Author's Note: PLEASE READ! If you've seen the movie, you know what happens. Obviously. If not-Event Horizon is a graphic, bloody masterpiece of sci-fi horror, but graphic and bloody nonetheless, so TRIGGER WARNING: this story contains situations involving violence, death, torture, mutilation, possession, and quite possibly more.
This isn't the stuff I usually write, but sometimes a movie or story grabs your attention and won't let go until you've done something with it-or several somethings, as it seems to be in this case. If this isn't your cup of tea, I get it. No offense taken.
And if anyone reading this notices anything I haven't listed under the trigger warning, please don't hesitate to let me know.
And to get this out of the way, Event Horizon does not belong to me.
Miller awakes, stumbling forward as the gravity couch opens to release him from both his temporary prison and the nightmares that plagued him while within.
He's not a man prone to dreams while under sedation, let alone nightmares. This, combined with the reluctance with which the imagined horrors of his forced slumber seem to be fading away, leave him off balance, both mentally and physically.
Swallowing back bile, he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and tries to pull himself together.
They have work to do.
He opens his eyes to find Starck all but hanging off the open door frame of her own couch, looking far greener than he's ever seen the woman as she takes in unsteady, heaving breaths. Further down, Smith's skin is the sort of gray usually indicative of a man going into shock.
Miller makes a mental note to double check their supplies personally-the fact that three of them are feeling these sort of effects could be the result of a bad batch of sedatives, though both Peters and DJ are usually pretty good about keeping track of that sort of thing.
Peters has been overdue for a trip homeward, though, her mind increasingly taken up with thoughts of the son she misses so desperately.
Even DJ, consummate professional that he is, seems to be feeling the effects of their longer than usual stint out in space. Taciturn at best, the man has been nothing short of morose of late.
As much as Miller hates to admit it, it's possible one of them overlooked something.
Peters is dragging Dr. Weir to his feet while DJ simultaneously checks the man's vitals and reminds him to breath, and the scene hits Miller with a feeling of deja vu so strong it almost physically rocks him backward on his feet.
The moment passes. Dr. Weir calms. Miller's crew start getting ready for the next stage of their mission.
The feeling of deja vu never fully leaves Miller, instead seeping into his skin and settling into his bones. The accompanying feeling of dread makes him eager to get this mission over as quickly as possible.
He doesn't like the way his general medic keeps shooting glances at his trauma specialist, and likes the fact that said trauma specialist seems to be carefully ignoring each glance even less. Later Miller's going to have to pull one of them aside and demand to know what's going on, but right now they have work to do, and whatever's going on between them, it doesn't seem to be affecting their ability to do their jobs.
He spares a glance of his own toward his trauma specialist-the man is looking more than a bit pale-and is promptly ignored. Even more unsettling, DJ's usual mask, the one that comes off as detached and uncaring to those who don't know any better, is locked far more tightly in place than Miller's ever seen.
The man looks bored, in spite of the way he's refusing to look Miller in the eye.
He's good at making it look natural. The medic keeps busy, keeping a constant eye on the rest of the crew with his personal medical scanner. It's standard procedure to examine the crew after using the gravity couches, and over the years they've all grown accustomed to his own particular brand of hovering; Miller's not sure, after all this time, if they even notice anymore. Smith doesn't so much as bat an eye as the man runs the scanner up and down his body, eyes glued to the screen as if the pilot's life depends on it.
It had, once. Some sort of contaminant had gotten into the gel that the damned things used, either during production or processing. How it had gone unnoticed at the factory was beyond Miller, but the fact remained that if DJ hadn't been in the habit of keeping a medical eye on them, it was likely neither he nor Peters would have noticed the steady increase in the man's blood toxicity until it was too late.
He remembers Smith's half uttered complaint dying on his lips as the scanner first flashed red, then started beeping almost frantically.
It was the last time anyone complained about the trauma specialist's tendency to hover.
Miller shakes his head. His thoughts are scattered, far more so than they should be, given the job that lies before them.
In the end it's the little things that keep not quite adding up that cause him to finally lose his patience with his medical team.
Because this entire mission is one giant clusterfuck and rapidly getting worse by the second, and his medical team-two doctors he has come to rely on for their steadiness in addition to literally trusting with the lives of both himself and his crew-cannot seem to get their shit together.
When Cooper finally gets Justin back from the Event Horizon after his ill-fated trip to the ship's so-called engine room, all Peters can do is stare at him until DJ shoves her out of the way and snaps at her to pull herself together. She does, after a few precious seconds, and no more of it is said between the two.
When Justin tries to go on an ill-advised spacewalk sans suit, DJ is ready and waiting with an assortment of medical equipment that suggests that he's had previous experience with exactly this type of situation, even though Miller knows for a fact he has not.
Miller rounds a corner at one point to find his general medic standing with her face buried in her fellow doctor's chest at one point, sobbing while he holds her in an uncharacteristically gentle embrace.
The man is not known for his bedside manner, but the almost aloof calm DJ generally projects is perfectly suited for emergencies-Miller's watched him talk down more than his fare share of panic-stricken patients in that cool, even tone of his in situations where it was uncertain whether or not any of them were going to make it out alive.
The knife he presses to Smith's throat later is, however, the very antithesis of that calm.
"What the hell is the matter with you?" Miller asks when he finally manages to get the man alone. His trauma surgeon's brows furrow, and he shakes his head.
"Nothing," the frown is dismissive, as is the way DJ turns his back on his captain almost immediately. The action is telling.
Miller gives into frustration and reaches out, grabbing the man by the collar and physically hauling him back to face him.
Eyes widen in fear in the brief second it takes Miller's longest-standing crew member to recover, and he drops the bunched-up cloth in his hand as if it burns. Ten years they've known each other, worked together-his trauma specialist has never been afraid of him until now.
"What's going on?" he asks, genuinely concerned. DJ looks away, and in light of this recent revelation, one that would have his head reeling if he had the time or the energy to really consider it, Miller gives the man a moment to collect himself.
The mask-that projected air of detachment that so many mistake for uncaring-rarely comes down, willingly or otherwise. For him to slip so completely now-
"I think I made a mistake earlier," DJ says after a moment, still turned away. "In the translation. It's not Liberate me."
They're dying. His crew is dying, one by one, and there's nothing Miller can do about it. He hasn't decided yet whether Dr. Weir is to blame or just another victim of whatever the hell is happening on this ship, but the man cannot be allowed to do any more damage.
"DJ." He can't hide the grief that seeps into his voice. Or the rage.
"What's happened?" The doctor sounds resigned. Tired.
"The Clark's gone. Smith and Cooper are dead. It was Weir. You see him, you take him out."
A long pause. "Understood." A single word can speak volumes, and this one does.
No surprise. No answering grief, no accompanying rage. No emotion at all.
"Be careful," Miller warns. For all the good it will do.
The thought catches him by surprise. Calm and levelheaded as he is, DJ has never been a coward, and though his chosen profession is one of healing, the man has always been more than capable of handling himself if need be.
"I can take care of Weir," DJ says, in a tone that suggests he believes nothing of the sort. His response also sounds rehearsed, somehow, but Miller doesn't have time to consider either revelation because in the next second a strangled sound makes its way through the intercom, followed by the crashing of steel and glass falling.
Weir.
"Go to hell." The words should not ring in his ears with such familiarity.
A press of a button. A chance for what's left of his crew.
The explosion tears the ship apart.
The creature that was once Dr. Weir laughs.