Mirax3613 was super kind enough to sketch a blueprint of the ship. I can't seem to figure out how to insert the image on FF, but if you check out my username and the same chapter on Archive of Our Own, you can see the picture.
"It's too quiet," Abel whispered, squinting down the hall where a single light flickered on and off. The bright yellow glare took turns with surrounding darkness.
Porthos didn't have anything to say to that. Didn't want to say anything, really, because as nerve wracking as the silence was – and no, he wouldn't admit it out loud, but the quiet was too thick, too heavy and unnatural, like something purposely coaxing – he hated the way their voices carried more. Hated the way the hallway dragged out every murmur, made whispers into traceable echoes. And in the walls, all around them, the Sleipnir continued its steady-soft thrum, indifferent.
Their sprint from the medical ward had taken them three halls over, deeper into the bowels of the third floor of the ship and toward the lift. When the lights had gone out, a departure accompanied by some circuit-voiced groan, the navigators had tempered their pace toward caution.
"I don't like this. We should've come across somebody else by now," Abel insisted. "This is a fully populated warship. We should've–"
Somewhere along the lines of his training, Porthos was sure the manuals had covered the necessity of patience. Probably. It didn't matter. He purposely stepped into Abel's path, knocking into the other navigator, who let out a surprised huff as he stumbled.
"What was that for?"
"Just shut up," Porthos griped, though quietly.
Abel's mouth thinned, and his dark eyes were sharp. He glared like he had something to say, but after a moment he just nodded and resumed walking. Which was good, Porthos thought, because Abel had nothing on Phobos' sass, and after years of dealing with that pretentious bitch, Porthos considered himself a professional in tuning complaints out.
Abel, for his part, just tried to ignore the way their steps sounded so isolated; and Porthos', under the weight of his wound, were staggered.
They reached the elevator just as the overhead power faltered again. Abel counted the seconds they were bathed in darkness, forcing himself not to shift his feet as they waited. Finally, the lights returned – after four seconds, Abel thought, four long seconds – and they were both left staring at a soft red light that blinked around the lift's entry panel.
Porthos reached a tentative hand out, fingers, swathed in that aggressive glow, hovering above the Open screen. "Locked?" he breathed, like it was a personal offense. "How can it be fucking locked?"
Abel shook his head. "The power outages could have redirected security. Or maybe someone already knows about the… creatures. Maybe they're trying to keep the things contained to this floor."
Porthos' glare was incredulous, but a clatter from around the corner, the sound of metal bouncing off metal, made him hold his tongue; they stood, frozen in place, a picture of blonde hair and pale skin awash in that obstinate red light. When no other noise followed, Porthos let out a shaky breath. "It doesn't matter," he hissed, barely voicing the words, "These things are in the ventilation, which means they don't need the fucking lifts to access other floors. But unless we think of something, we're stuck, and the morgue-" He stopped, clenched his teeth, remembered how that monster had worn the scraps of a medic's uniform, how its skull had caved like clay under his strikes, felt his stomach drop as his mind grasped at some connection. "We're boxed in by the morgue and a shit-ton of storage space. So we either get this elevator back online or find a maintenance ladder down to the flight deck." He didn't want to think of the alternative, didn't want to imagine standing around with the not-silence of the humming Sleipnir, trapped like some animal at the leisure of an unknown number of monsters.
Abel hummed in soft agreement and tried recall the schematics he had studied before transferring ships. "There should be computer station on this floor. I know medical has its own system-"
"No way in hell are we going back there."
"-but there should be another for simple operations. Maintenance has one on each floor."
"Can it get the lift running?"
"I don't know," Abel confessed. "But it may be our best bet at this point."
Porthos grunted, displeased by the lack of reassurance, even if Abel was right and it was their only option.
"How's your leg?" Abel asked suddenly.
Porthos twisted around to look at the back of his thigh. "Mostly stopped bleeding. Fucker left one hell of an impression me, though," he whispered wryly.
(Yet his thoughts betrayed him, told him how things could have been much worse if that creature's blade-like arm had managed to cut deeper, if he hadn't had the advantage of surprise in attacking first. Even with its chest crushed and one limb nearly ripped from the socket, the monster had thrashed with some visceral desire to maim. Porthos wondered what would happen if he had to face one of those things head-on and without a weapon.
He wondered how long he'd be able to last.)
Abel snorted, then smiled unexpectedly, the expression small and fleeting. "I never thought I'd say this, but you remind me of Cain, a little."
When Porthos turned toward him, it was slow, as if the movement took effort, and the glower he cast Abel was full of disgust. Only when Abel had the decency to look sheepish did Porthos start walking down the hall.
They didn't have to walk long to find blood.
Intermitted streaks and pools of red preceded them on the floor, a messy, ominous trail that started at a discreet ladder and continued further down the hall where the shadows clung. Two sets of crimson footprints followed along.
Porthos cast one look at the blood before shaking his head and grabbing the nearest ladder rung.
"Wait," Abel insisted, unable to tear his gaze away from the prints. "Whoever left those, they obviously need help."
Porthos scoffed. "They're on their own. We have our way off this floor."
"We can't just leave them behind!" Abel hissed. "And besides, we don't even know if this ladder leads to the flight deck. Could be to whatever hurt those two in the first place."
Hesitation strengthened Porthos' grip, his knuckles whitening. He glanced down into the black mouth of the ladder's descent, then back to the hallway, following the sloppy lines of blood. "Abel," he whispered, for once unable to keep all the nervousness out of his voice. "I've got a bad feeling about being here."
The monster. It's human-like eyes. The tattered remains of a uniform clinging to moist flesh.
Abel leveled a stare like steel, steadiness contrived by determination. "You can go," he said quietly, slowly. "I understand. But if the rest of the ship is locked down, I might be able to access clearance from the computer station. And those guys need help."
And Porthos thought, oh shit, because he wasn't going down that ladder alone.
"Okay… Okay, let's go."
They followed the blood, wariness keeping their pace slow, until it led them to the far end of the ship, where they could see, in the distance, like some pulsing red beacon, the locked door to the morgue. And to their right, through a glass framed entryway, a short line of computers cast color on a solitary figure.
He was haggard, eyes dull even though the monitors were so bright, dull when his still-baby-fat cheeks were shining with blood. His hands shook, and he kept them slightly raised, as if he couldn't make himself relax, couldn't curl his fingers when they were wet and dripping. On the ground in front of him, in a crumpled heap, lay the owner of the second set of footprints.
Smoke curled, twisted, and danced away from dry lips and the cherry-red end of one cigarette before Vicks greeted them with a tired drawl. "Hello, boys. Fancy seeing you here."