Chapter Text
Chapter one: ภ๏ ђ๏קє
“I feel like a part of my soul has loved you since the beginning of everything.
Maybe we’re from the same star.”
―
Boots kicked up onto the desk before him, Pan leans back in his chair and it creaks. He takes a sip off of his coffee. The wide display of computer monitors slotted up onto the wall, each one showcasing a separate section of the Ishimura, occasionally fizzle with static.
Another sip. His attention drifts from screen to screen. Someone bends over and retrieves a can of soda from a vending machine. A group of miners chat amongst themselves while waiting for the tram. There’s a fuss at the medical wing, as per usual. A woman in nothing more than a paper gown shrieks and stabs her thigh with a pen. A doctor flanked by nurses rush out to sedate her.
A holographic screen pops up above his wrist. Pan stifles a sigh, accepts the incoming call, and he’s presented with the video feed of a man fully equipped with an engineering suit.
“Darsteller. Am I patched in?”
“Jaja, comrade. I see you. How may I be of service?”
“You’re needed in Fuel Storage, ASAP. We’ve got an issue with one of the fuel cells. Can’t get the replacement to connect. Needs your handiwork.”
“Ah. Sounds like the scoundrel decided to be moody today. Very well, then. Allow me the time to rally my equipment.”
“We’ll see you then.”
The screen blinks off. Pan hums with a pleased sigh and wiggles down further into his seat.
Consider it a slip of the tongue, his failure to mention precisely when he’d arrive on the scene.
He rests his eyes for thirty or so minutes, the hint of a smile warming his face.
He had been summoned to the ashen surface of Aegis VII that day. Routine maintenance for the Colony's station, vehicles, and heavy equipment. The job had been an arduous one, and required thirteen hours of labor. Exhausted yet finished with his task, he had been leaving for extraction when someone called out to him.
“Hey, mind savin’ some O2 for those of us down here?”
Pan glanced over his shoulder to find an HMO, dressed from head to toe in a Class B mining suit. Their voice was garbled, their visor cracked.
Clearly an imbecile.
“Save your ridicule. You will gain no rise from me. Best be on your way. I would hate to have to take a deep breath and leave you starved of air.”
He walked away.
“Hey! Get back here!”
He ignored them.
They stomped their boot and the clamor echoed down the corridor. “I said get back here! I’m talkin’ to you!”
Pan stopped. Turned around. His helmet peeled back and he allowed for his expression and presence to fill the space between them.
They marched up to him, the top of their helmet lucky enough to scrape his chest.
For a moment, they said nothing. Pan cleared his throat and lifted a brow.
Their helmet clinked as it folded down and around their head, revealing an explosion of curly, red hair.
His heart jumped into his throat.
She looked like a porcelain doll, with each freckle upon her face dotted into place with purpose by an artist who licked the tip of their brush. A pair of emerald green eyes challenged him. Smiled at him. He couldn’t stop himself from smiling back.
She was like Christmas and Rage.
“You the guy that fixed my Excavator?”
Pan looked left. Then right. His smile grew and he danced his brows at her.
“And if such were to be the case?”
“Mind fixin’ my helmet?” She walked a pair of fingers up his chest. “There's a drink in it for you.”
An automated recording of a warning for those suffering from hallucinations to seek immediate medical attention chimes from a speaker. Pan frowns to himself as it takes him out of his daydream. Grunting in adjustment as he fixes his posture, he sits himself up, decides it’s perhaps time to get to work, and gives the security monitors a last check.
Upon replay, something in the top right screen zips across the hall, like a lizard darting out from beneath a stone. Peculiar. But not necessarily troublesome. Nevertheless, Pan brings the video onto the holographic display upon his wrist and attempts to play it in slow motion. All he sees is a blur.
His brows furrow. He dismisses it and begins investigating the other security monitors.
The medical wing has doubled in occupancy, with patients crowding the seats and floor. There are nurses shaking their heads and closing doors. Someone throws a chair through a window. People fight to crawl through it.
Gunfire lights up another screen. Pan’s ears twitch at the barking of orders and his back straightens on reflex. Before he can hear anything else, that monitor cuts to static.
As does the video feed covering Hydroponics. The Bridge. A cry for help followed by a bloody hand print smacks the screen watching over the Maintenance deck.
Pan takes a sip off of his coffee. His expression hardens.
Dementia. Vivid hallucinations. Extreme paranoia, violent behavior, and other schizophrenic-like symptoms.
Causes: Unknown. Yet a third of the crew have reported suffering from these conditions.
Another sip off of his coffee. Someone runs across the screen fixed on Hangar 33, blood squirting from their neck.
Pan shakes his head. He most certainly did not retire from Gonvistea with a clear mind only to succumb to mental illness aboard this blasted planet cracker. This is nothing more than a caffeine induced―!?
More screaming. Pan’s eyes widen when a flurry of limbs scrambles into an air vent. He stares at the screen, mind racing. There were scythes jutting from the palms and a pair of arms strung up like a scarecrow. Stomach gaping, with a maze of intestines on display accompanied the creature. There were too many hands. The rest he can’t decide if he actually saw, or filled in himself.
He fills his lungs to steady himself. Very well, then. He’ll do as requested. After addressing that fuel cell, he’ll excuse himself to the medical wing and seek a health evaluation―
The rafters above him rattle. Wet gurgling and claws against metal. A panel falls from the ceiling and clangs against his desk.
Monitors cutting to white noise one by one, Pan’s coffee mug clatters to the floor. His chair is left spinning from where he abandoned it, having bolted out of the room.
He finds the nearest utility store station, enters his access code, and throws himself inside. His class five advanced suit is pressed to his body, with mechanical arms working to fit him with all the proper attachments. Kinesis module. Stasis recharged. Plasma cutter: Ion battery synchronized. O2 canisters replenished and maneuvering thrusters online. Emergency Medkit: Acquired. Armored sheets clink into place down his arms, legs, and torso while his helmet fits together around his head.
A trio of neon blue lights activate from his visor. After snatching his pistol from storage, a mechanical hiss sighs through the air and Pan deserts the utility store station running.
“Locate: Holly Leonhardt. Crew member ID: 76624,” Pan pleads with his wrist. Once finished with verifying the information, a blue leyline etched into the floor forms at his feet and zig zags forward. Adrenaline sends the beat of his heart into overdrive. He chases the path and it takes him through a mess hall that’s empty, the tables and chairs overturned. Off in the distance, somewhere, the echo of screaming tickles his ears.
He tries to call her and there’s no answer. He tries again. And again.
She must be sleeping, she must be! Her schedule is one that consists of performing her tasks in two week blocks, and she only extracted just yesterday. Most fortunately, she was one of the lucky few still able to come back aboard despite Captain Mathius’s no fly order.
He tries her again before calling the man responsible for granting him that favor.
A gentleman with sun kissed skin answers, a pair of glasses perched atop a well pronounced nose. From the angle of his holographic display, his widow's peak seems to be sharper than it truly is.
The recipient of Pan’s video call sighs. He tugs at the sleeve of his business suit. “Mr. Darsteller. Always a pleasure. Nevertheless, I am in the middle of a conference with―”
“Save the pleasantries, abandon your post, for you must find your wife! We are experiencing an outbreak of unknown origin, and death is on our heels!”
“Ah. I see,” A pause. “My friend, perhaps you should see my better half. I will send word to her medical team of your current mental instability―”
“Nein! Pay heed to my―Blasted thing―Comrade, witness the recordings I’m uploading to you now!”
The man sighs, clicks his tongue, and glares at Pan over the rim of his glasses. A gentleman behind him taps his foot. He puts up a hand. “A moment.”
Images and clips from the Bridge, Hydroponics, and the Maintenance deck flood his wrist display.
Screaming. Staff and crew members running. A stripe of blood squirts a screen. Static.
“Where are you going―?! You can’t just leave!―kzzt―No―This meeting is―”
A door slams behind the man. He nods at Pan before ending the call. “You have my thanks.”
Move swiftly, mein Freund.
Pan races after the navigational path before him until he reaches the dorms. Upon finding Holly’s quarters on Block C, a cluster of rooms each outfitted with four sleeper bunks, he breathes a sigh of relief.
Not a scrap of panic in sight.
He enters the access code into the keypad beside her door. It beeps and slides open.
Pan steps inside and emotion floods him. His helmet disengages.
There she is. Bottom bunk, snoring lightly, leg tossed over a pillow.
He takes to a knee and clasps a hand on her shoulder, giving her a shake.
“Winterberry. Wake up. Wake up, meine geliebte,” He keeps his voice low. “Wake up.”
Holly licks her lips. She mumbles before her eyes flutter open.
“Hey there,” She smiles and touches his face. “What are you doin’ here?”
“Listen to me very carefully. We need to locate the nearest utility station and it is paramount that you equip your mining suit.”
“God damn it. Did Hodges crowd the cargo bay again?” She gets up, stretches, then glares at Pan. “Ya know, I’m gonna kill that fucker and his beady little eyes.”
Pan takes to his feet and looks over his shoulder. At the air vent to their left. Back to Holly. “After we secure your suit, we will make way for the tram. Our destination are the escape pods just outside the bridge. You must stick close to me and trust not a soul. Do you understand?”
“...Pan. What’s goin’ on.”
“I must ask you to remain calm in light of the news you’re about to receive. Listen closely. We are under attack. And I can not be certain of our foes. I know not what they are. My only certainty is that we must evacuate the premises. Now, repeat back to me my instructions.”
Holly studies Pan. He checks the entry points of the room once again.
“...You’re serious. Fuck me, you’re bein’ serious,” Her skin pales and she lets loose a string of curses. Then she shakes her head, rubs her face, and swings her jacket with her RIG on. “You said I need my mining suit, get to the tram, and we’re making a break for the pods,” A pause. “Why not the shuttles?”
“There will be far too many people.”
Holly looks at the gun on Pan’s hip. Her shoulders tighten. But she nods her head.
Pan kisses Holly’s forehead. He lingers before re-engaging his helmet. “Keep close to me.”
