Notes:
This took forever and it's still short /sobs
For those of you who want to get a better idea about the Dead Space universe but don't want to brave the games, Netflix has an instant streaming of Dead Space: Downfall; it's not super accurate on all accounts, but it's entertaining.
When Cain awoke the next morning, he held his breath against the threat of lingering dreams. With each blink, he swore some flash of color remained, some glimpse of silhouettes and carnage. He shook his head to dispel the color, turning his head to peer at Abel. His eyes roamed the curves of his navigator's face, looking for signs of restlessness. But Abel's expression was relaxed, skin almost ghost white in the dim room.
Cain watched the way his chest rose and fell in a deep and steady rhythm, and not for the first time he took some small comfort in having Abel beside him.
Not that he'd ever admit it, of course.
Cain dressed quietly, taking extra time to brush his teeth and splash water on his face; in front of the mirror, he forced himself to look up, to catch and hold his own eyes. A shadow clung somewhere in their depths, and blinking did nothing to relieve the heaviness he felt. And then there were the flashes, the- "Nothing," he said quietly to the glass. Nothing at all.
Cain spared a last look for Abel before leaving for morning training. The halls were quieter than usual as he exited the barracks and entered the main levels of the ship. He passed more than one pair of fighter-navigator teams speaking in hushed tones. Several rubbed their temples, all looked tired. This whole thing was turning out to be one helluva clusterfuck. It wasn't enough having to deal with the stress of a suicide mission in Colteron space; now they had some virus spooking morale and health alike.
If it even was a virus, Cain thought wryly.
A small group of navigators turned the corner in front of Cain, their hurried steps matching their anxious expressions. Each of them wore the customary white of their positions, but their uniforms were out of order, not quite as perfect as usual. They looked harried, Cain thought.
Before the group reached the end of the hall, Lieutenant Keeler stepped out from a nearby lift and signaled them over. "Which way?" he asked, shoulders back and tight. One of the navigators pointed in the direction from which the navigators had traveled. "Over there, sir!"
Before Keeler could reply, screaming suddenly sounded from around the corner. The lieutenant started and dropped all pretenses of formal engagement; he took off running toward the noise, his loose braid slipping like a white streamer in his wake.
Cain watched him go, feeling a wave of unease that seemed to keep growing as the day went on. He gave the remaining navigators a confused scowl. "What the fuck?" he demanded, letting that speak for itself as the wailing down the hall continued.
The shortest of the three, a shy looking man with a notebook held to his chest, gave a diminutive shrug. "A navigator, Epiales… He lost it."
"Lost it?" Cain asked. "What's that supposed to mean?"
The shorter man gave another shrug and looked away, wincing when the cries down the hall grew louder.
Cain stared at the corner, letting wariness war with curiosity. He took a step toward the noise, and red flashed briefly in his vision. Shaking it off, he chided himself for being a coward and rounded the turn, letting his feet take him where instinct warned him against.
The screaming spilled from the mouth of a single navigator, a thick-shouldered blonde who thrashed and howled as two medics and a startled fighter attempted to restrain him. Blood dribbled from the nose of one of the medics, staining crisp white uniforms with ugly smears of red in the struggle. The navigator's mouth also bled, lower lip split, and his teeth continued to gnaw at the swollen flesh when he paused to breathe between shouts.
"Make it stop! Make it stop!" he yelled, hands busy with reaching for his head and fighting off the men trying to restrain him. His nails dug shallow grooves into his scalp, nails catching on hair and skin. "Can't you hear it? It's calling- God, it's here! Help me, help me…"
Keeler was kneeling in front of him, trying to sound calm but stern. "Epiales, listen to me. You're going to be okay. Calm down, navigator, that's an order. You need to tell us what's wrong."
Epiales looked at Keeler with stricken eyes. "Don't you hear? It's in my head. It's everywhere."
"Epiales, stop. Just-" Keeler abruptly looked at one of the medics, eyes flashing with frustration. "He needs to be sedated. iNow/i."
"No," Epiales suddenly whispered, going limp. Keeler stared at him in surprise, but the navigator's gaze bore into the air above Keeler's shoulder. "There's no time. No time, little brother."
Keeler snapped his fingers in front of Epiales' face. "No time for what? Epiales? What brother?"
"So much blood," the navigator whispered, starting to cry. "So much. Oh my God, I hear it. We're meat. We're meat," he sobbed.
As backup medics arrived with sedatives, Keeler stepped back, expression carefully blank but body tense. He glanced over and met Cain's eyes as the rush of personnel carried on around them, a wall of non-forthcoming opinion in shades of gray and pale blonde.
Cain stared back, trying to ignore the way his heart jumped when the crazed navigator began thrashing again. After a moment, unable to find answers in Keeler's gaze, he turned on his heel and headed back. Creepy as fuck or not, Encke wouldn't take this as an excuse for tardiness.
Besides, he needed to talk to Deimos.