leap to your throat, and your feet, amazingly not stuck to the floor, force you forward. You can’t tell if his yelling or if the vents carry his voice well;

“—on, come on… no. No. NO!” He wails. A loud thud echoes through the vents. Your partners had also paused, confused at your panic. “What happened? No-no.. you’re okay. It’s okay. You’ll be fine. It’ll be okay— I’ll-I-“ hyperventilating breaths and mourning wails ricochet throughout the meandering hallways and rooms. Guilt and something else rips at your chest, winding deep into your stomach and intestines. You want to cry. For yourself? Maybe. For him? You block that thought.

“What did they do to you? I can- I can fix you. I can still fix you! I’ll just— I’ll just. I can put you back together!” There’s a pause, and then another howl of grief. “I can’t lose you too… I can’t lose you too.” Something clatters against the adjacent wall.

“You’ll be okay… you’ll be okay, I promise. Come on.

What’d they do? No.

No. NO!

NO!!”

. . .

It happened fast. Door 20 came and went. So did 15. It was door 10. 10 rooms away. The lights had flickered, and your colleagues had been arguing again. A thought had crossed your mind earlier, wishing that they had bitten each other’s heads off when they’d been arguing after the abomination encounter. …Metaphorically, of course. You’re still absolutely terrified and wrought with guilt from your own encounter with and subsequent involvement the murder of P.AI.nter. What you hadn’t noted was — as you had backed yourself to one of the broken doors in this cross shaped room— was that the lights had flickered harder and longer than your run-of-the-mill angler.

You tense. It sounds like something is rolling a gigantic stone down a hill. Your two group members had just now started towards you, and not quick enough. White smoke itches in your peripherals. You’re too late to warn them, and they’re too late to react.

Blitz. It streaks by. They’re both gone.

A red streak wipes the floor in front of you, right where they had been standing mere seconds prior. You twitch. You don’t know how to react, you had never been around to see someone else die. You’d never seen someone else’s corpse here. Adrenaline screams for you to stand up, to look, to see if they did the impossible and survived.

So you do. You stand up, and round the corner.

It’s hard to see, Blitz had blown out the lights in the center of the room; you take out your flashlight, hitting it on your palm several times to kick it on. The sight chills you. Your companions lay, collided into the wall adjacent to the door. Blood streaks the wall and up to the ceiling; you can barely make out two bodies beneath the gore the had now streaked the walls. You stagger back, the repugnant, metal smell turns your stomach. Bile rises in your throat, you resist the urge to dry heave.

You step back again, and your heel lands on something. Your foot slides back and you let out an indignant squawk as you’re unwillingly forced into a kneeling position. Ow. You quickly jump up, looking down at what you’d slid on.

It was P.AI.nter’s heart.

You crouch down, gingerly picking it up. You hadn’t liked p.ai.nter. Or — well. Had a distaste. A bit of a dislike. Now, in your palm, lay the very heart of the machine that you had claimed you hated. Picking it up, you had expected it to thrum with energy, pulse in your hand, but it was quiet. Cold. It did nothing; for you and itself. Dread pulls at your heart. You feel guilt. For him? For yourself? You can’t tell.

And your companions? May Lady Death be gentle to them, for this hadn’t been.

Something thuds in the vents above you. For several agonizing seconds, you fear something is going to kick the vent cover in and fall onto you. You can’t stay here — time to move. Now. Something is watching, waiting, for you to let your guard down.

Tears prick in the corners of your eyes as you try and wave off the putrid smell of iron. You recoil as you turn towards the bodies--mangled remains of your eviscerated companions. You steel your nerves and step forward, avoiding the gore that had littered the room; you almost slip on the blood, catching yourself and stepping over a chunk of splintered bone wedged into the floor. The door struggles to open as you approach it, caught on something. It whines against the floor.

. . .

The rest of the way to the end of your path was uneventful, barring an angler encounter at the third door. Anxiety prickles in your lungs, you’ve yet to make it this far. You have no idea what you’re up against and what to expect here.

The last door slides open with a hiss. Entering the room, you take note of the many desks, drawers, and lockers dotted throughout You wait for a few moments, expecting the beep of the intercom you’ve heard several times throughout your expeditions.

Figuring you might as well look around for items that may help you, you take a few steps forward: prompting the intercom to click on with its curt chime. “Across the chasm outside the window, is the room with the crystal.” You had wandered up to the window as HQ has said this. You couldn’t see the crystal from here, but you could see the replica of it in the center of Urbanshade’s Hadal Division Logo. It was starkly warm compared to the ominous darkness surrounding the bridge; and you can’t remember seeing an orange logo anywhere else. Typically… it was an off-white. A grim reminder of the sterile halls you had spent walking and dying in.

“Once you take the crystal, secure it inside the Crystal Container, and proceed forward. You can’t go back to where you were dropped off, as we need you to power the External Repellent battery first.”

What the hell does that mean? External Repellant battery? Your thoughts are cut short as HQ continues:

“It’ll allow our submarines to land at the docks in this sector, meaning less walking for you.” Ah. Okay— wait. Repelling what?

“Once the crystal is taken, the primary power systems will go offline, as well as our connection to the PA system.

It’ll take a bit for the backup generators to kick in properly, so you’ll be left in the dark for a while.”

You turn around, beginning to step down the stairs, HQ leaves you with a final sendoff:

“Good luck.”

Hhhhhhhokay. You reach the bottom of the steps to find… more steps. You descend those, and meet a heavy containment door, not unlike when you had encountered one of the four trenchbleeders prior. It doesn’t open, and you, stupidly, release that it’ll have to be you who opens the bulkhead. Rats. You grip one of the wheel-shaped handles, and push, it jerks in your hand, before both of the handles start to spin on their own, and the bulkhead groans as it rolls open. You walk inside, and sighing at the second bulkhead, before going oh. Right. The lever. You pull it, and the same thing happens: it groans and opens.

The walk through the bridge is eerie; for several terrifying seconds you hear and see an angler cross the bridge directly to your left, knocking out the lights and plunging the area further into darkness. The warm glow of the Hadal Division logo is your only solace as fear bubbles in your throat.

Opening the bulkhead doors once again, you see it: the crystal. It’s… not as grand as you’d expected it to be. It’s suspended above a chasm and is — surprisingly, not as guarded nor protected as you suspected. You wearily approach its current container, tilting your head left and right to get a better look at it. It hums quietly. It’s kind of pretty. How— oh. Yeah. The lever. Behind you.

You turn around, and pull the lever. You turn back around and the glass reels up with a hiss. You pull the crystal container off of the hook under your diving gear on your back, and hesitate for a moment, before reaching out and grabbing the crystal. Immediately you can feel your pulse in your hands, it is incredibly warm to the touch. Not burning, but almost comforting. You swear you can hear whispering. You tug. It doesn’t budge. You tug again, this time harder, and it moves.

You put all your weight into the third pull, and you finally wrench it out of where it was hovering. The lights immediately flicker heavily, before they all go out with a loud crack. An alarm blares from where the crystal was pulled.

It hums gently in your hand, and you can feel your fingertips start to tingle. Electricity dances in your nerves, making you twitch. For the first time in what feels like weeks, you’re not chilled to the bone. Comfortable. You don’t want to let it go you— fuck. Right. The crystal is in your left hand, the container in your right. You turn the top of the container and slide it open. Okay, how do you— the crystal rips itself out of your hand and snaps into the container. That’s one way to do it, you surmise.

You twist the top of the container and slide it shut. You look it for a moment, before terror washes over you. The lights are out. Your warning system is gone, so what do you do? You can’t stay, the bullet aimed at your throat is a sign to tread carefully; so it’s time to move on. You exit the containment area, and wander in a circle until you see a bright green light, and assume that it’s the correct passage to go through.

The first room requires a keycard, and you find it easily enough. Something shifts, slithering, somewhere nearby. You freeze. Anglers and its… variants hover. They don’t touch the ground. They wouldn’t make that noise. You freeze mid-step. You don’t hear anything else, so you move again to swipe the keycard to unlock the doors. They both slide open, and you take the right. You go to walk through the next one and — you hear it. An angler, smoke crawls at the edge of your vision. You book it for a nearby locker, and an angler screams past.

Okay… okay. So. You’re relying entirely on hearing them. You’ve played this game before; you’re not an expert but you can’t wallow now. Death is nipping at your heels.

. . .

The ridge SUCKS. it’s absolutely awful to navigate. Everything is against you right now, the flashing of the ridge lights because of the failing reserve generators has done nothing for you but make you disoriented. The oddly-shaped rooms and constant threat of anglers and —good god you hope you didn’t encounter it— pandemonium. A wall dweller had almost gotten the drop on you; eyefestation had been pestering you whenever she could the moment you stepped into the ridge.

You hadn’t a clue how many rooms you’d gone through now. You’d encountered a turret at one point, dodging it out of instinct before realizing you had no reason to do so. You still have it. His heart. P.AI.nter’s heart. Guilt pierces you. Paranoia gnaws at your fingertips. Something shifts behind you. You whip around, only for a moment before being forced into hiding again.

Green smoke rises in your peripherals. Chains drag along the ground, and the stench of the worst thing you’ve ever smelt and sulfur invades your senses; you hack and sputter. Your heart leaps to your throat, you feel like you’re choking and taking too much air all at once. You will yourself to move, to get to a locker. Your heartbeat screams in your ears. And at once, it’s over. You spit, forcing the taste out of your mouth.

Fuck, man, you just want this to end. You move through the next door, only to be blinded by a VERY bright light…stand? Wait. Holy shit. You’re met with two large doors, and you might’ve just cried. You think you’re at the end of the ridge. Hooooly shit. Finally!

You run up to the doors, heaving on one side and listening to the groan as they reel open. You step into the airlock. The lever is to your left, glowing green. You just need to pull that lever—

Something hammers against the adjacent bulkhead. You hadn’t flipped the lever why was— it happens again. You step forward, not curious but absolutely terrified. Something huge collided with the door once more; you’re now standing in the middle of the airlock. The emergency lights turn on. Everything goes silent.

Claws wedge themselves between the doors, the metal groans and buckles; the bulkhead gives way, screeching against the floor as it is wrenched opened. A light flickers on. Your world falls. It’s Sebastian.

It’s only a moment before his head snaps up, directly at you.

“YOU!” He roars, esca flickering. You scream, turn around, and bolt.

You don’t make it for before your right foot skids on the metal, wedging itself into the floor and making you fall face-first into the ground. You scramble to stand, before a clawed hand grips your neck.

You’re hoisted up quickly by Sebastian, up to eye-level. Something falls out of the satchel on your hip, he looks down for a mere second before an unidentifiable emotion crosses his face. You— you still had P.Ai.nters heart. He thinks you’re the one who-

“You could’ve had everything you ever wanted,” he says, rubbing his eyes and shaking his head. “Everything I ever wanted.”

The talon around your throat constricts your breathing. You claw at his hand; you can feel the tension rising in your skull from the pressure on your esophagus.

“And you still went out of your way to take everything I had left in the process.” You can feel the seething rage emanating from him.

“You. Entitled. Brat.” Your throat is squeezed every word. It’s becoming impossible to breathe in, and you can barely breathe out.

You choke out a “I didn’t—“ before you’re immediately cut off, gagging on the blood that was coating your mouth. You must’ve bitten your tongue on the fall.

“You expect me sit idly by and keep smiling, as if nothing ever happened?” The vigorous shaking and lack of oxygen paints black in your peripherals. Your hands dig weakly at his, still attempting to make him release you. You know it’s futile.

“Oh, I’m smiling alright,” he hisses, the sclera in his eyes flicker out, leaving three pin-prick pupils. If you weren’t focused on your own breathing, more panic would’ve seized you. Pain roars through your throat and head, and you can feel your pulse in your hands and feet. “GRINNING from ear. to. ear.” A dangerous smile crosses his face. “and don’t even start with that ‘following orders’ shlock,” the room spins more. His sclera flickers back on, and an unreadable expression crosses his face again. You can only let out pained, choking coughs and wheezes.

“You knew what you were doing all too well.” His eyes scan your terror-stricken face for a moment. “Sure took your sweet time. Enjoyed every last second of it?”

He pauses. A horrifyingly calm smile crawls across his face. “Good.” He chuckles. You can’t tell if it’s fear or blood bubbling up your throat. You’ve given up fighting him. “EXCELLENT, even!”

“I’ll merely return the favor. And you BET,” his hand crunches your esophagus. Warm liquid fills your mouth, down your chin. You can smell the iron. You start to hear your heartbeat again. “I’ll be enjoying every last moment,” you watch, weakly, as his hand reels back.

“Of THIS.” his arm lurches forward, straight through your chest. The world slows down. You watch as his claws pierce your skin, tear their way through your muscle, shatter your ribs, and feel as he wraps them around your quivering heart. You could feel the tips of his talons scrape against the muscles in your back, mangling your innards further.

The world speeds up again and he jerks his arm back, pulling your heart out of your chest. You should’ve instantly died. You should be dead. Why aren’t you dead? Why are you still conscious? Your mind isn’t registering the pain. It can’t. The air pricks at the gaping wound in your chest as Sebastian releases his hold on your throat, dropping you onto the ground. You don’t feel it. You feel… warm and nothing at all.

You’re left on your back, gazing up at Sebastian. P.AI.nter’s heart is lying by your head, and yours is in Sebastian’s hand. He goes quiet. His eyes flit to your heart, and back to your collapsed form on the ground. Blood pools around your body. He sharply inhales,

“THE BEST PART?!?” He waves his hands, you watch with glazed eyes as your heart beats in his hand. “I get to do this,” he leans close to the ground, putting his third hand onto the ground for support. His other hand, the one holding your heart, rests tauntingly close to the cavity punched through your chest.

“over,

and over,

Again.

You’ll come back,

I’ll know, and I’ll be waiting…” You can’t move. None of your body responds. Moving your eyes feels like holding the weight of the world.

“You have no one to blame but yourself. You’re in a hell of your own making..” he jeers.

“And you’re

NEVER” his heart-filled hand reels back again.

“GETTING OUT!” His body lurches forward, smashing his hand, heart in tow, into the metal plating. Your heart explodes on impact with a wet squelch; your blood soaks both of your faces, the wall, and the floor. Your head bumps against it as you watch your heart explode against the ground. Oh. Okay.

Sebastian goes quiet. He’s no longer staring at you, but at the floor. His ear fins twitch, his pupils pinpricks, and he starts listening, picking his head up. You try and strain your ears too, and you also hear something, humming and quiet. Music. You don’t know what it is. He seems to know.

His head drops again, and he claws the floor, talons ripping the metal like he ran a knife over paper. He slams his fist against the ground, and snarls.

“WHAT!!!”

“WHAT IS IT THIS TIME!?!?” There’s a second-long pause before Sebastian is eviscerated. His agonized scream echoes through the airlock, glitching and fading away with his breath. The evisceration leaves a shadow of bright green, clear that his final moments were him attempting to shield himself from the mysterious benefactor, tearing through the air and fizzling away. If you still had your heart, you think, it’d probably be roaring in your ears. It’s the last thing you think before your body finally gives out, and your head collapses against the floor. Your vision cuts.

HE WILL FORGET. THEY WILL ALL FORGET.

YOU SERVE A PURPOSE GREATER THAN YOU REALIZE.

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