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

[HSRTG]

I started this during the afternoon, it is now effectively midnight. You write too damn well . I think I'll repress the nightmares tonight by imagining a pre-heresy Space Marine Legion taking this place on.

I am not of the party that everyone will die. The author isn't that merciful...

[Bladed_Crescent]

Wow. I thought Innsmouth was bad. This is far, far worse than Innsmouth.

After DROP 47, Innsmouth is a relaxing family vacation.

Calm fishing town, ocean view, frequent hootenannies, colourful inhabitants.

I am waiting to see who the Watcher is.

That'll be answered next chapter. I thought about making him [deleted], the [deleted] or even one of the [deleteds], but I decided to do that with the various [deleteds] instead.

Hope that clears things up.

Excellent to see more of this. Are there actually other people living in this area or just the Watcher? Also, what happened to Calvin?

Thanks - glad you're enjoying it.

And yes, as the chapter indicates - there are people living in this area.

As for Calvin, he'll make another appearance shortly, either in the upcoming chapter or... not the one after that, but the one after that.

I started this during the afternoon, it is now effectively midnight. You write too damn well

Thanks! Happy to see a new reader.

I think I'll repress the nightmares tonight by imagining a pre-heresy Space Marine Legion taking this place on.

They

Are

Watching

You.

Heh; I've actually flirted with that plot bunny, just wondering what types of agencies/teams could make it through DROP 47. I imagine Space Marines would do fairly well*, since this is the kind of thing that they handle on a regular basis. SGC teams don't end up faring so well. Stormtroopers do decently, but not as well as the Marines, I think. Colonial Marines would be all kinds of fucked....

*for a given value of "fairly well"...

[Night_stalker]

Hmmm, I wonder if the Watcher is playing the protagonists like violins...

[xt828]

I think how Space Marines would do would depend quite heavily on which power level, so to speak, they're based on - with the low point being straight tabletop rules, the mid-point being as seen in the (trashy) official fiction, and the high point being a fairly strict reading of the description of how one is created and equipped. A fll-bore Pre-Heresy Legion of the latter, depending on Legion, would do pretty nasty things to the overwhelming majority of entities, due to survivability, killing power, fanaticism and an unnerving tendency to not give a shit about casualties. It's a real pity that universe is so haphazard.

The other entertaining thought would be whether a Chaos Marines warband would fight to clear the place or because they like the ambiance

[Night_stalker]

Ohh, they would clear it out, becuase they like the ambience, and depending on the Legion, the DROP would either quickly claimed with bolter and chainsword, or slowily reduced to rubble under the seige guns of some of the more trigger happy Legions.

[ShadowOfMadness]

Ohh, they would clear it out, becuase they like the ambience, and depending on the Legion, the DROP would either quickly claimed with bolter and chainsword, or slowily reduced to rubble under the seige guns of some of the more trigger happy Legions.

You are forgetting...

Infected Space Marines.

The Space Marines are going to be fighting each other instead of the DROP...

[Teleros]

You are forgetting...

Infected Space Marines.

The Space Marines are going to be fighting each other instead of the DROP...

And you're forgetting that 40K marines have full powered armour, air filters, and are given no end of psychological conditioning to keep them on the straight and narrow. Their starships' armour & shielding is also such that I'd be very surprised if the nebula could affect them through it. Although if it's 41st Millennium Space Marines they may just decide that it's been touched by the Warp, evacuate & introduce it to bombardment cannons .

Heh; I've actually flirted with that plot bunny, just wondering what types of agencies/teams could make it through DROP 47. I imagine Space Marines would do fairly well*, since this is the kind of thing that they handle on a regular basis. SGC teams don't end up faring so well. Stormtroopers do decently, but not as well as the Marines, I think. Colonial Marines would be all kinds of fucked...

The Galactic Patrol should also do well once they realise the scale of the problem - Lensmen in particular will be bad news for just about everything with a brain on DROP 47. What about Special Circumstances? The psychological horrors in DROP 47 may be a problem for them if they don't have some Culture drones and such handy. Obviously a proper response by the Culture involving ships would be overkill though, almost on the level of the (late-series) Skylarkers coming across it.


Getting back on topic though, when are we going to see the next chapter from DROP 47's past?

[Bladed_Crescent]

I think how Space Marines would do would depend quite heavily on which power level, so to speak, they're based on....

I go into more depth in my answer to Teleros below, but pretty much. Overall, they'd probably do the best without getting into universes with infantry that are simply too overwhelming.

The other entertaining thought would be whether a Chaos Marines warband would fight to clear the place or because they like the ambiance

Ohh, they would clear it out, becuase they like the ambience, and depending on the Legion, the DROP would either quickly claimed with bolter and chainsword, or slowily reduced to rubble under the seige guns of some of the more trigger happy Legions.

Hell, they'd probably use the feral tribes as recruiting stock and leave the station as a proving ground for said stock. There are even loyalist Marines (Mortifactors, I'm looking at you) that would probably do the same.

You are forgetting...

Infected Space Marines.

Now there's a question, innit?

And you're forgetting that 40K marines have full powered armour, air filters, and are given no end of psychological conditioning to keep them on the straight and narrow.

True, but recall that Jane and her Ghosts had/have fully sealed power armour as well - even when they were isolated from the rest of Primal by Shelby to prevent their infection, they were still affected. Likewise, the other marines' air filters didn't help them so much...

As to their conditioning - there's no question that Space Marines would be more resistant to the Mists that most other units. But resistance is not synonymous with immunity. In Dead Sky, Black Sun, it took only a few minutes/hours of psychological attack in Medrengard to cause one marine to kill himself and the others of the assault team were on the verge of following suit. Spending weeks aboard DROP 47 is certainly not going to be easy, even for Spehss Marheens!

To sum up: Space Marines' advantages of their armour, propensity for flamers in close quarters, experience in these situations and mental and physical resistance give them a definite edge on DROP 47.

Their starships' armour & shielding is also such that I'd be very surprised if the nebula could affect them through it.

I can't answer that one way or the other.

The Galactic Patrol should also do well once they realise the scale of the problem - Lensmen in particular will be bad news for just about everything with a brain on DROP 47. What about Special Circumstances? The psychological horrors in DROP 47 may be a problem for them if they don't have some Culture drones and such handy. Obviously a proper response by the Culture involving ships would be overkill though, almost on the level of the (late-series) Skylarkers coming across it.

I only have the barest knowledge of those, but Culture and Lensman teams would be gross overkill.

Gears would do better than SGC teams by virtue of their heavier armour, though trying to use their chainblades on Turned is... not recommended.

Isaac Clarke would probably feel right at home. Or very depressed. "Again with this shit? What'd I ever do to deserve this?"

Getting back on topic though, when are we going to see the next chapter from DROP 47's past?

There will be a flashback coming up the chapter after next, though it will focus on what happened to Primal.

[xt828]

I have nothing but distaste for the overwhelming majority of Black Library books.

On the subject of shielding and mental strength, Imperial and Chaos ships have a Gellar(?) field which keeps the insanity of the Warp at bay - if they figure out what's going on, they could crank it up. Worth noting, though, that it's generally not used in normal space, and that the Chaos contingent are notorious for having it cranked down to the bare minimum needed to stop daemons entering their ship, as opposed to the "LALALAICANTHEREYOU" of the Imperials.

More flashbacks would be sweet, though I prefer the ones from the height of the Imperium.

[Darth Nostril]

Scribbled on the door, just about as high as a child could reach, was another notice, this one in handwriting different than the rest:

PLEESE KNOK.

It's these little touches that keep drawing me in

[The Vortex Empire]

Son of a bitch, you made me think there was an update! Now the withdrawal symptoms are hitting me even harder...

[Darth Nostril]

After only two days? Man you got it bad. Infected even.....

[ShadowOfMadness]

Son of a bitch, you made me think there was an update! Now the withdrawal symptoms are hitting me even harder...

Let us see if we can fool you twice...

I'd hate for the same to be on us...

[Bladed_Crescent]

This time there actually is an update.

In this chapter, Shannon and Abigail's meeting with the Watcher goes about as well as you'd expect and Calvin reconsiders past decisions.

Coming up (flashback chapter delayed): conducting diplomacy through fetch quests isn't just for Star Trek Online.

Chapter 33:

The lights in the computer center were dim – just enough that night-vision wasn’t quite necessary, but not bright enough to be comfortable to normal eyesight. Unlike the rest of the station, there was no reason for it – at least no mechanical one. Shannon had a very good idea why someone on DROP 47 might want to avoid bright lights.

Abigail nodded at Shannon’s signs, confirming that her carbine had a full magazine. This station hadn’t yet seen what kind of hell she could unleash. If this ‘Watcher’ tried anything, tried to hurt Shannon... The woman took a calming breath – she was on edge, even more than normal. Her skin felt like it was crawling and the wound on her neck just wouldn’t stop itching; she wanted to sink her fingernails in and scratch at it. Of course, if she did that, Shannon would use the ‘disappointed schoolmarm’ voice to lecture her.

It still itched, though.

Booted feet moved up the stairwell leading to the second level, a creaking catwalk that encircled the upper floor, looking down into the server farm. Computer towers buzzed and clicked in the background, a nightmare patchwork of cords and hardware kept alive like some mechanical frankenstein, cobbled together by bits and pieces of others and lurching through a simulacrum of life. The air in the room was dry, filtered relentlessly for any moisture or contamination that could seep into the delicate hardware. Malfunctioning cooling systems had diverted the server’s waste heat up into the mezzanine – when they were working. Shannon could hear the desperate straining of the fans and cooling mechanisms, chugging and clanking like a failing heartbeat. Another part of the station on the verge of collapse, kept working only through a combination of Imperial durability and the constant patchwork maintenance of 47’s inhabitants.

“W-w-arning,” the AI stuttered. “Un-unauthor. Authorized per-per-personnel d-detected in s-secure-ure area. Rea. Security has-had been c-c-contacted.”

“Oh, hush darling,” a thin, reedy voice said to the computer. “There’s no need to be impolite. These are our guests.”

Shannon strode onto the upper level of the mezzanine, moving towards the glow of computer screens, a room set just off the catwalk. The air in here stunk, though it was not as foul as some of the station’s other aromas. The dry air reeked of dust, burnt electronics, ozone and stale body odour. There, crouched over one a dozen flickering monitors, was their host. At their approach, he looked up in greeting.

He was sick.

That was Shannon’s first impression as she set eyes on man who called himself ‘the Watcher’. His skin was dry and flaking off, pockmarked with scabs and scarred from the cracks and fissures the dry air had made in his flesh. His eyes were sunken, and patchy grey hair hung in strings off his scalp, ugly, uneven stubble on his face. The chair he was in was padded, but it had been used for so long that its cushioning was worn and pressed down to nothing. It squeaked and clunked as it moved towards them. “You came,” he whispered, licking his cracked lips. “Walking through the Land of the Lost. One who owns it, one wants to claim it.” He pressed his thin, wizened hands against the arms of his chair and, with some effort, himself to his feet. His legs shook with each step he took, enfeebled by age and endless days spent in front of his computers.

In youth, the Watcher had only been a man of middling height, neither tall nor short. Now, he was almost hunched over and both women stood head and shoulders over him. He coughed, licking his parched mouth again. “Let me see you.”

Shannon and Abigail shared a look, but the women removed their helmets. The Watcher squinted, nodded and mumbled under his breath as he stared at Shannon, finally collapsing back into his chair. “It’s in the eyes,” he said, panting for a moment, exhausted from standing. “I told you that you could help me,” he switched topics, wheeling back to his screens, each one jumping from image to image as his many eyes and ears continually scanned DROP 47 – or at least the parts that his security devices could see. “That I could help you.” He wiped one screen clear of accumulated dust and grease, frowning at it. “I used to think I should just let you die. Then things would go back to normal. The Land would be safe, they’d quiet down, the Turned would slumber again... normal.”

“I think we’re getting a good idea of what ‘normal’ is for DROP 47,” Abigail replied.

“Maybe... maybe.” His chewed fingernails clacked against the keys, squinting eyes intent on the data flowing past them. Finally, he pushed himself back and tapped one screen in particular. “This is normal.”

A holo image flickered to life, ghosting into the air between the women and their host. It was a grainy black and white image. There was a small line of non-Imperial script in one corner – the camera that had captured this video was not from DROP 47’s original security grid. Three men with pistols backed down a hallways, firing as they moved, muzzle flashes lighting the walls. They were wearing simple armour – helmets, vests and bracers on their arms, not the fully body gear that Artemis’s troops had landed in.

There was no sound. Shannon couldn’t hear the cracks of their guns, the shouts as one man thumbed a grenade and hurled it far off-screen, nor the following detonation. She couldn’t hear the click as another man’s magazine ran dry and his hands grabbed at his bulletproof vest’s pouches, fumbling for a replacement clip and coming up empty.

One of his friends pulled him back, firing into the torso of another Turned, the creature momentarily staggered from the impact of the bullets. Only momentarily; it lunged forward, driving its barbed talons down through the second man’s chest, falling atop him, gnawing and tearing at his throat. The first tried to pull the monster off, stabbing it again and again, but it ignored him. Shannon wanted to shout a warning as another Turned came up behind him, watching helplessly as he was dragged, kicking and struggling, out of frame. The last man lost his nerve and tried to run, making several false starts as he realized each avenue was with the swarming monsters. He sunk to his knees and put his pistol against the side of his head.

“This is normal,” the Watcher said, switching the view. This had to be from the original grid – the view was clear and clean. In a corner, a girl – no, a woman, but only just – sat, rocking back and forth, her hands tucked under her arms, quaking with body-wracking sobs, her eyes squeezed shut and her head shaking back and forth as if she was trying to deny something. A man in a laboratory coat laying sprawled in front of her, his chest cracked open, broken ribs sticking into the air, his ravaged entrails pooled around him. On the walls was nonsense nursery verse, written in what had to be the man’s own blood.

Father, father, can you tell me true?
Do you love me, how can you?
You’ve been gone so long, I forgot your voice
It wasn’t my fault, I had no choice.

Almost covering the rhyme was a single word, written in large, smeared handprints: HUNGRY.

Fresh blood was splashed on the girl’s face and clothes.

“And this isn’t normal,” the Watcher said quietly, bringing up a third holo image from his records. Sadly, it again appeared to be data from another of the low-quality crude-but-serviceable cams that either replaced or supplemented the dying station’s security grid.

Leaning against the wall, a figure in full body armour was moving away from the camera. They’d lost their helmet, but their hair, they way they moved... Wait. “Sergeant Donowitz?”

Abigail’s head snapped up. “Sarge?”

Donowitz was limping. One hand was braced against the wall, the other pressed against her side, and her rifle hung from her left shoulder. She was all but dragging her right leg, leaving a sneared red footprint behind as she took each halting step. Shannon could see why; just below her ribs, four inches of some metal spike jutted from her cuirass, her fingers wrapped around the shaft. The sergeant was pale and sweating, each halting step taking a little more from her.

The time stamp indicated that this had been taken four hours ago.

Abigail spoke again, her voice very quiet and very small: “...sarge?”

There was no sound on this video either, but something made Donowitz’s head snap up and look over her shoulder. She turned around and bared her teeth, quickly unlimbering her rifle and clasping her bloody gauntlet to the forestock, digging her heels in against the deck. The screen flashed white as she opened fire, her mouth working in a cry of rage and fear... and then she staggered as a trio of finger-sized holes were punched in her breastplate. High-velocity rounds – her armour hadn’t even slowed them down.

The sergeant collapsed to her knees, struggling to hold her gun level – that kind of damage was fatal, but Ellie Mae was running on adrenalin and combat drugs and she didn’t go down... not right away. Another shot.

Donowitz fell, spun around by the force of the impact and landing face down on the floor, her rifle knocked from her hands. Her left arm dangled uselessly behind her as she pulled herself over the bloody deck towards her gun, not quite reaching it by the time a new figure strode into view.

Like the mercenary, it was armoured. Black, almost insectoid in style, it seemed sculpted rather than assembled. An evil-looking weapon was cradled in its arms as it pressed a booted foot down on Donowitz’s rifle. The woman rolled onto her side, her body shaking as she coughed, looking up into the faceless helm of her killer. Its head cocked to one side as it stared back at her, reaching down and pulling Donowitz to her feet, holding her by the throat. Donowitz grinned, the expression almost serene, and she spat a wad of bloody saliva onto her attacker’s face, her lips moving to form two words: Fuck you.

Shannon blinked. It looked like – what was that? – like something was in the other figure’s hand – it was moving, winding into some sort of... the woman flinched as it was stabbed up under the sergeant’s breastplate, through her body glove. The figure wrenched their arm, twisting the implement. Donowitz convulsed and went limp in its grip.

The attacker tossed the sergeant’s corpse away. “You’ve made them mad,” the Watcher said as he closed the image. “They’re looking for you.” He coughed again. “Not you in particular, but all of you.”

“Who are they?” Shannon found her voice, but even as she asked the question, she knew the answer she’d get. They killed Kerrigan. They’re what Primal’s people feared.

“The eyes in the dark,” The Watcher replied as if it were obvious, confirming the Halo’s fears. “They only come when you call them, make sure no one leaves. They won’t let you.”

“Enough of these God-damn riddles!” Abigail growled, taking a step towards the Watcher. “Is it so fucking hard just to get a straight answer out of any of you bugged-up assholes? You sit here in your little bunker, all safe and secure. You haven’t risked anything in years.” Before he could react, she’d pulled him out of his chair. He weighed barely anything and the Darkknell held the Watcher off the floor. Metal and fabric rasped against each other as Abigail drew her pistol, pressing the barrel up under his chin. Her teeth were bared in the familiar, vicious rictus. “I think you need to remember what that’s like.”

“No!” A voice cried from the shadows as a small child darted out, grabbing the Watcher’s dangling legs. “Don’t hurt my dad!”

~

Emily was sitting against the wall, her hands draped over her knees. Lutzberg was next to her; she knew she was in desperate need of a shower herself, but the petty officer just reeked. It was hardly fair to blame him for that, but did she wish he’d chosen to sit a little farther away from her.

Bujold was sitting on the opposite side of the hall facing the other two ‘noncombatants’ (though that distinction was rather thin here on 47). He wasn’t staring at her anymore – not overtly, anyways. She hoped that he was losing whatever interest he had in her, that his attention wasn’t... well, she’d figure out a way to deal with that if and when it happened. She didn’t want to have another Killion to deal with.

Hernandez was pacing back and forth; she’d suggested that he take a seat, but he’d refused. There was a distinct waver in his stride now – exhaustion and injury were catching up with him. It wouldn’t be long before he was a liability again. Hopefully the corporal could do something about that – they didn’t need more dead weight. Emily gave herself a mental shake. She shouldn’t be thinking of Bujold and Lutzberg like that, but it was hard to keep her thoughts organized – she was getting tired too and the brief nap she’d had on the tram hadn’t helped much at all. The young doctor reached back and scratched at her scalp, feeling as if something was tickling her there, but luckily there was nothing. It was just a random itch. A random... itch....

Just like Michelle. Like Amanda.

...her expression froze for an instant. Oh, damn it.

~

She might have been nine years old, wearing a shirt intended for someone much older than she. Her little arms were wrapped around one of the Watcher’s thin legs. “Let him go!” she cried. “Please don’t hurt him! Don’t hurt us!”

“Put him down, Three,” Shannon ordered.

Abigail held the man aloft a moment longer, then seemed to deflate a little, setting the Watcher back into his chair. “Confirmed, Three.”

The Watcher panted for breath, coughing and clutching at his chest. The girl darted across the room, snatching up a thermos with a straw and putting it between her ‘father’s’ lips. After a moment, he regained his composure and managed a chuckle, water spilling down his chin. “Thank you,” he patted the child on her head. “It’s all right, honey. These are just... my new friends.” He looked up at the two women. “We’re just talking.”

“Yeah,” Abigail replied, her voice flat, eyes never leaving the Watcher’s. “We’re just playing a game.” She holstered the pistol.

Shannon put a hand on her squadmate’s shoulder. She knelt down on to meet the girl eye to eye. “It’s okay,” she said, not sure if this was another lie. “Your... dad’s okay.”

“You shouldn’t do that,” the girl said, staying close to her ‘father’. There was no resemblance between them. The girl’s face was rounder than the Watcher’s, her skin was darker and her brown eyes had an epicanthic fold.

“I am fine.” the Watcher replied. “Go. Go check on your brothers and sisters. Go, Honor.”

The girl hesitated, but obeyed, scurrying down the rear steps. Shannon waited until she was out of earshot. “That’s why they hate you,” she said. “You take their children.”

~

Atmospheric Processing was a massive facility; North Arm was the size of a starship and section G2 alone was nearly the size of a skyscraper. It didn’t need to be this big; a vessel as large as the arm could get away with a much smaller life support plant. In point of fact, only the station’s central processing complex in the core needed to be so large, but G2 was a back-up in case the main facility ever went down. All of the DROP’s air could be channeled through any one of its five primary atmospheric processing centers, making it nearly impossible to disrupt the station’s life support systems, one node of which was also based somewhere in the massive complex.

Not only functioning as a failsafe, the processors provided an extra barrier against the threat of contamination – should any one section of the station become gravely compromised, it could be isolated from the others while its processor cleaned the air of any possible contaminant. It could also disseminate anti-intruder – in case of security breaches – or medicinal gases, should they be required. If the flow was reversed, the processor could even pull all oxygen out of the arm in a matter of minutes to assist in decontamination – or as an additional unofficial security measure.

Air purifiers, filtration units, environmental controls, quality monitoring stations, pressure flow sensors and other miscellaneous function systems were just the icing on the cake of an atmospheric processor. In fact, an Elysium’s processors were modified Breath of Life terraforming units, capable of producing large volumes of breathable air in any but the most hostile environments.

Pity all those safeguards had worked.

Calvin could hear the growing roar of air as it was drawn through the massive network of vents leading into the heart of the processor, jutting up from the darkened lower levels like some towering stalagmite. The mercenary was standing on a large walkway, one of several that ringed the entire chamber. Each of them was overgrown with disgusting substrate, railings draped with stringy slime-like growths, strands hanging down into the abyss. Grating covered over with more of the infested growth, like diseased skin. Tendon-like cords had, by chance, secured the railings to the walls and ceilings where the original brackets and supports had weakened. The walkway bowed under Calvin’s heavy bootsteps, but it remained attached. In places it had broken, hanging metal struts overwhelmed by the growth, or pushed out of position, like concrete slabs disfigured by the roots of trees.

Crates and machinery that had been left here were overgrown, the creeping veins slithering up their surface like vines, the fleshy tissue following behind and subsuming the debris like an amoeba enveloping its prey. It wasn’t until he’d actually pulled away the meaty skein that he’d realized that the strange structures were crates and abandoned equipment. The fleshy moss made sick noises and oozed more dark fluid as he ripped it, feeling like he was pulling someone’s skin apart.

Insects buzzed about him constantly and he could hear the flap of larger, leathery wings up in the shadows. Doorways were jammed, held open – or in some cases, sealed shut – by the omnipresent fleshy growths. Where it had built up, it quivered and spasmed as he passed, sometimes vomiting up a spray of foul liquid. In the distance, he could hear the calls and cries of the monsters, hear their footsteps as they moved through the vents. On the lowest level, where even his blacklight could see nothing but darkness, he could hear the deep, dull roars of something massive, the shuddering bellows of what he imagined were powerful lungs. It breathes, the warning played over in his mind.

Coming here rather than facing Jane didn’t seem like such a good trade-off now.

Here and there, colonies of tall, waving fronds stuck up into the air. Stalks as wide as a woman’s finger blossomed into thicker pods from which sticky-tipped filaments waved back and forth in the air. Calvin stared at one such colony, a swarm of flies buzzing around it, drawn by the scent the plants – were they even plants, or were they like the substrate they’d grown through, some disgusting flesh-thing? – exuded. As the trooper watched, one of the flies got too close, bumbling into the delicate fronds. They immediately enfolded the insect, the stalk telescoping down into the flesh-moss to digest its meal.

Calvin reached out curiously with one finger and poked another pod. Its many tendrils wrapped about his finger and, like the other, the organism started to retract. Abruptly, it released its grip and slithered back up to its full height.

Guess it doesn’t like the taste of cermasteel, the mercenary mused. He moved on; as his feet landed next to the colony, the stalks darted back into the flesh-moss. Once he was past, they cautiously began to rise back up.

He moved along the railing, trying to figure out what his next move would be. One level below, he could see something that had once been human ambling across the gantry, oblivious to his presence. The trooper was tempted to snipe it, but there was no point – just a waste of ammunition. He’d probably have to deal with it sooner or later, but not right now. Right now... he’d try to get down one level and then backtrack. That should throw Godfrey off his trail and get him out of here. From there, he’d head back towards the hangar.

Hopefully without finding out what was making that breathing noise.

~

The Watcher nodded. “It’s what she would have wanted.” His eyes flitted to one side, his expression going distant. “I think it’s what she would have wanted.” He braced his arms and pushed himself up from the chair, hobbling over the many cables draped across the floor. “It’s hard to remember sometimes. Memories bleed into one another here. You can’t remember if a story is yours or you’ve simply made it yours. Did your wife really wear a green dress the day you got married? Was your husband really an artist? Is this life yours, or someone else’s?” He paused to catch his breath. “I think – I have to think – that this is mine. That this is what she would want me to do.

“She always liked children. She said that it was so sad that they’d grow up in this place,” the Watcher’s voice quavered. “I think she did, anyways. I remember those words... they came from her. They had to. They had to.” He didn’t even seem to be aware of his guests any longer, looking into the past.

“I failed her then. But I didn’t... I don’t want to fail her again. I try to protect them. I don’t always succeed. Some are lost. But some... but some... there is nothing but Acheron. I do what I can when I can. The Red Hands are grateful.” He chuckled. “Masks and Whitefaces – not so much.”

“And what do you take in trade for this protection?” Abigail asked, her tone very soft and very dangerous as she moved towards the Watcher. Shannon held out a hand, stepping between the two of them. She met her ‘big sister’s’ eyes and the sudden, ugly light in them without flinching.

Wait. She didn’t have to say it. Wait. Please.

At first it seemed the Watcher hadn’t even heard the question. He leaned forward, bracing his quivering arms against the computer. But it wasn’t frailty causing them to shake this time – it was rage. “Little moth,” he said, his voice rougher than normal. “I forgive you for that.” He said nothing else for several moments. Eventually, his trembling abated and he breathed normally. “Come here, I have something to show you. What I want in exchange for my help.”

On the screen was a pretty – not beautiful, but pretty – woman in an explorer’s jumpsuit, sitting on the floor, an open helmet next to her as she made notes on a datascroll. Her dark hair was worn short and she looked tired; there were circles under her eyes and her jumpsuit was smeared with dirt. She looked up at the camera and smiled. “Put it away,” her voice was soft. “I’m a mess.” Tired, but not afraid. She was on DROP 47, but hadn’t yet experienced its horrors. Shannon was struck by a sudden pang of jealously for the woman.

There was an answering crackle of static as the cam-wielder said something, but Shannon couldn’t make out the words, or even who was saying it. She looked up at the Watcher. Is this life yours, or someone else’s? “What happened to her?” she asked carefully.

The Watcher’s lip quivered. “I failed,” was his only answer. “She died because I failed. I should have... I should have...” his voice trailed off. “But now you’re here. You’re here.” He looked up at the women. “You’re going to bring her back to me.”

[The Vortex Empire]

So how long before Calvin gets either dismembered or digested?

[LadyTevar]

The children he takes are probably better cared for. "The Red Hands are grateful", so that tribe understands.

[White Haven]

I'm...I'm not sure how to react. Nothing bad happened to any named characters. For a whole chapter.

[Night_stalker]

I'm scared. He's just plotting some really horrible thing to spring on them in the next chapter, I just know it!

[xt828]

I like it. It's like one of those scenes where you know that everything is about to go horribly wrong, and you don't but do want to know how.

[HSRTG]

I can't help but think that the itching is going to be significant.

[Night_stalker]

Maybe It's a sign that the cause of the Chaos on the DROP is a disease, and the itching is a symptom...

[LadyTevar]

I'd have to go back and look... but did those with the worst itch get bit/scratched by the zombies?
If not, it is the Monolith affecting their heads, and the mental pressure is a pychosomatic itch.

[Boombaye]

Holy shitcockfuckyfuckcrapshitefuckshitecrappeshit.

I didn't think anything could possibly scare me after a certain something and Resident Evil crossover.

And I was alone reading half of this at home. Worst of all? Dead Space was the only game with the honour of giving me nightmares via the trailer.

I was gonna get Bioshock after Medieval 2 so I could shoot lightning, but I've ahem, decided against it.

Only stopping me from snuggling into the fetal position was space cowboys: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dssNa11h ... re=related

More.

[Bladed_Crescent]

So how long before Calvin gets either dismembered or digested?

That's a pretty presumptuous question. I mean, Jane is stalking him. He could also be shot, skewered, stabbed or beaten!

The children he takes are probably better cared for. "The Red Hands are grateful", so that tribe understands.

He was jumping topics a bit there; the Red Hands are grateful, but not - quite - for the same thing that pisses off the Masks and Whitefaces.

I'm...I'm not sure how to react. Nothing bad happened to any named characters. For a whole chapter.

This is one of the slower bits, giving reader and character an equal oppurtunity to pause and to develop the plot - well, what there is besides OHSHIT SPACE ZOMBIES.

I'm scared. He's just plotting some really horrible thing to spring on them in the next chapter, I just know it!

What crawls into my garden?

I like it. It's like one of those scenes where you know that everything is about to go horribly wrong, and you don't but do want to know how.

Someone just might...

...have an itch to scratch.

I can't help but think that the itching is going to be significant.

Yes.

Maybe It's a sign that the cause of the Chaos on the DROP is a disease, and the itching is a symptom...

No.

...well, not entirely.

I'd have to go back and look... but did those with the worst itch get bit/scratched by the zombies?
If not, it is the Monolith affecting their heads, and the mental pressure is a pychosomatic itch.

Dun dun dun!

I didn't think anything could possibly scare me after a certain something and Resident Evil crossover.

And I was alone reading half of this at home. Worst of all? Dead Space was the only game with the honour of giving me nightmares via the trailer.

[makes another check on the 'number of people I've unnerved' list]

I was gonna get Bioshock after Medieval 2 so I could shoot lightning, but I've ahem, decided against it.

No? You should. It's pretty damn decent. Splicers creep me right out, though. Even today I can't watch the opening of Lady Gaga's Bad Romance music video without a little twitch or two...

Glad you're enjoying the story.

[Night_stalker]

You sure you haven't read any H.P. Lovecraft? Because I'm seeing parallel lines between this and some of his short stories, and I got to say, I'm worried.