Spirit Caravan part 7, end. Nightmare. H.B. has lost his friend and that is not a good thing.

All the good things belong to MonolithSoft.

H.B. scanned the parking lot outside the Repenta Diner. Nothing but dark pavement and a few abandoned skells parked at crazy angles, pilot capsules cracked and stained pale blue. The neon sign flickered dimly, then went out, only to buzz back to life a few moments later. Dark strands of moss or webbing fluttered from the patio umbrellas, now faded and in tatters. It was like a bad dream, the kind where the world was empty and he was the last survivor from the evacuation ship. Or perhaps they had all fled and he had been left behind.

A muffled scream split the air, but he couldn't determine the direction. He wasn't even sure it was a scream. It might have been the sound of machinery grinding to a halt. He squeezed his fists by his side, realizing that he was weaponless. He had been sure that if he could find Frye anywhere, he'd find his friend here, swilling mystery libations and chatting with some fellow inebriates. But the parking lot was deserted and H.B. was alone.

The scream repeated itself, loud and clear. The sign flickered out again and a single block of radiance shone on the parking lot pavement, a flattened obelisk of burning light. H.B. stood frozen in place, squinting against the light.

"My man!" Frye shouted. "I thought you were stuck in the Maintenance Center for another day!" He hurried over to grab H.B.'s hand, which he shook so hard that H.B. was freed from his waking nightmare.

"I was released ..." H.B. stuttered, unable to finish the sentence. The door to the Repenta had shut again and the parking lot was dim and eerie. He shivered.

"God damn it, you left there without the full procedure," Frye swore, busily unsnapping every buckle on his jacket. H.B. hadn't managed a hypothesis for this behavior by the time Frye was draping the rough garment over H.B.'s shoulders. "Just because they spring you from those recovery tubes doesn't mean you're safe to walk the streets. Body temp is way low, to begin with." He rubbed H.B.'s arms for a second and peered into his eyes.

"What?" H.B. asked stupidly.

"Reaction time stinks, but you'll do. Trust me, I've seen worse." Frye barked a laugh. "Usually in the mirror on Monday morning, but you'll do. Come on inside and we'll get you hydrated."

"You're always out here," insisted H.B., remaining motionless.

"The manager took pity on me, seeing as how we were officially missing for a week. Probably just trying to make up for lost profits, but I appreciate the gesture. The decorations were spooking me."

H.B. looked around, realizing slowly that everything was artificial. The spiderwebs, the carefully staged crashed skells, even the flickering light of the sign was on a timer. Another scream split the air, exactly 2.45 minutes after the last one and the one before that. "Halloween decorations," H.B. repeated.

"Got it. Come on inside, buddy. We'll warm you up with the special of the day and then rehydrate you with a pitcher of beer." Frye tucked an arm under H.B.'s elbow. "Don't worry about keeping up with me, though. They cleared me for duty yesterday. Something about my brain not being as messed up, probably because there's less to break. I can drink most of your share as well as my own."

The light flashed on the pavement one more time as Frye pushed H.B. through the door. Then the parking lot was perfect in its desolation.

a/n: In my AU, Frye is actually not a bad medic. Something about taking care of Phog as a kid and stuff.

Next up: Halloweeeeeeeeen! So exciting. No idea, so if you have a suggestion, slide it in pronto.