Disclaimer: I own neither the Halo series nor Dead Space, if I did I might be able to afford a full tank of fuel. Anyone who wants to sue me is welcome to do so if they want a share in the standard $8 an hour afforded to apprentice mechanics.

December, 2566

UNSC Mining Ship Ishimura

Orbit of Aegis 7

Michael Swanson had never been so utterly terrified in his entire life, and considering he had been one of the few survivors of the Flood infestation at Voi in the closing days of the Human/Covenant war, that was really saying something.

Sweat rolled down his spine, tickling his skin. The small room in which he had been hiding for the last two days stank of the sickly smell of stale sweat, and in the corner closest to the door rested a small mound of Swanson's faecal matter, soaked in urine. His cheeks felt dry and his lips were salty, the product of the enormous amount of tears he had shed since locking himself in this God forsaken supply room.

He clutched his pistol, a new model M8A .50 calibre pistol with a nickel-plated finish, like it was his only lifeline in the middle of a stormy sea. Crouched as he was in the corner furthest from the only entrance to the room, Swanson blinked perhaps once a minute, not wanting to close his eyes for more than a nanosecond in case they chose that exact moment to come for him.

The Ishimura was 1026 metres long, andhad had a crew of just over 2500; as far as Swanson knew, he was the only one left. The screaming had stopped hours after he had escaped a grisly death at the hands of the seemingly unstoppable monsters. The radio transmissions, which he had been listening to on a small wireless communicator, had stopped maybe 18 hours ago, he wasn't really sure. Time had seemed to blur together, days merging with past weeks, minutes stretching on like hours, hours seeming to last just seconds.

Slowly coming to a stand on shaky legs, Swanson moved silently and cautiously around the room, checking to make absolutely certain that the ventilation ducts were still welded shut, with only the barest of gaps left to allow Swanson to continue breathing and to carry some of the stench away.

As he neared the third-of-four ducts, a soft scratching sound reached his ears. Instantly he stilled all movement, his heart thudding violently against his rib cage, breath catching in his throat. He bit his lip hard as the sound echoed through the silent room, louder this time. Tears began to form in his eyes, and a trickle of dark red blood ran down his chin as his teeth pierced his lip.

More scratching, followed by a dull thump, then all was silent once more. Swanson remained perfectly still, not daring to move, blink or even breathe. Sweat began to trickle slowly down his forehead, some of it getting in his eyes and stinging like hell, but still he refused to blink. Still silent. Maybe it had gone away, whatever it was.

Secure in his apparent safety once more, Swanson slowly let out the breath he hadn't been aware he was holding and blinked several times rapidly, expelling the sweat and soothing the pain in his eyes. He drew in another breath, relief finally flooded his system and his lips formed the barest hint of a smile.

I'll be okay. I'll just sit tight and wait for the rescue to come. I'll be-

His thoughts were violently cut off as an ear-piercing screech, one that Swanson had heard far too many times these past few days, reverberated through his body as though he were a giant tuning fork, and a loud, ringing thud echoed from the thin Titanium composite door that sheltered him.

The thud was joined by another, and another, and soon dents began appearing in the door. Frightened beyond rational thought now, Swanson screamed like he had never screamed before, and, as a long, wicked-sharp claw punctured the door, he raised the powerful handgun that had kept him alive while all those around him had been dragged down to the floor and slaughtered in gruesome, horrific ways the likes of which he had never imagined.

Another claw punched through, and Swanson caught a glimpse of sickly grey-tan flesh through the holes. With all the incentive he needed to fire, he did so with impunity, the .50 calibre shots ringing loud enough in such close quarters to make Swanson's unprotected eardrums burst and started to bleed after the third round.

Three more holes appeared in the door, and another screech, this time of pain and anger, answered the mans furious firing. Twelve times he pulled the trigger before the hollow clicking sound of a hammer falling on an empty chamber alerted him to the fact that he was now out of ammunition; the magazine he had just emptied into the door had been his last one.

Eyes as wide as saucers, Swanson moved slowly toward the door. Peering out of one of the baby-fist sized holes he had blown in the door, he spied the monster lying on the floor of the corridor outside, its mouth open in a silent scream, thin, fleshy tentacle-like growths protruding from within the things mouth, originating from somewhere behind the razor sharp teeth. The tentacles still twitched slightly, the final death throes of something that had intended to take Michael Swanson to hell.

Relief once more coursed its way through his system. He had survived again, a fact which only helped to reinforce his opinion that he was going to make it. It was such an overwhelming feeling that he actually let out a chuckle. That chuckle turned into a full blown guffaw, and before he knew it, he was on his knees in front of the tattered remains of the door, laughing maniacally and clutching his sides tightly.

He never heard the not-too-distant scratch of super sharp claws on deck plating, never noticed the faint signs of movement from the other side of the door, never saw the monster he had thought he had killed slowly rise up, raising one of its sickle-like forearms. Never saw that forearm come crashing through the door and ramming elbow-deep into his chest.

Even then, he didn't notice, having finally succumbed to madness. Not even as he was slowly pulled through the doorway, his flesh being cut deep as the monster tried to pull his body through the tattered door. Angry that it could not drag the still-laughing man to it, the beast raised its other arm, sending it crashing through the door as well, to pierce the mans head, silencing him almost immediately. Blood, brain matter and flecks of shattered bone exploded violently from the mans head, showering everything with a couple of feet from him in gore.

Michael Swanson had been taken to the hell he had feared so much, and he had never even noticed it.

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A/N: Due to severe writers block regarding both of my other stories at the moment, I've decided to take a break from them and flesh out another idea I had recently. This is the result of my labours thus far. Please review and let me know what you all think.