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

[Psychic_Sandwich]

In this case, curiosity appears to have turned the cat into a hideous, bloodthirsty, regenerating monster from the deepest pits of hell.

[EdBecerra]

Does nobody remember Curosity killed the cat?

If more people remembered that, less progress would be made. Whether that's good or bad depends on how many lives you're willing to pay to make that progress.

Victor von Frankenstein would be proud. So would Josef Mengele.

Ed.

[drklord]

I have been lurking in the shadows of this thread for a while now, and its is a great story, my only regret is that I did not get to read the first part of this story, which from the comments I have seen was nothing short or incredible...

On the subject of the "cat" and "curiosity"...please remember that curiosity did not just kill the cat... it stomped the shit our of it and then set fire to the remains...

[xt828]

I've been read this story in one sitting today, and I have to say that it's one of the most entertaining that I've read in quite a while. Keep up the good work. It's always nice to read a story that eschews main character immortality.

[Bladed_Crescent]

What the hell were they doing on DROP 47, reality shifting?

Nope. What they were studying was [deleted].

No, this is background, and that is Shannon's grandfather, working with the Children.

And they're such precocious little scamps!

The real question is "What are the Obelisks" and "What is the Umbra"?

Very good questions indeed.

At some signal, floodlights around the lip of the crater were switched on, and the bright earthlight was obliterated by a far more brilliant glare. In the lunar vacuum the beams were, of course, completely invisible; they formed overlapping ellipses of blinding white, centered on the monolith. And where they touched it, its ebon surface seemed to swallow them.

Pandora's box, thought Floyd, with a sudden sense of foreboding - waiting to be opened by inquisitive Man. And what will he find inside?

[picks up toy communicator]

[flips it open]

[takes deep breath]

CLARKE! CLAAAAAAAAAAAAARKE!

Heh; a bit more seriously, I've never read A Space Odyssey; the only thing of Clarke's I've read has been Childhood's End (unless it was he and not Asimov that wrote the short story about planet orbiting the trinary star system experiencing its first night during the first triple-sunset in centuries). Oh, and the story that had a religious astronaut realizing that the Star of Bethlehem was actually a nova that wiped out a peaceful, prosperous civilization. I think that one was Clarke, too.

So in my defence, any similarity between those passages is simple coincidence - and proof that great minds think alike.

[pauses, realizes that I've just compared myself to Arthur Clarke]

[hears a distant baying]

[looks out window to see the gleam of torches and pitchforks and the chants of the approaching mob]

Uhm... Ihavetogonow.

[flees]

In this case, curiosity appears to have turned the cat into a hideous, bloodthirsty, regenerating monster from the deepest pits of hell.

Heeeeere kitty kitty kitty.

Victor von Frankenstein would be proud. So would Josef Mengele.

Look, if they didn't want the Empire to violate the laws of man, nature and God, then the Coalition should have just bent over and taken their medicine like good little future conquests.

I have been lurking in the shadows of this thread for a while now, and its is a great story, my only regret is that I did not get to read the first part of this story, which from the comments I have seen was nothing short or incredible...

Glad you're enjoying it, though I'm not sure what you're referring to; the story starts at the beginning of the thread, so there's no 'first part' to miss out on.

I've been read this story in one sitting today, and I have to say that it's one of the most entertaining that I've read in quite a while. Keep up the good work. It's always nice to read a story that eschews main character immortality.

[/quote]

Thanks! I hope to be able to keep it entertaining. I do have plans, oh yes... such plans... ah heh heh heh heh...

As to main character immortality: I usually* don't kill off my mains, but that just means that they suffer more than the others do.

*though I occasionally get the urge to kill them just for spite. I've been tempted to off everyone at least once.

-Abigail's had at least 4 different death scenes
-Louis has had 3
-Emily's gotten 3
-Ramone's had 2
-Shannon's gotten 2 as well
-Calvin, Jane and Armin have come up as well...

Note that this does not mean that those characters are inevitably going to die (nor does more death scenarios mean a character is more likely to die than those with fewer), just that I've thought up different ways to write them out if it tickles my fancy.

[drklord]

I meant Children of Heaven. While not connected to this particular story it was my understanding that its sort of the ground work for the universe you created.

[Darth Nostril]

Didn't I say that was what he meant? In vino veritas and all that.

Anyways completely seperate storyverse mate, nothing to do with this one at all.

[drklord]

I stand corrected then...but still I want to read more. The universe he is building here is deep and has so much potential. I dare say even Asimov like.

[Bladed_Crescent]

There's a Dragon Age reference in here for those who've played it. If you haven't, then I guess my plagiarism Tarantinoesque homage will pass un-noticed.

Shannon's self-discovery may be a bit delayed, but that doesn't mean other people aren't learning lots of useful information. And the Cowardly Lion meets up with the Tin Man. All that's left is a Scarecrow, a girl and a dog.

Coming up: And you thought your HMO was bad...

Chapter 25:

As the grav field relented, the feral horde swarmed over the survivors, stripping them of their weapons and hauling them roughly to their feet. The man in St. Cloud’s gear marched up and down in front of them like an officer inspecting his troops. It took several of the feral men and women to hold Abigail back from lunging at him, and only then just barely. A torrent of Darkknell curses spilled from her lips for several moments before she managed to control herself. “You’re a dead man,” she hissed, vicious and quiet. It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t a boast or impotent imprecation borne of fear. It was a promise. That no matter what happened or how long it took, Abigail would find a way to make his life end in her hands.

“Aren’t we all?” Dead Man asked, unmoved by Abigail’s anger. He looked up and down at the prisoners, cocking his head towards Louis. “Some more than others.” He strode towards Hernandez and Shannon narrowed her eyes, watching him. The feral’s movement wasn’t the predatory gait that Shannon associated with Abigail, nor the confident swagger of her mercenary companions. It was an imitation of them, one hobbled by repeated injury and illness. “Left like presents, squirming on the ground.” He looked into the shadows on the ceiling. “Are you watching, coward? Is this a gift, something to make us forgive and forget?” He spat on the ground. “Never.”

Dead Man turned his attention back to Louis, grabbing the man’s chin and turning his head this way and that, examining the mercenary’s sallow skin. “Aren’t we all dead?” he repeated, then answered his own question. “Yes. But some more than others,” he repeated. His stolen helmet snapped back to Shannon and Abigail, his tone suddenly vicious. “Strip them. Let’s see a worm’s face.”

Hands fastened around her helmet and pulled it off, a puff of steam escaping into the station’s cold, dry atmosphere. Shannon braced herself for tugs at her cuirass and armour, but the ferals stopped at removing her and Abigail’s helmets. Dead Man strode up to them, eyeing each of them up and down in turn. “Interesting. Unexpected. Healthy. Strong. Very good... for worms.” He froze in front of Abigail, her sweat-slicked locks of dark blonde hair pasted to her scalp and cheeks, her blue-grey eyes full of hate. The woman’s expression was utterly blank save for the touch of an unconscious, adrenalin-fuelled smile pulling on her lips.

Shannon recognized that expression, it was that look, the one that the Darkknell wore as she couldn’t – or wouldn’t – reign in the brutal, ugly Darkknell part of her. “You’re going to die,” she said to the feral. “I don’t care what made you this way. I don’t care what it’s like to live in this place.” That awful, predatory grin widened. It wasn’t a conscious reaction. “I’m going to hurt you,” she promised.

He slapped her, the flat of his hand coming down on her bandaged throat. Abigail hissed with pain and Dead Man grabbed her by the chin. “You’re already hurt, little worm. Did one of your brothers do this? Someone who felt Acheron’s call? Or was it one of the blessed dead? Were you kissed by one of the turned?” His hand tightened on her jaw, meeting her eyes through the broken visor. “You’ll hurt nothing. You’ll kill nothing. You are a thief and trespasser and you – all of you – will know your place.” He let her go, raising his voice. “This is Acheron! None of you understand. You’re heard the screams. You’ve felt the whispers. You’ve read the words, but none of you know what it is like. You will, though. None of your friends will survive. No rescue will make it here alive. The eyes in the dark are watching. They saw you when you blundered into their domain. We see you now.” His gaze shifted over to Shannon.

“And you. Another little worm. The clever one. The quiet one.” He reached out and brushed the young woman’s own wet, red forelocks back over her scalp. Shannon recoiled from his touch, but the masked figures behind her held her and kept her from pulling away entirely. “What do you say?” the feral man asked. “What have you learned about Acheron?”

“I know you need help,” Shannon began. “A rescue ship is coming for us. When it gets here, it can take everyone. You can come with us, you can leave-”

Dead Man backhanded Shannon, hard enough to snap her head to one side. “Weren’t you listening?!” His outraged scream drowned out even Abigail’s furious snarl as she fought the men holding her, nearly wrestling her way free.

The leader paid his compatriots no attention as they struggled to keep the enraged Darkknell in check; instead he grabbed a fistful of dark red hair and painfully yanked Shannon’s head up to face him. Blood dribbled down her split lip, a dark bruise already forming on her cheek. “Don’t you understand?!” he snarled, his tone fluctuating between incredulous pity and apoplectic fury, as if he was unable to decide whether to be angry at her defiance, or pitying of her lack of understanding. “No one gets off 47, little worm! They won’t let you! This place is your home now!” he ranted. “Tell me, clever worm – what do you have to say about that?”

She tried to put up a brave, stoic face against the man’s abuse and insults, tried to stare him down as Abigail did, but she couldn’t. She just couldn’t and her lower lip quivered. With an effort, she managed to still it. “I say,” Shannon said carefully, keeping the quaver out of her voice. “That Abby’s right.” She braced herself, expecting the feral to strike her again, and his hand clutched her hair tighter, but the blow never came.

Instead he laughed and let go of her. Carefully, he raised up St. Cloud’s helmet, exposing his mouth. His teeth weren’t rotten, but neither were they perfectly clean. His lips were scarred with self-mutilation. The corners of his mouth had been cut back up into a smile and though the scars hadn’t healed evenly, they still made it seem as if he were always grinning, making the smile he wore now even more grotesque. The feral soldier touched the tip of one armoured finger to Shannon’s lips, the other hand holding his helmet up. “Shhh,” he whispered. “Don’t talk. It spoils the moment.” His tongue ran over his scarred lips and he leaned in, licking her face from cheek to temple, the young woman shivering in disgust.

Dead Man ran his tongue over his scarred lips, as if savouring the taste of the young woman’s sweat. He lowered St. Cloud’s helmet, still staring into Shannon’s eyes. “He was right,” he pronounced. “You will do nicely.”

~

Armin panted, leaning against a bulkhead for support as he wiped the sweat from his brow. The tram station was only just ahead – it felt like he’d been running for hours and he just couldn’t keep going. He was an engineering petty officer, not one of the mudfeet mercs. He couldn’t run on nothing but adrenalin and combat drugs. Five minutes. That was all he needed. Just five minutes of peace, then he could keep going.

It was quiet here. Almost quiet. He could still hear the hunting calls of those monstrous, shambling things. Like birds or wild animals whistling in the distance. There would be the occasional muted gunshot or faded scream. He thought he’d escaped from the stalkers, though. He prayed he had. He expected every shadow to hold one of them, every corridor to have one standing there, waiting for him. The bullet in the back, the feel of a knife at his throat, that awful voice as the last thing you ever heard. Not me. Please, not me. Not like that.

The radio was working. Not well, but he’d heard the Halo girl over it. He thought it was her, anyways. He also thought she’d been saying for other survivors to make their way to the third tram station. Well, he’d been on his way to the second anyways, so that-

Oh.

There, laying in the hall, was the ruined corpse of one of Eta’s heavy troopers.

~

Jane Godfrey knelt in the corridor, hunched down like a crouching ogre. With her left hand, she touched her fingers to the trail of blood and slime, drips and drops that had splattered to the deck, others in the imprint of heavy booted feet. She smeared the mixture of body fluids and industrial waste between her thumb and forefinger. He came this way, she mused. Killing as he went.

Meyers was learning, then. She grinned beneath her helmet. Calvin hadn’t learned enough, though. Her heard came up as she heard something call out in the distance, freezing as she tried to discern what something had made it. It called out again, more warbling, like a bird. Only Turned. She relaxed slightly. Only slightly, though. Before Shelby had quarantined the ship, Primal had broken into DROP 47’s half-functional surveillance grid. Most of the cams were long since destroyed by age or damage, but a few still worked, here and there. She’d seen feral hunting parties, been tortured by the mirage of the oases, and watched in horror at what awoke whenever DROP 47 entertained guests.

The eyes were watching, staring from every shadow. She just had to hope they didn’t see her. Not before she completed her mission. She was too much of a realist to hope for anything more than that.

Not here, not in Acheron.

~

It had once been a woman. Armin couldn’t tell any more than that, though. And frankly, he was none too sure about even that. The corpse was utterly ruined, massacred by several different types of weapons. Three holes, each the size of his fist, had been punched in the Eta trooper’s breastplate, which was molten and charred around the edges. Lutzberg swallowed; he knew – he thought he knew – what had caused that. Petty Officer Jacob Crane was... had been... one of Kerrigan’s armoury ratings, and Lutzberg’s good friend. On more than one of their frequent lunches together, Jacob had gone on and on about Imperial weapons technology, practically salivating at the thought of what might be left on DROP 47. He’d droned on and on about Imperial technology until Armin had wanted to reach across the table and slap him.

But it had given him a basic understanding of Imperial weapons technology.

Lutzberg touched a shaking finger to one of the holes in the trooper’s cuirass. They were still warm, warmer than the woman’s fading body heat could account for. Something had burned through the armour, superheating the water in the trooper’s body; that coupled with the thermal shock of having her tissues raised hundreds of degrees in an instant had been what had killed her. One would have been sufficient, but three... fired rapidly, clustered together in a single, accurate burst.

A laser hadn’t done this. This had come from a plasma weapon. A controlled plasma pulse. The Imperium had experimented with that technology, but had never found a way to make it efficient and practical. There were cheaper alternatives. Plasma weapons had remained a dead-end technology for the past six hundred years, little more than unpredictable, dangerous and esoteric analogs to flamethrowers.

Until someone on DROP 47 had used them.

That was the killing blow, but the trooper had fought long and hard until then. Her right arm – and the heavy rifle attached to it – had been severed at the elbow, sheared through by what looked like a disruptor and her legs were mangled, twisted into an abstract painting. Armin felt his gorge rise. Just like Jackson. Just... ripped apart. Armour, bone, muscles – just came right apart. God. God! Who can do this? This isn’t possible! She’d fought; they’d taken her arm. She’d run; they’d taken her legs. She’d lay here, unable to fight or flee and they’d taken her life.

And above her, as it had been in the first tram station, was a message: WE ARE WATCHING.

Shaking in terror, Armin stood up. If they’d made it this far, then he wasn’t safe. He had to keep moving. Get to the tram station, find someone else. Anyone else. It didn’t matter who, just as long as they were alive. That’s all he was hoping for.

God, please. That’s all I ask.

The petty officer froze, ears straining. No... that was impossible. His mind was just playing tricks on him. There was no way... no. It was insane.

He thought he could hear someone singing.

And then a hand clamped around his mouth.

“Ssshh,” a voice whispered in Armin’s ear, cutting off his muffled scream. “It’s all right. I’m a friend – I’m from Kerrigan. My name’s Mack Bujold. I was corporate security for Hadley-Wright. You remember that?”

With one of the stranger’s hands around his throat and the other still clapped tight over his mouth, Lutzberg could only nod in response. Despite hiring Artemis, Hadley-Wright had sent along a small handful of their own security personnel, officially to police any problems within the expedition team, but there’d been a lot of friction between the mercenaries and the corper security unit, each considering the other as, respectively, ‘a collection of inbred trigger-happy thugs’ and ‘overweight, useless oligarchs’ bastard sons needing to be stashed someplace safe’.

“Good. You’re ship’s crew from the frigate, right? Some technical specialist sent off with the scientists?”

Armin nodded again. The singing was getting louder, the words more clear. He wasn’t imagining it?

“Okay. I’m going to take my hands away now, but you can’t scream. And you have to keep your voice down or she’ll hear you. Can you do that?” Bujold’s voice was controlled and level, like a man trying to calm a frightened child or animal.

The petty officer nodded a third time.

“Okay then,” the security man repeated. “I’m going to let go now.”

He released the petty officer, who stepped back, turning to face the other man. He recognized Bujold, but only as someone he’d run across in the halls now and then; they’d never said more than ‘hi’ to each other before now. The security officer was covered in blood, though it didn’t seem to be his, his face was somewhat clear, as if he’d used his hands to try and wipe the gore away and only partially succeeded. His eyebrows and hair were clumped and sticky with drying blood. “What do you mean ‘she’?” Armin whispered back. “You hear it, too?”

Mack nodded. “Yeah. She’s getting closer, too. We have to go.”

“What’s coming closer? What is it?

“Listen,” the security man hissed. “Be quiet and listen. That’ll tell you everything. Or at least enough.”

Armin remained silent for several moments; Bujold was right – whoever was singing was coming closer, close enough that he could now make out the words to the song. It was a lyrical, foul little nursery rhyme.

“Day one, they come and kill everyone.
Day two, it’s quiet and now there’s just you.
Day three, and you know you’ll never be free.
Day four, and you eat even though you’ll crave more.
Day five, and you’re glad to just be alive.
Day six, and you’re lost, trapped in the Styx.
Day seven, and you know you’ll never see heaven.
Day eight, and what’s left is hunger and hate.
Day nine, and you swear that you feel fine.
Day ten, and it starts over again.”

Lutzberg swallowed. Whoever was singing that didn’t sound like anyone he wanted to meet. The only saving grace was that the singer didn’t sound like one of them. “I was headed to the tram station,” he said softly, eyes darting up and down the hall, trying to localize the song’s source, but the uncertain echoes made it impossible to know where it was coming from.

Bujold nodded. “Let’s go, then. No point staying here.”

Armin shook his head, averting his eyes from what was left of the mercenary. “I guess not.” The two men hurried off.

Moments later, a figure wandered across the mouth of the corridor, drawn by the scent of blood and burned flesh.

“Day four, and you eat even though you’ll crave more.”
Spoiler

[Night_stalker]

What did the protagonists do, break a bunch of mirrors then walk under a ton of ladders or something?

[The Vortex Empire]

Things don't look good for them. They'll do nicely for what?

Decompressed sections aren't always okay? So the DROP even has monsters that can survive a vacuum?

[Night_stalker]

Good god. Nobody is going to make it off the station.

[Bladed_Crescent]

What did the protagonists do, break a bunch of mirrors then walk under a ton of ladders or something?

Well, Abigail did once flip off a bunch of kittens. And Louis once punched a baby in anger. But the baby was being kind of a dick.

Good god. Nobody is going to make it off the station.

Don't be so negative. Lots of people have made it off the station.

Things don't look good for them. They'll do nicely for what?

What, indeed...?

Tum te tum te tum...

Decompressed sections aren't always okay? So the DROP even has monsters that can survive a vacuum?

Spoiler

Well, when reading that you have to bear in mind several things:

1. the person who said that might not be firing on all cylinders and might even be lying
2. they could be referring to something someone else told them, or something they think they saw
3. that they might not be referring to the fleshy enemies and not the ones with guns (remember, even Shannon and Abigail's un-powered gear can be used for EVA - I'm sure at least one poor bastard didn't think his plan through when he tried to hide out in a decompressed section, only to watch in horror as the door cycled open...)
4. that if it does refer to the "hunters", surviving exposure to vaccum isn't all that weird; ordinary people can do so for a couple minutes. A very unpleasant couple minutes, but still. If we had a hypothetical hunter with a protective barrier over its eyes (or some other sensory organs, since smell and hearing would be no-goes) to prevent drying, a waxy cuticle (like you find in insects) to prevent water loss and control exposure to the elements and was able to store oxygen (seals, turtles, etc), it's not that far-fetched. Just by itself, nature is pretty damn weird.

[Ugolino]

From the looks of the messages, they don't seem to miss the internet much...

[Bladed_Crescent]

And the chat rooms on DROP 47 are just murder.

[Darth Nostril]

Things don't look good for them. They'll do nicely for what?

Interesting guests at the DROP 47 summer barbecue?

[Night_stalker]

Yeah, well at least the ferals are humanitarians...

Nobody is leaving the station wihtout either mental or physcial scarring. Some lucky ones may even have both!

[LadyTevar]

That little poem freaked the hell out of me when Hannah(?) was sing-songing it. Congrats on a chilling new version.

[xt828]

So the song is a reference to the song that your Dwarf party-member's wife's lover sings when you're near the end of the Dwarf sections, right? About what happens when they're taken by the enemy and turned into birthing factories.

Is the feral's leader's face a reference to the Heath Ledger Joker - the scar-smile?

Good stuff.

[Bladed_Crescent]

Interesting guests at the DROP 47 summer barbecue?

"The dingo ate my baby!"

"That's no dingo..."

Yeah, well at least the ferals are humanitarians...

I don't know what your definition of "humanitarian" is, but if you consider the Masks' actions to be applicable, it's a very scary definition.

That little poem freaked the hell out of me when Hannah(?) was sing-songing it. Congrats on a chilling new version.

Thank you.

I think you mean Hespith. And I found it eerie myself. I also tell myself that the line "...as in her mouth they spew" refers to the darkspawn vomiting their tainted blood and making her drink it.

I tell myself that because the other explanation is so much worse...

(For those of you who are interested, the poem that inspired mine can be found here)

So the song is a reference to the song that your Dwarf party-member's wife's lover sings when you're near the end of the Dwarf sections, right?

Yep.

Is the feral's leader's face a reference to the Heath Ledger Joker - the scar-smile?

Not intentionally. I'd written it, then remembered The Dark Knight. I was tempted to change it after that, but said 'screw it' and decided to leave it in anyways. It's his way of keeping a positive outlook on things - he's always smiling! ...yeah. Welcome to Acheron, where even "Don't worry; be happy!" has it's own horrible twist.

Thanks as well.

Next chapter will be up shortly.

[Themightytom]

Yeah, well at least the ferals are humanitarians...

I don't know what your definition of "humanitarian" is, but if you consider the Masks' actions to be applicable, it's a very scary definition.

I think he means the ferals are humanitarians in much the same way people who eat vegetables are vegetarians.

[Bladed_Crescent]

I think he means the ferals are humanitarians in much the same way people who eat vegetables are vegetarians.

"I know an island where they serve the most delicious long pork..."

And in this chapter: The Fourth Day (Lady Tevar and xt88 know what this means; the rest of you'll have to remain confused or check out the link above)

Coming up: STEINMAN KILLS. That, and days 5, 6 and 9.

Chapter 26:

They were marched back to the ferals’ camp. Habitat. Colony. Whatever it was, it was required a march back up through the main service tunnels that ran parallel to the main tram line. They’d doubled back through the engineering decks first – apparently, whoever the ‘coward’ was, the feral soliders? hunters? didn’t want to push their luck with him. With good reason if he had control over the environmental systems. The survivors’ hands were bound behind their backs and they were prodded onwards by staves and gun barrels. Shannon was in the lead, and only her repeated hand signals to Abigail to stay calm kept the other woman from trying to lunge at their captors and be beaten down or killed for her troubles.

Abigail had told her what it was like growing up on Darkknell. Not everything, not the worst of the things she’d done or been forced to do just to survive. But enough that Shannon understood what this had to be like for Abby. To lose, to be captured and marched off like some prize... no. She didn’t want to think about that. Not when she had other things to focus on.

Shannon’s mind was racing as she memorized the layout of the halls and the route they took towards their encampment – Abigail and Louis would be doing the same, but she was also listening to the ferals’ chatter. The ferals spoke amongst each other in Standard, but a mutated dialect of it – words were borrowed from other languages, abbreviated, pronounced differently or twisted in meaning. They obviously knew enough to talk to her; the Speaker and Dead Man both spoke Standard quite well, but knowing the ins and outs of their own private dialect could be helpful. She was picking out individuals, watching how they moved, the weapons they carried. Every so often, she would sign back to Abigail, in the hope that she'd picked up on something that the more experienced mercenary hadn't.

Gas mask – brown coat – rifle – weak right leg.

Her mind was also on the whispered, urgent voice in ear when she and the others had been caught in the grav-trap. It hadn’t come through on an open channel; it had been on an Artemis frequency. Only a ‘general chatter’ band, but it was still encoded. Whoever had used it had had experience with Artemis encryption – obviously, from Primal (he didn’t want anyone else to hear, wanted you to know that he could do that). He’d been cogent, almost desperate in his plea. I don’t want to kill you. But you have to stop. He’d turned them over to the masked ferals, but (Is this a gift? Something to make us forgive and forget?) wasn’t their ally. Another player. Another agenda. He wants something from us.

Shannon bit her lip, twisting her wrists back and forth, trying to find a loose spot in the chains. She was tired of being chased, tired of only reacting. We’ll get out of this. Somehow. She had to believe that. She wanted to.

As a small benefit, the ferals seemed fine with leaving her, Abigail and Louis in their armour, but that hadn’t stopped them from tying the mercenaries’ hands behind their backs quite securely. Now they were being led off towards God knew what fate. Shannon remembered what the Speaker and Dead Man had said to the ‘worms’ and nothing in either man’s words gave the woman a sense of optimism. She could think of several unpleasant meanings behind their praise. Her hands continued to work at the looped chain, testing it for weaknesses. There weren’t any.

Shannon tried to catch a glimpse of Emily – she and Ramone were behind the three mercenaries and ‘safely’ out of their reach. Bargaining chips in case one of the soldiers got free. Another problem demanding part of her attention, another problem that have a solution. Not yet.

“You called them the turned,” she said aloud.

One of the nearest ferals – a man in a rebreather mask with the clear faceplate painted over, save for a strip to see through – growled, muttering something under his breath. Shannon ignored him and raised her voice. “You called them the turned,” she said again, speaking to Dead Man. “The monsters – that’s what you’re talking about?” He paid no attention to her question, but Hayes persisted. “You said we didn’t understand. How can we if you don’t tell us?”

He paused, letting the procession move by him as he mulled his answer. “Impertinent little worm,” the party’s leader said as he faced Shannon.

“But a clever one,” she replied.

“That’s true.” He backhanded her again. The force of the blow and its suddenness toppled the young woman. He was stronger than he looked.

Shannon heard the intake of Abby’s breath; she caught the other woman’s eyes and shook her head marginally. No. Dead Man crouched beside Shannon, gesturing for a pair of his horde – a man in a filthy bellaclava and a woman in a gas mask missing its filter system – to pull her back to her feet. He looked up at her for a moment before he stood again, running a finger gently over the new bruise on her face. “That was for being impertinent,” he said. “But the worm does have a point.”

“There’s some kind of contagion,” Shannon said. “Not just the Mists. Some infection that got loose. It’s a recombinator, isn’t it?” The different body forms and abilities – it was possible that it was simply polymorphic variation, but...

“It takes pieces,” Dead Man answered, confirming her fears. “And puts them back together. And afterwards, you’re not what you were.”

Shannon bit her lip, thinking. ‘Recombinator’ was a broad term applied to anything that took disparate genetic material to create a new organism. There were multiple forms of recombinant reproduction. Off the top of her head, she could think of at least three and those were just from Earth-stock organisms. “Where did it come from?” she pressed. “Was it something the Imperials were working on, or did one of the other ships bring it here?”

“It’s always been here,” the feral replied as he turned away, done with humouring his captive.

“Wait,” Shannon called. “One more thing. What did you do to St. Cloud? The man whose armour you’re wearing. Is he still alive?”

“Only when useful,” Dead Man said without looking back. “Something to remember, worm.”

~

Something screamed in the darkness; the sound high-pitched, warbling and getting closer. “Anytime,” Bujold whispered urgently to his companion as Lutzberg tried to seal the tram station’s doors. They’d been forced open recently and were taking their mistreatment out on the two men by refusing to shut again.

Armin’s pants had a new stain as he knelt in a tacky, almost-dried pool of dark blood. “Working as fast as I can,” he muttered back. Ah, there; the door hadn’t just been pushed open – that would have been too easy, wouldn’t it? – it had been thrust open so forcibly that it had been jarred off its tracks. Just by itself, the door weighed almost two hundred pounds and its gears had been monkeyed with, making it a very abrupt, very lethal mechanism. It also meant that whatever had flung it open hard enough to damage it had been very angry, very strong, very determined and certainly not anything that either man wanted to meet.

“Help me push it back onto the rails – that should be all we need.”

“That’s it? I thought it’d be more... complicated.”

“What, you want me to whip out a sonic screwdriver for a quantum degaussing of the local tachyon bubbles? It’s a fucking door.” Armin was grateful for the question; it let him cling to some shards of normalcy, let him vent. At the moment, it was all he had. If it kept his mind off the things lurking in the hallways, strange songs and hunting cries, he would take it. “As far as I can tell, we get it back on the tracks and it’ll either snap shut, or we can use the panel to do it. Shouldn’t be too difficult. Here, give me a hand.”

It took several tries, but between the two of them, Lutzberg and Bujold were able to force the security door clicked back onto its track. The petty officer hit the control panel, letting the door crash shut once more. He looked up and Mack gave him an approving nod. “Now what?”

Lutzberg sauntered over to the steps leading to the control booth and sat down on them, feeling the unpleasant squish of various liquids against his legs and cheeks. “We wait,” he said. “And hope that someone else makes it here, too.”

~

As they’d approached the feral enclave – it had once been a multi-level storage facility – Shannon had, at first, noticed more warnings on the walls. Amanda’s knife symbol. As they’d gotten closer, those pictographs had either been scrapped off, painted over or covered with debris. Clearly, they don’t like their reputation. Here and there, the knives had been repainted with crude versions of light bulbs. Counter-propaganda? No, we’re really good! That suggested that they actually cared about such things; why? To lure in other visitors? Or was it simply because no one ever thought that they were the bad guys?

No matter what they’ve done, or what they’ll do, Shannon mused darkly as their ‘escorts’ pushed them a little more insistently, the men and women tightening their grips on their weapons and looking about with increased frequency, urging their captives on.

The doors into the feral enclave were barricaded, with crates and wires strung up to create a handful of empty defensive positions. There were no sentries outside – presumably those would only draw attention that the inhabitants wanted to avoid. Dead Man marched up to the sealed aperture and pounded his fist on it rhythmically. There was a pause and then a mechanical chunk sound as the doors ground open.

Out of the opening came a waft of warm air and Shannon’s nose twitched as the odours of dozens – hundreds – of humans forced to live in a comparatively cramped space assaulted her. Figures dressed in form-concealing rags – guards? – met the hunting party, ugly rifles clutched in their arms, each robed sentry’s breath wheezing softly, stirring the tattered ends of their face-covering hoods.

“Alive,” the first guard said as Dead Man passed by it. “Not turning.” It repeated the comment as another feral moved past.

Shannon was pushed towards the second guard, the figure tilting its hood of patchwork cloth towards her and warm breath blew over her face, humid and foul. Beneath that malignant odour, Shannon could smell something else. Acrid and chemical, like alcohol, but not quite. She remembered that odour, had had it spewed into her face as she’d fought with the monstrous... ‘turned’ in the hall as its fangs slid over her helmet, its reeking breath overwhelming her air filter. They’re infected. These people... these things here... whatever’s loose in the station, whatever got into Primal... they have it, too. And they keep them around. God. God, what is this place?

“Alive,” her inspector pronounced. “Not turning.”

She was given a harsh shove to move along, but resisted, turning to look back at her comrades. Abigail had been bitten by one of those creatures, Louis by that woman.... No. No, God. “Alive,” the first sentry announced.

“Much obliged,” the Darkknell replied, spitting into the shrouded figure’s face. The infected man? woman? didn’t react, but the members of the hunting party around it did, some squawking in incredulous anger before they threw Abigail to the deck, kicking at her and shouting loud enough that Shannon couldn’t hear Louis’ verdict. She made an abortive lunge to help her friend, but someone grabbed her and pulled her back. Shannon wanted to scream in frustration, unable to help Abigail, unable to stop part of herself from being mad at her ‘big sister’ for choosing that moment to piss off the natives. You couldn’t have waited ten seconds, Abby?

A gunshot crashed painfully close to her ear and Shannon flinched. The men and women attacking Abigail cringed as Dead Man strode back into the fray, lowering Louis’ shotgun. “Enough,” the leader growled. “Not your decision, is it?”

None of them met his eyes, a couple the ferals pulling the mercenary back to her feet, none the worse for wear – most of their fury had been wasted on her cuirass and armoured legs. “Thought not,” Dead Man answered. “Come on then.”

~

As they were led through the makeshift habitat, a crowd gathered to stare at the procession, naked-faced children staring like wild animals, men and women watching from behind rebreathers, helmets and theater masks. There wasn’t much to differentiate one person from another, but Shannon noticed little details – those with more ornate or fanciful masks tended to have better clothes. Some even had jewelry and others deferred to them in speech and body language. Flames crackled out of makeshift fire pits, used for warmth or to roast food. A young boy turned a spitted, skinned rat over a small fire as what seemed to be his sister rested her head on his lap, both children watching the hunters and their captives cautiously.

A pregnant woman in a Bandui death-mask (and where did she get that?) reclined upon several boxes stacked against the wall. Her ragged-but-colourful vest was open, exposing her pendulous breasts, nipples pierced with mismatched studs.

A man in a filthy, stained surgeon’s garb was knelt over a twitching patient, a naked young man with vivid scars on his forearm. They were ugly and clearly infected and the younger male was feverish, shivering, covered in sweat and gasping for each breath. Shannon nodded towards the scene. “Is he sick? We can help-” She was given a rough shove forwards.

“Nothing you can do,” the man behind her sneered, then laughed. “Not yet.”

Emily tried to keep her head down, to avoid looking at the ruined husks of humans and appear meek and submissive, but every so often her eyes would shift towards the staring, eerily silent crowd. She almost stumbled when she caught sight of one individual amongst the throng. He was crouched upon a large industrial crate, an Artemis rifle resting in his arms. An engineer’s IDS-mask covered his face and sensor strips bracketing a polarized visor glowed dully as the helmet’s batteries slowly died.

Unlike an arm-mounted Integrated Display System, the mask-based system was used much like a tactical HUD, to allow its wearer to examine scan data without constantly shifting position. They were favoured by medical and technical personnel for just that reason – while in surgery, a doctor could call up detailed scans, pervious test data and monitor their patient’s vital signs whilst still filtering air for contaminants. Engineering IDS masks performed similar functions, though they were optimized to detect minute faults and system errors, analyze power flow through local systems, provide different scan modes and perform other helpful functions.

This mask in particular was made by Hadley-Wright. In fact, it was the current premier model; it belonged to someone from the first expedition and, like Major St. Cloud’s armour, it had been... repurposed.

Emily had always had a good memory. She’d always found it easy to remember a name she’d only heard once or to recall a number or bit of information she’d seen in passing. She remembered one of the corporation’s own ‘security consultants’ from the first expedition, a bit more vividly than that, though. He’d been young, excited about the possibility of ‘treasure hunting’ and equally excited by the thought that she might be assigned to that expedition as well. His name was Arthur Killion.

Was. Not had been.

He’d been trying to impress her one day, so he’d rolled up his sleeves to show her the tattoos he’d gotten. They were unit markings for the Decrosa City police force. Mercenary companies and corporate security firms liked to poach recruits from Decrosa; like much of the planet’s civil services, the police were only as effective as their next paycheque. As long that was a constant, they were quite ‘efficient’ – although on Decrosa that term was somewhat relative. It usually referred to their skill at suppressing food riots and generally protecting the planet’s oligarchy from the consequences of their own actions whenever the benighted masses grew unruly.

The combination of a certain amorality, ambitiousness and avarice made Decrosan police and military personnel choice pickings for many offworld security and mercenary guilds. They were easily bought, knew how to keep quiet, didn’t much care what they did or for whom they did it and their shambling husk of a government provided the basics of training before they were hired off-world, though they were often seen as little better than ‘gang-bangers with badges’. And like many gangs, Decrosan police squads liked to get tattooed to show everyone whose side they were on.

Now, on the arms uncovered by the masked man’s rolled-up sleeves, Emily recognized those same tattoos. The helmet canted towards her as Killion took notice of the petite woman, his head tracking Delphini. He remembered her, too. Killion raised two fingers to where his mouth would be, then held them out as if passing her a kiss on his fingertips.

I knew it was a mistake for them to send you, she thought over her sudden surge of revulsion and fear, trying to focus on something – anything – other than those feelings. Even crazy, you still found a way to switch sides.

They arrived at a crude amphitheater, where a man in a stained suit waited for them, sitting cross-legged in some craft’s pilot’s seat. He wore a broken-eared rabbit’s mask of cracked porcelain, and had his fingers laced together. A young girl – like the other children, she wore nothing over her face – was sitting on the dais beside him, playing something like jacks with what looked like knuckle bones. She looked at the procession, and then up at Rabbit Mask. “I found one first.”

“Yes, you did,” the man replied, reaching down to give the girl an affectionate pat on the head. He stood and strode down to meet his visitors. “So, the little worms have come crawling at last,” his was the voice of the Speaker. Beneath the ornate mask, his eyes darted about, never staying still for long. “But such pretty little worms, aren’t they?” His attention shifted to Shannon. “And what kinds of worms have crawled into my belly?” he demanded, his gaze moving to Abigail. “Who sent you to thieve and glut upon my bones?” He moved down the line, never waiting for an answer. “What fool threw more lives into Acheron?” He paused in front of Emily, leaning in and grabbing the front of her coat, his eyes narrowing as he saw the Hadley-Wright insignia on the young doctor’s lapels and his hands shook as he shoved Delphini away.

“Of course,” his voice thickened, almost incomprehensible with barely-controlled... what? Anger? Disgust? Fear? Rabbit Mask turned his attention to Ramone, tracing the edges of the second doctor’s own corporate insignia, tapping it with one trimmed fingernail. “Who are you?” the feral leader demanded.

“S-Salvador Ramone,” the man stuttered.

Rabbit Mask gestured dismissively to the three mercenaries. “I know what they are. Brigands and saboteurs, clad in metal as if it can save them. Hired to kill and to die as long as the gold flows. But you,” his eyes flitted briefly to Emily. “And you. What are you, Salvador-Worm?”

Ramone couldn’t meet the other man’s eyes. “I’m-I’m a doctor,” he mumbled.

Emily’s eyes narrowed as she saw the feral leader’s reaction. It wasn’t much of one; a sudden shift in his position, a change in the angle of his head. He was interested. Too interested, and when the eyes behind the broken ballroom mask turned to her, the young woman stared down at the deck and, without prompting, said: “Emily Delphini. I’m a historian.”

In her peripheral vision, she could see her fellow survivors react, but none of them contradicted her. Ramone seemed about to, when he looked past her to one of the mercenaries and clicked his jaw shut.

Rabbit Mask tapped the badge on her jacket breast again. “It’s good you’ve come,” he mused, though he didn’t seem that interested in her response, if she even cared to give one. “History. Acheron is soaked in it, Emily-Worm. It is the lifeblood of 47. It pools around your feet, slithers up your nostrils while you sleep and it is etched onto every wall, dripping from the bulkheads like blood. History,” he repeated. “It won’t let go of you. What happened in the past reaches for you, clawing and dragging you off, filling you.” His head came up and his mad eyes glittered with a hidden smile. “I think you’ll like it here.”

He finally deigned to return his attention to the mercenaries. “Do the thieves have names?” he demanded.

“Louis Miguel Hernandez, private, Artemis Private Security Services.”

“Abigail Hutchins. The woman who’s going to kill one of your people.” The Darkknell flashed a mouthful of teeth. “Maybe more.”

Rabbit Mask touched a finger to the bandages on the woman’s neck. “I have heard this,” he said as he pressed harder, digging into the wound. “I have heard this and I have heard this. Sometimes it has come to pass, but we are still here and those who kept their word...” he drew back. “...are not.” The feral human’s only half-turned towards Shannon, as if he was bored by the entire conversation and simply running through a formality. “And your name?”

The young woman stiffened. “Shannon Melinda Hayes, corp-”

Rabbit Mask jerked as if shocked. “Hayes?” he demanded as his head snapped fully towards Shannon. “Hayes?” he repeated as the gathered crowd whispered and muttered. The leader leaned his face into Shannon’s until the worn-down tip of a porcelain rabbit’s nose was almost touched to hers, unwashed breath coming through the mask’s upturned lips.

She tried not to pull back and only partially succeeded. “Yes,” she said. “Hayes.”

His hands snapped up, cupping her face and turning her head this way and that in an inspection, but for what, Shannon had no idea. “I know this name,” Rabbit Mask replied. “I’ve heard it whispered in hushed tones. Heard it screamed. It means many things. To some of the Lost, it means betrayer, murderer. The antimessiah. To others, it means saviour and creator. Redeemer. Blasphemy and reverence. Do you understand?” He let go of the woman and stepped back. “Do you?”

“No, I-”

A flash of movement and the feral had a knife at her throat, his other hand on the back of her head, arm tensing as he kept her from pulling away from the blade. “Once, Hayes-Thief. Hayes-Sabotager. Hayes-Worm. What world do you call home? What. World?”

“Halo,” Shannon stared into the man’s eyes. “I’m a Halo.”

Rabbit Mask held the knife at Shannon’s throat for a moment longer as he looked back at her, perhaps searching for some hint of a lie. Then, he let go of her and stalked back to his ‘throne’, slumping into the chair. He stood the dagger up on its hilt, a single finger riding the point of the knife, moving it back and forth. “Thieves and worms,” he pronounced. “But clever. But pretty. But useful. They will serve.” Mad blue eyes darted back over to Shannon. “So blessed are the children.”

“So blessed are the children,” the crowd answered back, the guards shoving the five prisoners deeper into the warren.

[White Haven]

Recognized by name...interesting. The real question, of course, is exactly who's got enough of a coherent civilization or at least an oral tradition left to remember that.

[Night_stalker]

Yeah, well at least the ferals are humanitarians...

I don't know what your definition of "humanitarian" is, but if you consider the Masks' actions to be applicable, it's a very scary definition.

I think he means the ferals are humanitarians in much the same way people who eat vegetables are vegetarians.

Yes actually that was the definition that I was using

[LadyTevar]

That little poem freaked the hell out of me when Hannah(?) was sing-songing it. Congrats on a chilling new version.

Thank you.

I think you mean Hespith. And I found it eerie myself. I also tell myself that the line "...as in her mouth they spew" refers to the darkspawn vomiting their tainted blood and making her drink it.

I tell myself that because the other explanation is so much worse...

You know it's both of the above. You've seen a Broodmother. Blood is only the start of that monstrosity.


Now for the new Chapter. I'm afraid to ask what the former-Cop did to weasel his way into the tribe. Since he was interested in Emily before, I'm sure there will be a scene upcoming where he tries again. Be a bit Ironic if his actions gives Shannon and Abigail their break.