2137
Sevastopol was falling into chaos.
Hours turned into days. Days turned into weeks. What remained of the population had gone from a relatively quiet group of people to a number of factions once supplies dwindled and more and more people had seen the alien monster. Reports of disappearances had been a daily occurrence, but once everyone decided to go their own way, turn their backs on Waits, the calls stopped.
Sterling had made enough explosives for three traps. Had the population been more cooperative, they would have been able to set them wherever they wanted. Moving people was usually a simple task. Now, they wouldn't. They claimed they didn't trust the Marshals anymore. Why? So many reasons. They didn't trust Waits. They wanted answers, answers Waits couldn't give.
"What are we seeing?"
I don't know.
"When are we getting out?"
I don't know.
"Why won't you tell the truth?"
I am telling the truth. Go where I tell you. You'll be safer there. Stop fighting with me. I'm not your enemy here. There's something so much worse . . .
The alien would go where people were, hunt them in silence, and Waits couldn't do a damn thing. There were some groups who hated him so much over his interference with the black market, they'd shoot at him before shooting at the alien.
It meant Ransome finding out was inevitable, and Ransome wasn't interested in killing the creature. He wanted it trapped, sure, but just captured. Caged, and sold. Waits didn't care what Ransome's connections were, who his connections were. It was obvious Ransome had only his interests at heart when Waits listened to his latest message. His own interests and his spite for Waits.
Ransome knew just the right buttons to push on Waits. The man had the balls to tell Waits "you're getting old. You can't do this forever."
Waits had heard this so many times that he should be numb to it, but it wasn't something he could really numb himself to. How many people over the course of his life had told him he couldn't do this job forever? So many. So many, he couldn't count them all. He couldn't even remember them all, who had said it, or when they said it.
After being trapped in total isolation on an orbital spaceport, after going through the horrific war on LV-112, after the transport Burgoyne was hijacked, everyone Waits knew was shocked he kept going. Especially after LV-112 ten years ago, when he started hearing things that weren't there. A simple walk with his sister in Boston became a nightmare when a car backfired. He pulled her down, shouting, telling her to stay down. That same day, back in Deerfield, there was a fireworks display in a park. He couldn't handle it. He was under a desk, handgun drawn, terrified. An alien jet fighter was going to strafe the bunker any minute . . .
There was blood everywhere. He was screaming for help. Half the Marshals trapped inside were dead or dying. He kept screaming despite his lungs being flooded with ash and debris. The gloved hand of a Marine reached in, grabbing his, escorting what remained of his group to an APC. What happened next, Waits could only remember in fragments. He remembered vomiting blood and debris, a medtech shouting that they needed an evac for the wounded. He remembered losing consciousness . . . waking up somewhere else, a ship, maybe. Faintly, he remembered searing pain in his torso. Inside his torso. His lungs were nearly scorched by breathing in so much ash. He had to be forced to vomit more to clear out any toxic debris he may have swallowed. There was so much blood in it. Everything smelled like it had been burnt badly.
Those fragments haunted him, in sleep and in waking. He couldn't escape them.
Yet he pressed on. He returned to work. He got an assignment to LV-510, in the city of Netrayas, and coped with his trauma on his own. A big hill overlooking the downtown shoreline district was his place of solitude. Trees sheltered him from the view of the people living in the suburbs. Around sunset, he'd go and sit, alone with nothing but his thoughts.
Waits struggled with post-traumatic stress for over a year, and found just sitting on that hill, alone, was somewhat helpful. He didn't want to get actual help, as he was afraid of someone finding out. He was afraid of someone suggesting he quit, and find something less intense if this was going to be his brain's reaction. He didn't want to quit. He needed to prove himself. Prove he can get past it.
While around other Marshals, he had to suppress the urges to hide, to cower, whenever he heard a loud sound. It didn't take long to realize that the flashbacks were almost uncontrollable. They hit with the force of a train, often rendering him frozen in place, eyes staring ahead, clearly lost in his own mind. That hill was the only place where he could unleash his emotions. He could cry, and no one would ever know.
A part of him wished intensively that someone would see him cry. Wished someone would offer help, or comfort. Something. But he couldn't bring himself to tell anyone. He hardly knew the Marshals at his post. His sister was all the way back on Earth. The most she had said was that he needed help, but he couldn't accept that.
So he suffered with it, until it receded like a fog. Privately, he knew he didn't "bounce back." It was buried somewhere in his brain. The screaming, the smell and taste of blood and ash, the gunfire, the sound of missiles shrieking overhead. Where was it buried? He was constantly afraid of digging it up by accident. He definitely didn't want it emerging here. It would be as forceful and as vile as the worm coming out of that woman's chest, and he thought about that the whole day after getting Ransome's message.
It would be proof that he couldn't do this job forever. It would be proof he was a failure, that the residents of Sevastopol couldn't look up to him for safety and protection.
At least his trauma wasn't made known to Ransome. But that's what happened in his nightmares. It came out, in the form of a worm. He had been patrolling the mall when he felt pain encompassing his chest and belly. He fell to his knees, and blood erupted from his chest as ribs snapped. A piece of his sternum was pushed out of the gaping wound by a screaming little parasite. And Ransome was watching. He grinned at Waits before leaning over to grab the bloody worm, saying, "I'll take that. Thanks."
He jolted upright at his desk after that, feeling sick. He knew Ransome was self-serving, but he didn't think the man was this nuts. Who the hell would want to buy such a dangerous animal anyway? Was this a last-ditch effort for Ransome to secure something in order to escape Sevastopol and Waits's wrath when this was over? Most likely.
Waits ignored Ransome's message. He couldn't take this seriously, especially since it was just pure insanity laced with insults. Nothing was worse than people outright saying, or hinting at him needing to quit, because he had heard it his whole career.
They thought they had the creature trapped in a sector near the Spaceflight Terminals. Sterling held his breath as he watched the creature emerge from a vent.
"Now!" Waits growled.
Sterling pressed a button on a control panel in front of him. A second later, they felt the shockwaves of the explosion. Several heartbeats of silence passed before Sterling turned to Waits. "If that didn't take care of it, I don't know what will."
"Well, we can't celebrate just yet. We've already had two traps sprung with no results. This one might be no different." Waits sighed, wishing he could sound more optimistic.
"I'm not seeing anything on the cameras," Sterling said. "I'll let you know what happens, sir."
Waits took a long moment to think, and closed his eyes. "I think we need to call the Marines."
"What?"
"You heard me, son. We need to call the Marines. We can't handle this anymore."
"It'll take weeks for-"
"It's better than nothing." Waits headed into his office, putting on a headset and tapping a key to activate long-range communication.
What the hell . . . ? Waits cycled through every channel. They were all static or blank. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he snarled under his breath. He turned a knob, moving through channels, trying to hear something. The only active channels were local, on Sevastopol. He turned another knob, getting nothing.
Panic flooded his mind. He had never felt this panicked before . . .
But, he had.
The panic was enough to churn up the soil burying his memories. It seemed as though what happened last week with Ransome's message and now this would bring his trauma back to the surface of his brain. He was powerless against it, but he fought it. Panicking and breaking would not pull Sevastopol through this.
I am the only thing standing between Sevastopol and outright disaster.
I am the only thing standing between my Marshals and complete annihilation.
"Waits?"
Sterling's voice broke his thoughts. Waits took off his headset, and turned in his chair to face the younger Marshal. He controlled his expression, trying to swallow a building emotional explosion.
"I . . ." Sterling paled. "Video feed. The . . . The creature . . . it's . . . W-We missed. Again."
If he mustered the strength to react, Waits knew there would be no holding back on the eruption inside him. He couldn't react with frustration. It would provide a valve for the pressure, but he couldn't control the valve. Not anymore. All he did was nod. "Figures," he muttered.
He could still think somewhat clearly, and knew there was only one person on this entire station who could put his mind back on track.
The journey would be dangerous, but, more than ever, he wanted to see Lingard. It was worth the risk.
"Waits? Are you alright?" Sterling asked, quietly.
"I'm fine." Waits stood, trying to look as though he had everything under control. "I . . . have to go over to San Cristobal. Personal reasons."
Sterling didn't argue. "Lingard?" he whispered.
Waits nodded. "I wanna make sure she's OK, and . . . I just need to talk to her. Alone."
"You yourself said no one is to leave without a partner, and you know certain people have become extremely hostile toward you. Sinclair-"
"I know about Sinclair. He's got a real small pair of balls if he thinks cutting ties with us is gonna save his ass, and he's killing people he doesn't know, or people he knows support me. He's a coward, and I don't give a damn whether he lives or dies here. I'll piss on his corpse for what he's done to me. He let the black market flourish, and he let that garbage dump of a man Marlow on board with his infected bitch."
Sterling was quiet for a moment, nearly unfazed by Waits's rage toward the head of Seegson Security. "I was . . . going to offer to come with you. I won't bother you and Lingard."
Waits handed a shotgun to Sterling. "Fine."
Slinging the weapon over his shoulder, Sterling glanced at Lissa, who was sitting on a bench with a book in hand. "Um . . . what are we going to do about her?"
"What about her?" Waits asked.
"The others are going out to set another trap. She'd be all alone in here."
Waits bit his lip, then sighed. "She'll come with us. We can lock the doors all we want to keep rioters out, but we've seen that creature use vents and I don't want to take the risk of it hiding in the walls, waiting for us to leave so she's vulnerable."
Sterling nodded. "You don't think we're putting her in harm's way?"
"Either way, we're putting her in harm's way, but I'd feel better if she was with us." Waits picked up his revolver before walking over to Lissa. "Hey, we're going on a walk. You gotta come with us."
"Why?" Lissa asked, her voice low.
"We don't want you completely alone in here. Plus, it'll be good to get you out of the Bureau for a little while, given how long you've been sitting with us."
"Should we arm her?" Sterling asked.
Waits shrugged. "Why not? Three guns'll be better than two." He unlocked the armory, disappearing inside to grab another revolver. Lissa and Sterling followed. A minute later, Waits emerged, placing bullets in the revolver's cylinder. "Lissa? Ever shoot before?"
"Not recently. My husband had more experience than me."
"OK. Safety's on. When you wanna use it, just pull back this handle, aim, and pull the trigger. Got it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Let's head out."
Much of Sevastopol was now dark, either because electrical systems had failed, or because people had shut the lights off to keep themselves hidden. Waits was coming to hate the darkness, but he wasn't sure if he hated the darkness itself, or what lurked inside it.
What used to be a simple trip was now a dangerous journey. Waits compared it to a warzone. LV-112. He swallowed hard. Steady, Jethro . . .
Every corner and every vent-every shadow-was a place where something could hide. Waits walked ahead of Lissa and Sterling. He knew his presence made them all targets, but he also knew hiding would make him a coward. He needed to be out there, fighting, showing everyone that he wasn't someone who backed down easily, someone who scared easily.
Right now, he was scared. The fact that long-range communication was down scared him. They were on their own.
He didn't want to think about it. Once this creature was destroyed, he'd be able to get someone to fix the comms, or one of the transports would come. They would all be able to ditch this thing, although Waits was afraid of the creature somehow getting on board a transport. He couldn't risk that happening, but how could he prevent that from happening? Aside from destroying the son-of-a-bitch, of course.
When they got on the transit to SciMed, Waits tried not to let his mind wander. He had spent a long time trying to keep his memories of past assignments buried, and now they were coming back. He had spent a long time trying to prove to everyone he met that he was worth having around, that he was good at his job despite his rough demeanor.
He had spent a long time trying to prove he cared. He knew within his heart that he cared about those around him, but it was tough to show. Few could see inside him. Few gave him a chance. Lingard was one of them. She saw who he really was, and loved him for it. She accepted him. In return, he loved her. He cared for her when she didn't care for herself.
He couldn't count how many nights he had gone down to San Cristobal in the dead of night to shake Lingard awake at her desk. She'd argue with him, but she was usually too tired to really resist him. She couldn't deny that he was right and she needed sleep. Waits would then walk her all the way back to her apartment. If she was too tired, he'd carry her. Sometimes, he wondered if she pretended to be that tired because she liked him carrying her. He could remember her putting her arms around his neck, holding onto him.
When Sevastopol became more and more empty, there were a lot of open spaces where they could walk without anyone observing them. It was the closest they would get to a walk in the park, or a city street. Waits was always the one to initiate the hand-holding. He would feel Lingard squeeze his hand, intertwine her fingers with his. They walked slowly, with Lingard resting her head on Waits's shoulder. It was blissful, happy. Waits wished those moments would last forever.
The transit car stopping shook Waits from his thoughts and memories. He gave a quiet sigh, hoping and praying that he and Lingard would be able to take those walks again soon.
He wasn't thinking about his romance for very long; when he and Lissa and Sterling walk to the hospital, they were all horrified to see many of the beds and wheelchairs were now empty. Some had bloodstains covering them. When Waits saw Morley, he called to him. "What the hell happened here?"
"A lot." Morley sounded lost for words. "It wasn't just . . . the creature. We were ambushed a few nights ago. People looking to steal our supplies." He looked tired. The shine in his eyes was just about gone. He didn't want to talk about what really happened.
"Are you OK?"
"I'm fine. Lingard's fine."
Waits looked down at his boots, his heart sinking into the pit of his stomach. There was nothing he could say that would make this situation better. "We're doing the best we can," he said.
Morley nodded, still looking like the shadow of the happy man he once was.
"Sterling, stay out here with Lissa. Keep watch on the rest of the patients," Waits ordered, gently. He walked up to Morley, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I'm really sorry."
Morley took a breath. "This isn't your fault, Waits. I . . . I don't know what we're going to do with the remaining patients."
"I don't have enough men to guard them, not with everything else we're doing."
"We can't abandon them."
"I'm not saying we're going to abandon them. I don't know what we're going to do. I'm doing my best to take care of this damn creature. It'll walk into one of our traps sooner or later, and then this'll all be over." Waits tried to contend with a feeling of hopelessness building in his chest. "Can I talk to Lingard?"
"Yes. She's in her office."
After patting Morley's shoulder, Waits headed into the hospital. The door to Lingard's office was open, but Waits knocked anyway when he saw her sitting at her desk, staring absentmindedly at a folder in front of her. "Hey," he said.
Lingard stood up, and ran to him, jumping in his arms. "Waits," she sobbed.
"Hi." Waits hugged her, and kissed her forehead. "You OK?"
"I don't know anymore. Did you-"
"Morley told me what happened. And, no, we . . . we haven't destroyed the creature yet." Waits let out a heavy sigh. "I'm sorry. I really-"
"I'm just glad you're alive."
"I'm glad you're alive, too," Waits replied, kissing Lingard again. "Can I talk to you? Just . . . I need you."
Lingard nodded. They sat behind the desk after closing the door, and Waits tried to explain what was going on inside his head. He told her about Ransome's message, about their repeat failures to destroy the alien, about what it unraveled in his mind. He told her about what had happened on LV-112, and how the aftermath connected to now.
"It was ten years ago. Nothing about it should connect to this situation, and yet . . . it does. I don't know why. Why's it coming up now?" Waits asked.
"Because you feel helpless, like you did back then," Lingard replied. "You don't want anyone to know you feel helpless. You're in charge of a group of fragmented people, like you were on LV-112. There's death, there's destruction. It's different, but it's the same, and it's waking up those memories you thought you wouldn't have to deal with ever again."
"I buried them."
"And you shouldn't have buried them. You told me the same thing when I told you about my miscarriage-I can't just keep that memory to myself if it hurts that bad. You can't do that, either."
Sighing, Waits nodded. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It's not the most easy thing in the world to talk about. I just . . . I wish you told me sooner."
"I wish I did, too. I wasn't thinking about it, though. I thought . . . I thought-"
"Thought it wouldn't come back to haunt you."
"Yeah. Exactly. Again, I'm-"
"Don't be sorry, Waits. Please. You didn't expect this to happen." Lingard gently squeezed Waits's shoulders. "You told me now. It's better than nothing."
"What can I do? I don't want anyone to know I'm . . . I'm falling apart."
"You're not falling apart. You're human. You have your own struggles. We all do." Her grip on him tightened. "I have faith in you. Does that mean anything?"
"Yes."
"Good. If nothing else, just . . . think of me. We're going to get through this. Together. In no time, we'll be in cryosleep on our way to Gateway, and we'll start a new life together. If anything, that thought should keep you going. It's kept me going the last few weeks."
"Yeah." Waits released his breath. "Seeing you helps, too. You've been the only person who makes me feel like . . . I'm not a complete waste of space. You haven't forced me to change for your liking. You're . . . You're also the most beautiful woman I ever met, and . . ." Waits blushed, looking down.
Lingard grinned, lifting Waits's chin to see his blush. "You really do turn to mush every time you see me."
"I do." Waits looked into Lingard's eyes. "I'm a tough guy, but I don't know what I'd do without you."
"Bet now you're happy I did say something when I saw you stumbling to your apartment to throw up the day after you arrived."
"I'm very happy you said something. Who'd have thought . . . that would be the start of something wonderful."
They stayed still for a moment, before Lingard hugged Waits as tight as she could. "I'm also happy I'm the person you feel like you can be vulnerable around."
"Well, good. That was one of the things I've wanted in a relationship. Someone to be vulnerable around. And you're the same way around me."
"Yeah."
Neither of them said a word for several minutes. Waits rested his head on top of Lingard's, rubbing her back. "I have to head back to the Bureau soon," he whispered. "I still wish . . ." He trailed off, knowing Lingard's response.
"Until that creature picks off every patient, I'm staying here," she replied. "I can't abandon them, or Morley."
"OK. Just remember what I told you. If it comes down to it, I will come down here, guns a-blazing, to rescue you, and that's a promise."
"I know. I just hope it doesn't come to it."
Question: If more of the population of Sevastopol had survived and escaped, how should Waits punish Ransome for his actions on the station, both before and during the infestation?
