Big Damn Heroes Don't Exist, John.
Oh god they’re coming. They’re coming!
Hide, for fuck’s sake, hide and don’t come out!
Alarms blared. They blasted a hole through their shields.
Oh god, the little girl. The mother who led her away to hide. They took poison with them because there weren’t enough guns to go around.
This is it. This is really it.
Cold metal, familiar in his grip, cocked and ready to fire, because when they came, there was no escape, and any death was better than what they would do to you. Any death. A bullet to the brain insured the most humanitarian way of dying.
Endless, sleepless nights, gripping the gun. Screams. So many screams.
He couldn’t feel his limbs any longer. The screams rang in his ears now, rang so loud he’d never scrub his mind free. They bled into the screams from the war, amplified the ghosts of his past, conjured faces before him that he’d prayed he’d forget. And then they stopped. The ship lurched. Alarms rang again. The oxygen was running low. Power almost out.
Drifting in space like a piece of the cosmic wastes. Forever.
Fear. So much fear. And only the echoes of those screams. He wouldn’t come out. There was no point. He couldn’t pilot the ship. He wouldn’t face those things.
Nothing. Nothing. Sweet, black nothingness.
*
“We’ve got a ship, drifting in space, looks completely deserted, and nobody even close enough to sense.” Lestrade was sitting at the helm of his ship, his crew with him. After taking in Sherlock (as the mysterious boxed prisoner had called himself), the crew had demoted themselves to strictly outlaw status, so they took every salvaging advantage they could get. Sally piped right up.
“What are we waiting for, then?”
The ship was Alliance, but it had clearly fallen under attack. Lestrade, Anderson, and Sally Donovan went over, leaving Sarah to keep things in line on the Silver Fox. As soon as the trio got inside, it was fairly obvious what had happened.
“Runtse de fwotzoo, ching baoyo wuomun…” Sally whispered, a prayer barely audible through their rigged communication system. They were fully suited up just to be safe: the oxygen levels on this ship were dangerously low and dropping by the minute. Not that anyone here besides them was in need of oxygen. It was a stomach-turningly gruesome sight - bodies half-eaten, bones sticking out everywhere, blood smeared over every surface.
“We shouldn’t be here,” was Anderson’s input.
Lestrade found himself nodding. “All right, look through everything quickly, and then let’s go.” He led the way, picking through the massacre. Carefully balancing flashlights, they transferred the ship’s valuables, food rations, and most important spare parts faster than any of them would have thought possible.
“Sir?” Sally had paused, inspecting a keypad curiously. “This door hasn’t been opened. It’s still locked.”
“Well, that doesn’t make sense.” Anderson didn’t budge from his spot, trying to herd the other two out of this ship.
“The way these creatures attack doesn’t make sense, Anderson. Donovan, can you get it open?” Lestrade watched her work her magic (because, honestly, how she cracked locks looked like nothing short of witchcraft to his eyes) and the door slid open. On the other side was a small room and a man, still whole. Unconscious, but breathing heavily, his lungs struggling for air. “Oh my god, he’s still alive. Get him to the shuttle right away!”
Once they were safely back in their shuttlecraft, the helmets came off. “Sir, we cannot take him back with us.” Anderson’s reason for protesting was plain - the man they’d just rescued was highly likely to recover and have them all arrested.
“We’re not leaving him to die,” Lestrade said fiercely and that was the end of that argument.
Hide, for fuck’s sake, hide and don’t come out!
Alarms blared. They blasted a hole through their shields.
Oh god, the little girl. The mother who led her away to hide. They took poison with them because there weren’t enough guns to go around.
This is it. This is really it.
Cold metal, familiar in his grip, cocked and ready to fire, because when they came, there was no escape, and any death was better than what they would do to you. Any death. A bullet to the brain insured the most humanitarian way of dying.
Endless, sleepless nights, gripping the gun. Screams. So many screams.
He couldn’t feel his limbs any longer. The screams rang in his ears now, rang so loud he’d never scrub his mind free. They bled into the screams from the war, amplified the ghosts of his past, conjured faces before him that he’d prayed he’d forget. And then they stopped. The ship lurched. Alarms rang again. The oxygen was running low. Power almost out.
Drifting in space like a piece of the cosmic wastes. Forever.
Fear. So much fear. And only the echoes of those screams. He wouldn’t come out. There was no point. He couldn’t pilot the ship. He wouldn’t face those things.
Nothing. Nothing. Sweet, black nothingness.
*
“We’ve got a ship, drifting in space, looks completely deserted, and nobody even close enough to sense.” Lestrade was sitting at the helm of his ship, his crew with him. After taking in Sherlock (as the mysterious boxed prisoner had called himself), the crew had demoted themselves to strictly outlaw status, so they took every salvaging advantage they could get. Sally piped right up.
“What are we waiting for, then?”
The ship was Alliance, but it had clearly fallen under attack. Lestrade, Anderson, and Sally Donovan went over, leaving Sarah to keep things in line on the Silver Fox. As soon as the trio got inside, it was fairly obvious what had happened.
“Runtse de fwotzoo, ching baoyo wuomun…” Sally whispered, a prayer barely audible through their rigged communication system. They were fully suited up just to be safe: the oxygen levels on this ship were dangerously low and dropping by the minute. Not that anyone here besides them was in need of oxygen. It was a stomach-turningly gruesome sight - bodies half-eaten, bones sticking out everywhere, blood smeared over every surface.
“We shouldn’t be here,” was Anderson’s input.
Lestrade found himself nodding. “All right, look through everything quickly, and then let’s go.” He led the way, picking through the massacre. Carefully balancing flashlights, they transferred the ship’s valuables, food rations, and most important spare parts faster than any of them would have thought possible.
“Sir?” Sally had paused, inspecting a keypad curiously. “This door hasn’t been opened. It’s still locked.”
“Well, that doesn’t make sense.” Anderson didn’t budge from his spot, trying to herd the other two out of this ship.
“The way these creatures attack doesn’t make sense, Anderson. Donovan, can you get it open?” Lestrade watched her work her magic (because, honestly, how she cracked locks looked like nothing short of witchcraft to his eyes) and the door slid open. On the other side was a small room and a man, still whole. Unconscious, but breathing heavily, his lungs struggling for air. “Oh my god, he’s still alive. Get him to the shuttle right away!”
Once they were safely back in their shuttlecraft, the helmets came off. “Sir, we cannot take him back with us.” Anderson’s reason for protesting was plain - the man they’d just rescued was highly likely to recover and have them all arrested.
“We’re not leaving him to die,” Lestrade said fiercely and that was the end of that argument.