sooner or later god'll cut you down
Who: Group 2.
Where: The dregs of the ship.
When: ~all weekend.
Warnings: Swearing, violence, general creepiness, references to loads of death of loved ones, Stephen King-esque monsters, etc.
Notes: This will be the catch-all log post for the group of characters going to the bridge. Sure we could assume, but what's the fun of unspeakable horrors ( Read more... )
Maybe. "Time is not ours to change." He knew that he wasn't making much sense to the others, but he had no other way of describing it. Science was how he coped.
He followed along with the other two, sticking close. "It's a reboot, Dick," he whispered, though it didn't make a difference. They couldn't exactly hide. They were being toyed with. "We did it a year ago. And it worked then. But not this time." He spoke lazily, as if every word and thought had to go through a million filters before it could reach his mouth. He guessed that he probably had gained a concussion somewhere along the way, in addition to the various other injuries that caused him to be hurting and just a little sick. But he pushed on with them, determined that if he was going to stop, it would be after finishing this mission and not a second before.
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"Maybe it'll at least reset some of the damage," he said, sounding a little distracted himself as he glanced behind them to make sure nothing was following before following John, wondering how much farther they had to go. They had to be close, right? He realized suddenly it had been a while since he'd heard from Tim, and he immediately smothered the worry. If he let himself think about all the danger going on on the outside, he wouldn't be able to focus on the task at hand.
"Where should we cut through?"
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John looks over at Capa, and though he's not really inclined towards any cynical quips right now - I didn't see anyone's fucking name on it, maybe Tell that to my father - nonsensical, out of context; why he feels like saying anything at all makes him think they've reached the stage of this trial that's going to fuck with their heads. Great. His look is half understanding, half 'You have no idea', and if telegraphs anything, it's Fuck time travel, man.
... But that's not what's going on here. Right now. Focus, Connor.
"Wherever it sounds hollow."
He thinks about it, really thinks about it, not for the first time. Time manipulation has no power over John. He's a fucking paradox. Time changes, but he'll always be the same. It's not-
-thunk. The tip of his boot finds the next wall before the rest of him.
"Here."
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But, he was a follower in times like these and did as John requested, kneeling down to start cutting through the wall.
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There didn't seem to be any crew members coming at them for once. Maybe O'Brien had already succeeded. Maybe whatever he'd done had helped cripple Flagg and brought back some normalcy.
That seemed a little too optimistic even for him, and the nagging voice at the back of his head that sounded way too much like Bruce told him not to let his guard down, so he just focused on the task at hand.
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With no mobbing forces on their heels, John can focus on using the hand-held laser cutter to help this go faster; by now they've got a pattern going, and cutting away enough for them to slip through is old hat. (One bright spot.)
The next room is different. It's not a hallway, not a bilge chamber, but a genuine room. The walls and floor are still steel, but they're painted red; it can't be more than twelve feet deep. There's a single light bulb suspended form the ceiling, illuminating the empty area. At the other side of the room, there are two things: an off-centered door, slim and curved at the edges, a proper nautical seal door. There's a circular window at the top of it, but it's blacked out on the other side, and the latched handle has a keyhole over it. Next to the door, there is a red phone mounted to the wall. Above it in plain text are two words:
GO TOPSIDE
As soon as all three of them are in the room, the phone begins to ring, and from the hallway behind them, quiet noises of something stirring begin to sound. Faintly.
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When the phone rang, Capa jerked back slightly, shaking his head. Now he was certain that this wasn't real. It was a dream. One of Arthur's dreams, maybe, only this one...he couldn't escape from. A kick wouldn't send him out of it.
"Don't answer it." He didn't know why, but it just didn't seem like a good idea.
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The stirring was getting louder, and honestly, the noises sounded familiar, but he couldn't really place why. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and his hand tightened around the phaser, waiting, trying to place what it sounded like. Maybe the fatigue was starting to get to him, maybe he was just hallucinating, but he suddenly felt like he was stuck in a sewer waiting for Killer Croc to burst out of no where, and all he could hear instead of the criminal was-
"Do you guys hear rats?"
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John has no idea what rats are supposed to sound like (squeaking?) but he moves further into the room, eying the phone but not touching it. The ringing noise, after so many hours (days?) of just their voices and the groaning of the ship, is like nails on chalkboard in his head. He tries the door, not actually expecting it to open - it's locked solid, and yanking on it proves the door is well and truly sealed.
Guess they'll have to cut through it. "Can you plug up that hole?" You know, in case there are rats. Whatever rats would do, anyway. He goes after the hinges with the laser cutter first.
The phone stops ringing, and for a tense moment, they're plunged into silence. John glances over his shoulder, expecting something worse to replace it, then - another noise, like a mid-90s answering machine picking up, and though there's no speakers or any source for it, a shrill, synthetic voice echoes through the room:
"Your friends are all dead."
The laser cutter sputters, fails to sever anything, and snaps in half in his hand.
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But that wasn't what caught his eye. "'You have already failed them.'" He read the words aloud that appeared on the walls around them in spidery writing. Straight out of a horror film. He turned in a slow circle, looking at all the walls.
"Please tell me that you both are seeing this..."
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Timothy Drake died today, died today, died today
Dick gasped softly. It felt like the floor had fallen out from underneath him. All he could do was stare, wide eyed, open mouthed, feeling suddenly cold, rage and despair fighting against each other to leave him just standing still, staring at the words.
"No."
"He was screaming for you, Richard."
The voice was the same, but there was almost something... happy about it. Amused. Dick couldn't move, hand clenched hard enough around the phaser that it hurt, the fingers of his other hand digging into the palm of his glove.
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His hand stings, the backlash of the power overload nearly burning him, and John shakes his hand out, wincing. It's a miracle their equipment had all lasted as long as it had, true, but this still isn't great. He looks over to Capa, intent on asking after what he's got, but instead he catches the other man's question. Then he hears Dick behind them, uttering one word quietly.
... Okay.
"Ignore it," he says firmly, sounding more grounded than he really is. When he looks back to the door, there's small, hand-scratched writing on the steel surface.
Katie doesn't make it.
He stares, something cold settling over him like a snap. But more words are already appearing.
The baby's already dead in her.
At that John flinches, genuine fear gripping him, a sensation he hasn't felt in years. He's not told anyone about Kate's pregnancy except Sarah - he kept dead silent about it even when negotiation his term for coming on the barge - and it throws him in a way he never anticipated out of this trip.
The phone starts ringing again. The noises behind them increase to a fevered, clamoring din.
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Frozen, frozen, frozen forever.
"It's not true," he muttered softly, as if that would give him strength.
Capa finally heard the ringing as it began to seep into his brain. He stalked over to the phone and picked up the receiver before slamming it back down onto the cradle. A bit more forcefully than he had intended, but he wanted it to stop. A vicious laughter came from the speakers or whatever was there and Capa looked pained, looking to Dick and then John.
"We have to find that key. He wouldn't have put the lock there if he didn't intend for there to be some way to get to the key." Capa was just grasping at straws, but it was easier than reading any more of it.
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He watched Capa slam down the phone, glad he stopped the ringing even as the laughter echoed around them.
"This - all of this - is just Flagg. He's trying to throw us off." He glanced back at the door for a moment. "Maybe-"
But whatever was coming to find them had finally arrived, and Dick turned around, staring. He'd been right. And right now, he really wished he wasn't.
"Maybe they know where it is."
Rats. A swarm of rats.
This was going to be interesting.
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John remains where he is for a drawn-out moment, unable to get the image of his wife out of his head, only reacting when the speculation of 'they' is voiced - he turns, about to ask who the fuck Dick means.
Shit.
"It's got to be him distorting what's here normally. Everyone else must be keeping him too busy elsewhere to remove us."
So Capa's right. There has to be a key. Maybe it was just in a damn box on the wall originally, maybe all they'd have to have done was break the emergency glass. Now they've got a phalanx of super-mobile unearthly rats. John yanks the last flare he's got off his belt and lights it, the phosphorus shower making the mass of tiny bodies flinch back as one unit, even as they keep pouring in.
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He took a deep breath. "There's nothing else in here. It has to be there." He indicated the hallway the rats were coming from and took a step forward. "Somewhere."
They started multiplying faster, as if spurred on by his words.
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