First things first, Happy Outbreak Day, everyone! Thanks to the help of the ever amazing Dustfinger0420, I actually succeeded in my goal of getting this story released in time for the day. Now, the deal is, when I first played the game, I was absolutely taken in by the whole thing, but I especially loved those segments in the sewers, where we got that sneak peek into Ish's world. After reading the notes for the umpteenth dozen time, I decided I'd write their story because I couldn't stand it being unwritten. After six hours of sewer mapping, countless hours of planning and discussion which usually ended in my getting pencils thrown at me virtually and physically by the aforementioned author, and a fair amount of time poring over reference images, I'm finally ready to kick this thing off.

Now, outside of fandom, this fic would be rated M. But considering the game, I'm going to take a page from the ever amazing "The Real F'n Scorp"'s book and say this fic is T plus. It is rated thus for language, violence, and the sheer fact of the way the story is going to end (and for those who've played the game, you know what that means. For those who haven't, it means not well.) Any chapter specific ratings will be explained in these author's notes. I hope you enjoy the story and review if you feel so inclined, and I hope you like it as much as I've enjoyed planning it so far. So...Without further ado, Sparks in the Darkness. Enjoy!


The sound of screams from behind him pushed him faster.

Feet pounding hard against the hard packed dirt of the pathway leading to the docks, the barrel of his .22 still burning hot against his skin from where he'd shoved it into his waist band with shaking hands, Ish's breath heaved through his lungs. Somewhere southeast of him, a burst of fire shot skyward as if to ignite the stars, shattering the night with an explosion and the sounds of people shrieking in fear.

What the fuck is happening? he thought desperately, scrambling down the loose dirt of the hill sprawling before him and narrowly avoiding tripping. The news said there was an increase in hospital admission, not that hell broke loose! The hill evened out before him, and he sped up again. Gunfire spit from behind him out of a soldier's gun. Someone screamed, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know who or why as the sweat streamed down his face and mixed with the blood spattered there as he pushed himself harder. Rising from the ground ahead, the ocean glimmered, a dark promise of escape under the haunted moonlight. Thank God.

A shadow against the night, the Antananorivo rocked gently in the water, unaffected by the mayhem around it in a manner which almost seemed unnatural. At least it runs, or damn well better, Ish thought to himself, as if that would be a comfort as he slipped on the wet wood of the pier, almost fell, then righted himself again. Just a little longer. Just keep going. Don't stop now.

Swinging himself onto the deck of the trawler with a sharp thunk as his boots hit the metal, he paused only momentarily before heading for the wheelhouse and fumbling open the door, heading for the controls. On a form of desperate autopilot, he slammed the levers and switches into place as necessary, reveling in the sound of the engines firing up as yet another explosion rocked the night and torched the sky. And that's my cue to get the hell out, he told himself, looking out the window to assist in piloting.

From the path where he'd come from came somewhere around a half dozen pursuers, the soldiers he'd outrun and hid from as soon as he picked up on their less than noble intentions to shoot him 'just in case'. Barking orders among themselves, their flashlights lit on and gleamed off the ship, sending beacons through the window.

"Shit, shit, shit," Ish muttered, urging the trawler to go faster, as fast as it could.

"In the wheelhouse!" he heard one of the soldier's bark as their light cast a shadow. "Shoot to kill!"

The boat shuddered under his feet, ready to escape, just as the first shot shattered the window of the open wheelhouse door. Cursing, Ish ducked as low as he dared as the Antananorivo jetted off into the darkness, chased by the soldier's gunfire.

It was almost ten minutes before he dared to raise his head to peer into the darkness which had long since swallowed up the flashlight beams of the soldiers. Around him, the ocean waved calmly, but the world still refused to be silent. From the shore behind him, gunfire still bickered, and the screams of the masses wailed higher than any siren, splitting the peace in half and shattering it with their agony and terror.

He was in the middle of some unfamiliar body of water and far enough away that the screams in the distance were nearly inaudible, though entirely unforgettable, before he killed the boat's engine. The tension and strength draining from his muscles as he leaned back against the wheelhouse wall, Ish's legs slid from underneath him, bringing him to the deck and the shattered glass which lay there. Tilting his head back and shutting his eyes as if to block out the sight of the flames of an explosion, or the way that that insane woman had crumpled back with a bullet in her brain as he'd held the shaking gun, he let out a shaky breath that quickly collapsed into something that wasn't quite laughter or tears.

Holy shit, he thought in disbelief. Holy shit. That happened. That's happening. Somehow, his brain couldn't form any other thought past guilty relief that he had made it out. The bodies that had already been piling up by the time he'd exited were the proof that there were a lot of people who hadn't been so lucky, and the image of their dead gaze was engraved into his mind with a firmness he doubted he could erase. And their faces. Their faces.

For the love of God, half of them had been kids.

Running his hands over his face, Ish finally dissolved into a sort of disbelieving, crazed laughter. Whatever the hell was going on back there, it was real. It wasn't some ridiculous film on the television screen anymore, or some headline on the news, not anymore. That was yesterday. That was a world ago.

Picking up a piece of the broken glass from the nearby metal, Ish laughed. We finally found our apocalypse.

The world finally found its way to hell.

~O.o.O.o.O.o.O.o.O~

That had been three months ago.

Now, as the waves lulled gently against the Antananorivo's hull and through the gaping hole that had been carved into her side, Ish drummed his fingers lightly on the control panel. Looking up through the fogged, green, and occasionally nonexistent windows, he cast his eyes along the stretch of shore he'd finally let the old trawler die on. Going on for what seemed like an eternity in either direction, it betrayed no signs of life, only the same silence he'd gotten uncomfortably accustomed to over the past three months.

"Well," he muttered to himself, filling the quietude with his voice in what had grown to be a rather steadfast habit of his, "at least that means I won't get shot immediately by any trigger happy soldiers…" If there's even anybody left.

He wasn't sure which terrified him more – the idea of having the whole world to himself, or the idea of only sharing it with the dregs of mankind and having to fight it out to survive. Not that it matters which I prefer.

A ledger and pen lay on the control panel, stained with the coffee he'd brewed in some attempt at normalcy a week ago and promptly spilled thereafter. When he'd put it on the boat with the rest of his supplies the day before the outbreak, he'd intended on using it to detail his adventures sailing around the world. Instead, most of the paper had been converted to either poorly made origami, paper airplanes which didn't fly, or a series of notes to himself which tended to wind up in the ocean when a particularly vivid nightmare woke him in darkness and reminded him that the world as it was now was the last thing he'd ever want to remember. Picking it up, Ish drummed it in between his fingers for a moment before finally writing out one more note, not at all doubting that it would be his last.

Well... It's looking like I've dodged the chaos and the mayhem long enough. My time out at sea is coming to an end. I'm short on supplies and this boat has seen better days. And you know what... This was bound to happen sooner or later. I guess it's time to go see what's left of mankind.

What could possibly go wrong, right?

If you happen to find my skeleton, please don't step on my skull. Thanks.

-Ish

As he drew the last line of his signature, Ish sighed gently, resting his hand on the paper again. So, he thought. That's it then. Looking at the comic beside him, a volume of Savage Starlight he'd read so many times in trying to kill the boredom that he'd practically memorized the damned thing, he shook his head as he picked it up then put it back down. Not as if the dead have much need for comics, and it's not like I'll probably live long. No point in taking it where I'm going.

As he stepped out of the wheelhouse, he closed the door behind him purely out of habit, though the still-shattered window reminded him that it was hardly a helpful safety measure. His feet echoed gently against the steel of the deck as he walked toward the railing, stopping at it and leaning against the cool bars.

For a moment, he couldn't help some sort of vaguely sentimental distress. Once he stepped away from this, the past would be completely gone, as if it had never existed. The idea left him simultaneously horrified and numb. The sea he knew so well stretched out before him, cold and unforgiving and still silent, offering no solace or opinion. Above, the sky shone silver grey with the promise of a storm, a wind biting at his ungloved hands as he shoved them into his coat pockets.

"No help from either of you then," he murmured, ducking his head down. "Well. Suppose I'll have to give myself my own inclination in that case."

With one last glance, he shook his head and walked to the side of the trawler, vaulting over the side again, a backpack with the ledger and what few other items he'd bothered to hold onto hanging between narrow shoulder blades as he walked along the sand.

"First matter of business," he told himself, "find somewhere safe."

Safe. Right.

He hunched down and walked forward without looking back as, like ashes drifting from a dying fire, the snow began to fall.