The control room they work from is semicircular, with one wall entirely made up of dimly glowing screens with charts and graphs and security footage. Stiles has always liked it. It reminds his of the old movies his dad would show him from when he was a kid. Science fiction, they called it, but it's more of a reality than fiction now. Stiles likes that he has to walk around to see all of the data, because it helps him when he can't sit still.
Scott still hasn't been working here long enough to have the same uncanny amount of accuracy that Stiles has when it comes to reading the machines. He stands in the back, leaning against a swivel chair and stares forlornly at one of the blinking screens as Stiles moves around in a flurry of flailing limbs as he makes stops by each screen, muttering under his breath the whole while.
Most of the readings are still accurate, or at least, enough so that they don't really need to do anything until the next time they service them. Some of them are a little odd, but otherwise normal enough that he's not too worried. The only one that looks like it needs work, which has him sighing and tempted to bang his head against the nearest hard surface, is the very one he'd been worried about. The methane levels are unnaturally high, which is displacing the oxygen and causing a pretty concerning fire hazard, which is about the last thing they need this far from any rescue stations. Taming the conditions in the biome takes first priority.
Stiles has taken kindly to calling this one 'Mordor', after the place in this really old book his great-grandmother sent him on his fifteenth birthday years ago, because of all of the heat and the fairly dangerous inhabitants of the biome. He names all of the biomes after fictional places. No one ever understands the references. The lack of love for classic literature disheartens him.
"Looks like we're walking into Mordor, Frodo," he says as he makes his way over to Scott.
Scott raises a brow. "What?" he asks.
"Nothing." Stiles says with another drawn out sigh. "I'm going to call this in with Jackson so they can clear out the control section. We need to reset the sensors and then take some samples. You get the equipment."
His friend nods dutifully and leaves the room and Stiles takes a deep breath to prepare for the inevitable dreadfulness of actually talking to that asshole Whittemore. He presses the comlink on one of the back computers and drops into the swivel chair to wait for an answer. Jackson's voice finally comes through, all crackly and strange. More interference. It must be one of the nearby planets.
"–Stilinski?"
"I need you to send a team down to B03." He cuts right to the chase. No need for pleasantries with Jackson, who wouldn't piss on you if you were on fire and sure as hell doesn't care for atmospheric analysts, such as Stiles. He thinks they're below him. "And make sure they're suited up," he adds. "We haven't had time to evaluate it yet, but it's potentially fatal."
"–like you f–think I'm sending a team–unprotected–" The static is horrible.
"Yeah, um, okay. So, we'll be in in twenty minutes. That okay?"
"Whatever." Asshole.
Scott gets back just as the line cuts off. He's got the measuring equipment, and he slides the extra pack off his shoulder and passes it to Stiles. "Everything alright?" he asks.
Stiles laughs. "Yeah, man. Everything's cool."
When they arrive at Mordor, or B03, Jackson looks fairly ruffled as he's exiting the containment gate. In lieu of greeting, he fixes Stiles with his dirtiest glare and says, "I hope you're happy with yourself Stilinski." He doesn't wait for a response, just pushes past them both. "Those damn aliens put up a fight."
"They were probably scared," Scott offers sincerely, but Stiles doesn't know why he even tries.
Jackson sniffs and turns around. "They keep this up and I'll give them a reason to be scared. This better not take long."
"It won't," says Stiles, flipping up the hood of his suit. He fastens the pack on his back and starts to pull up the mask as Scott mirrors him from where he's standing. They reach the gate with Jackson still muttering behind them. Stiles nods in greeting to Danny Mahealani, a member of Jackson's crew and offers Allison Argent a smile. It's all very routine. Nothing out of the ordinary. So why does he have this odd feeling?
Scott tries to say hello to his ex, but Allison frowns and Stiles quickly pulls him away before they can make a scene.
Within the next five minutes, they enter the biome.
B03 contains the native species of a recently discovered planet. The species isn't very technologically advanced and there wasn't much to salvage when they landed to pick them up. The 'civilization' had collapsed and most of the unintelligent species had perished. The only reason the yet unnamed natives had survived was their hardiness and their ability to… do something similar to photosynthesizing. Many people at the industry were against touching down, insisting that reaching out to this planet was a waste of time, that natural selection should take precedence. In fact, Green Sciences never would have touched down if not for a generous donation by the Hale family, who had maintained colonies there for a number of years. It was apparently enough money to qualify a rescue.
The inside of the biome is warm and humid, and Stiles can already feel the suit clinging to his clothes and his skin. The ground is hard packed and the trees, if you can call them that, come right up to the gate. From there, all Stiles can see are the trunks and the beginnings of a slope. A brownish smoky mist winds between them, filtering up into the ceiling so that it actually feels as if they'd stepped into another world. The colors are muted and it is dead silent in the biome. Stiles can't even hear the familiar rumble of the engines. Sometimes the technology packed into these ships amazes him.
Scott looks awestruck, and Stiles remembers belatedly that he's never taken his friend into B03 before. "Just don't touch anything," he says through the comm.
Scott nods. "I know."
Stiles adjusts his pack and starts on the trek to the far east side of the biome. It's a reminder of how old the ship is, that the controls aren't somewhere more easily accessible. The apparent defense of the placement of these is that most of the species they transport stay in the central area or near the gate, and usually won't mess with the control systems if they're out of the way. Stiles is pretty sure if they wanted to mess with the control systems, they would do so regardless of the placement. But what does he know? He's just a lowly atmospheric control specialist.
"Keep up," he says, when he notices Scott trailing a little farther behind. The suits may protect them from the atmosphere, but not from ambushes. If Jackson's wranglers missed one of the natives, there may be safety in numbers, but there's no argument for human capability when it comes to taking on something twice one's size. Scott gets closer a lot faster.
One last glance back, and Stiles sets his mind to making it into the control panel. He steps through the gnarled branches of one of the 'trees' and feels around for the wall that he knows is there. He finds the indention and presses down and the orangish backdrop fades to a metallic silver and then becomes transparent, and the seams of a door become apparent. It slides open.
"Alright, I know training is important, but uh, just let me fix this so we can get out of here as fast as we can." He doesn't add anything about the bad feeling, but he's been friends with Scott long enough that the message is immediately understood.
"I'll keep watch."
"Thanks, man," Stiles says, and he pats Scott on the shoulder before stepping through.
The control panel is a compact space. The receptacles and some of the older sensors are housed here, but there's very little stored inside beyond that. Most of the bigger stuff runs along the floor beneath the biomes, and sometimes Stiles finds himself questioning why the people that refurbished the ship didn't just reroute the sensors earlier. It would take a lot of the danger out of the job, which Stiles would miss, but he knows would be more practical in the long run.
His fingers brush over the wiring until he finds the right one, singed and sparking slightly. He'll need to replace it and then manually adjust the nitrogen dioxide and oxygen levels, and then recalibrate the system, and he needs to work fast. He sets into motion immediately, clipping the wires and running a new one to replace them, and then turns to the other side for the chromatograph, hands hovering over the buttons. Just as he's moving the one for nitrogen, a faint buzzing sound, like static, fills the air.
Stiles pauses and, in his confusion glances outside. Scott stares back, eyes wide and limbs snapping into a stiff defensive position. Stiles can feel the hair rising on the back of his neck and he suppresses a shiver. Even in the heat of B03, he can feel a chill pass through his body. He looks up as the light above him flickers, and then blinks off.
On. Off. On. Off. On. Off.
His hands are still paused over the controls.
The light stops flickering, but Stiles can't tear his eyes away. He can feel the panic rising, the bile in his throat, and he can't breath. It's like someone tore the mask from his suit.
The ship gives a great shudder, and then jerks, knocking him on his back and forcing the air from his lungs, and everything goes black. For a second, he sits in the pitch black hearing nothing but his shallow breathing in the silence. The emergency lights in the control panel switch on, muted and off-color, and Stiles watches, unable to move, as the glass door to the tiny room slowly slides shut. One of the protocols in the case of a blackout while the biomes are occupied... Scott's still form lies on the ground outside, and—
Shit, how could he be so stupid. He hadn't forgot about those stupid protocols, he'd completely ignored them because he figured it would be faster if he went in alone… And oh god, why isn't Scott moving?
Panic paralyzes him for a moment before the distant sound of an alarm breaks him out of his trance. "Scott!" It takes a few tries to push himself to his knees. There's a sharp pain in his back, but he has to… he can't… "Scott, get up!" He uses the ledge to pull himself up and braces himself against the wall until he reaches the glass.
He knows it's useless, the door is made from an alloy of palladium, the same stuff that lines the outer windows of the ship, and there's no way he's getting through, but his body moves of it's own accord. He tries pulling the edges, tries smashing it with some of the equipment, tries kicking it, though all that achieves is sending him arching over in another wave of pain.
There are tears in his eyes when Scott finally moves. He sits up slowly, like it physically pains him to move, and he still faces out into the biome and away from Stiles.
Stile takes a breath. He knows the comms won't work, not to call for help, but his finger presses against the button nevertheless. "Please, if anyone can hear me. Stiles Stilinski, B03. We need a crew down here. We're not equipped for a long term situation. I think… I think we may need a medic. Please… hurry."
Stiles watches Scott and his finger hovers over the switch on his comm. Short range is battery operated. The signal shouldn't be blocked, not if Scott will move close enough. "Come on, Scott," he mutters under his breath. "Come on."
After a moment, Scott pushes to his feet, drawn towards the sole source of light in the biome, the faint luminescence of the control panel. He stumbles, and Stiles can't catch a good glimpse of any damage, but his heart lifts to see his friend alive.
Stiles knocks on the glass and forces a smile and waves. They're gonna be okay.
And then Scott looks up.
The light from the control panel hits him just right. The hood of his suit is completely shattered, skin already bruising and cuts marring his face where the glass fell through, his nose dripping slowly. He's breathing fast, so fast, and Stiles doesn't know why he didn't notice the frantic movements of his shoulders before. Scott's eyes are already growing dull, and Stiles knows. He just knows, from somewhere deep inside, what's happening.
Scott stops moving when reaches the glass, dropping down and clutching his chest. He knows too.
Stiles moves slowly to the ground next to Scott, putting a hand on the glass. Scott winces and brings his own hand up. "It's gonna be okay, Scott."
Scott shakes his head.
"Just breath. Slowly." Stiles' voice shakes. "The power will come on any minute now, and they'll send in a rescue team. Jackson will be so mad. He'll lecture us for weeks." He laughs, and it sounds completely wrong leaving his lips.
Scott tries to laugh, but it comes out as more of a wheeze and turns into a barking cough that leaves him shaking in place. More blood drips down his chin.
"Allison will definitely kiss you after this, man. She'll realize her mistake." Stiles closes eyes and leans against the glass. His helmet blocks most of it, but he can imagine the warm glass against his forehead. "You guys will get married, and I'll have to waste half my vacation days to help you plan it, right?"
"Stiles."
"Maybe I'll get with Lydia by then. We'd really make Jackson mad."
"Stiles…"
"What do you think about double weddings?"
"Stiles, please—" Scott breaks off into another coughing fit, and suddenly all of this is real. Stiles can't pretend it isn't happening anymore, that Scott isn't choking to death on his own lungs outside, that his suit isn't broken enough to let in all of the chemicals and heat and God knows what else.
"Scott, don't do this to me, man." Stiles looks up and tears sting his eyes. "You can't okay? You just got here. We… y-you can't."
Scott slumps forward against the door, breath coming now in gasps. "I'm sorry." His voice barely carries over the comms. "I'm so sorry…"
"Scott, no…" Stiles bangs on the glass and Scott barely flinches in response. "Stay awake, okay? Just keep breathing." Please keep breathing. "Scott? Scott!"
Scott's eyes begin to slide closed, and his chin rests awkwardly on his chest, and damn it, there's nothing Stiles can do about it. He's losing his best friend. And all of the panic hits him at once, full-force, and he's a kid again waking from those horrible nightmares, and there's nothing he can do but scream Scott's name and bang on this god-forsaken glass because oh god, Scott's not breathing. Why isn't he breathing? He doesn't care if the pain in his back is worse and his legs are beginning to numb, doesn't care that his own suit is quickly running out of it's small supply oxygen, that the darkening in the edge of his vision continues to spread and grow… His best friend is out there and he isn't moving.
By the time someone arrives, Stiles' voice is hoarse and breathing is difficult, and he's slipped into the quiet realm between consciousness and unconsciousness. By the time the rescue team reaches them, Scott McCall has stopped breathing.