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~~~
There was never much enjoyment to be had whilst on the job. The crew had been shipped out 3 weeks ago with the intention of collecting scrap from a selection of abandoned moons, promised cash and stability in return for witnessing horrors on the daily.
Why each of his fellow crew mates on the ship would accept this suicidal employment, Charborg didn’t know. He’d been offered the job during a time of struggle, fighting each day to provide for himself and the many cats he fostered, and had taken it as soon as it was offered. The promise of payment during an employment crisis made the choice easy for him, even though he knew of the danger this work would entail.
It was nothing to worry about, since modern technology had come so far that copies of his body could be made for a small fee, all with the intention of being sacrificed in the pursuit of rescuing rubber duckies and sheet metal. In hindsight, the whole thing seemed shady. Playing with life like this wasn’t uncommon in todays society, but the challenging of technological and biological limits for toothpaste and toys certainly was. Charborg had no reason to ponder this further, though. It wouldn’t make him reconsider his choice.
He was sure it wasn’t something the others were thinking about, either. They’d been briefed on company policy together, an instant camaraderie forming as they realised that they were all in exactly the same position.
They needed cash.
..And the company could provide that.
Criken, Wobo, Buck, and Charborg. They’d been advised not to learn each-others names (the reason for this never being specified) and had been instead advised to use pseudonyms. There must have been an error somewhere along the application line, since Charborg’s name badge didn’t display his chosen pseudonym.
It just said Craig.
That wasn’t bad, though. He didn’t see the point of the whole pseudonym rule, and it wasn’t even his fault for breaking it. The others never gave him their real names, though. He’d never actually asked, but after just under a month of hardship, mortality, and increasing emotional attachment, Charborg thought he’d know by now.
This crew was like family to him, at this point. Was it bad not to know their real names? After all they’d been through together?
The memory of when Criken had helped to guide him safely out of the facility when it was infested by coil-headed abominations. Or the very first time Wobo got his hands on an air horn, interrupting his speech with a loud moan-ish noise. All the times when Buck had been at the ship, opening those electronic doors and radioing in about potential dangers. Hell, even the quiet nights the crew would spend orbiting sand-smothered or snow-coated moons, just watching some good ol’ Greasy Cat…
Did these moments mean as much to the others as it did to Charborg?
Would they all still be friends when they’ve met their final quota?
..Will they meet their final quota?
~~~
Charborg was broken out of his reflective haze by an all too familiar noise piercing his eardrums.
HOOOONNNNNNKKKKKKKK
He then turns away from the monitor he’d been staring into, his shoulders hunching and his eyebrows raising in alarm at the sudden interruption.
“Jesus, Wobo!” He’d exclaim, quickly composing himself with a relieved sigh.
“Whaaat?” Wobo replied with, drawing out the ‘ah’ sound as he spoke. He’d honk the horn again, though.
“You- You scared me, man..!”
“I what?”
“You scared-“ Charborg starts, quickly interrupted by the sound of Wobo sounding the airhorn again.
“..I did what, Craig?”
Charborg could hear the shit-eating grin on the other mans face as he spoke, despite it being covered by the company uniform. He’d sigh, just shaking his head and turning to look at the monitor again. The sound of Wobo depositing some metallic junk could be heard behind him, though he didn’t turn to look at what he brought, too busy squinting into the florescent lights of the screen. Looks like Criken and Buck were on their way back, too. That was good, since it was getting pretty late and they couldn’t afford another death, especially if they’re unable retrieve the body. Charborg turned on his heel to go wait by the door for the others, though was soon stopped in his tracks.
A little girl was stood outside the ship, her breaths heavy and cumbersome. An immediate sense of panic floods through Charborg, paralysing him, dampening him in sweat, making Wobo’s voice seem far away. He stared helplessly into the eyes of the girl, or, where her eyes should be, and waited for this hallucination to fade. The others were approaching now, calling out to Charborg for some help with carrying a large engine they had left behind, though Charborg continued to stare at the girl, completely unable to hear his friends in this state.
Suddenly, the girl skipped away, the sound of her heaving breaths leaving and the dread Charborg felt upon seeing her dissipating soon after. He regained control of his body, moving outside of the ship to greet Buck and Criken before Wobo had the chance to notice the debilitating panic he had just been facing. Cold winter air immediately hit his uniform, and the idea of maybe just taking off his helmet and letting the breeze flow through his hair and dry his sweat covered skin occurred to Charborg, though this thought was soon discarded as Buck climbed the small metal ladder on the side of the ship.
“You alright, man?” Buck asked, concern audible though smothered by a clear sense of exhaustion in his tone.
“..Yeah, I’m good. Just thought I saw, uh.. One of those dogs-“
Buck nodded now, moving behind Charborg and inside of the ship, the sound of metal hitting the floor as soon as he was past the threshold of the door.
“Yeaaaaah, it’s late as hell, man.” Buck replied with a sigh, his voice hoarse from the common screams of fear the crew all gave while on the job. “Did you hear what I was talking about, by the way?”
Charborg leaned against the ships metal railings, squinting at Buck and puckering his bottom lip in confusion, all of which the other man couldn’t see through the company uniforms dark helmets.
“You mean like, as you were walkin’ up to the ship?” Charborg asked.
“Yeah.” Buck answered. “Criken just headed back to go carry this big-ass engine to the ship, asked if you could help him get it back.”
“..Can’t we just get Wobo to do it?” Charborg mumbled, glancing over to where Wobo was repeatedly stepping on a whoopee cushion and laughing at the noise it made.
“I don’t trust Wobo to stay quiet around all those dogs, man.” Buck replied in a low tone, joining in on staring at their crew mate’s unending amusement with the noisiest pieces of loot.
“You’re right, Yeah.” Charborg agreed, moving to the ships ladder now.
“..Ay, I’ll be watching you on the computer, though!” Buck called out. “You got this, man.”
Charborg smiled as he descended the cold metal steps, his boots crunching the snow underneath him. Outside, it was pitch black with a deep mist that obscured most of his surroundings, other than a line of brightly lit lampposts. As he moved through the fog, the thoughts of just how much he cared about this group of strangers he’d grown so close to began to resurface, alongside a building feeling of anxiety. What if something goes horribly wrong now, like Wobo’s harmless airhorn attracting a couple dogs to the ship, maybe a few of them getting inside.
Charborg had seen the sight of his friends being ripped into chunks by the sharp teeth of eyeless dogs, their bodies shaken around like rag dolls. The memory from a past body flashed in front of him: droplets of blood splattering onto him as he watched an orange shape rip, a deep blooming red with meaty pinks and pale skin being coated in this violent shade. The thought made him shiver. Without realising, his pace had sped up, plunging his feet into the thick layers of slow in a harsh pace as his whole body trembled in a sense of growing coldness and mounting worry.
He stopped in his tracks at the sound of heavy breathing. It was somewhere ahead of him, human in nature. Debilitating fear overwhelmed the man, his eyes scrunching closed and his hands moving to his helmet. This little girl that haunted him wasn’t real, Charborg knew that. He’s not the first one to experience this hallucination, and he wont be the last. But even so, it’s terrifying. He waits, listening to the small shaky breaths that are accompanied by slow crunches. Crunches of.. Snow. Charborg opens his eyes to see a familiar shape wading through the mist, and his gaze softens instantly.
“..Criken..?”
A couple more slow-paced footsteps sounded out as a small chuckle replaces the exasperated exhales that Charborg had mistaken for a sign of incoming decapitation.
“Jesus, could you help me with this?” Criken heaves out, a loud metallic clunk sounding out as he lowered the engine he was holding onto the floor. “I’m holding /way/ too much right now..”
“I’ve been barely able to move through this damn snow!” Criken chuckled quietly as he spoke. He paused, staring at the stationary form in front of him. “..What, did I scare you a little?”
This comment finally brought Charborg back into the situation at hand, and he stepped forward to close the distance between the two of them, reaching down to pick up the engine with a sharp intake of breath.
“Man, I thought you were that little girl!” Charborg said breathlessly, smiling in relief. “I saw her while I was back on the ship, so I just got a lil’ freaked out, y’know...We’ve all seen her once or twice..”
Criken nodded at this, smiling at the other man sympathetically - not that it was noticeable.
“Listen, this is the last of the scrap we need to make quota, we can just head out once we get back to the ship.” He reassured, now lightly patting the other mans shoulder.
Charborg made a hum of agreement at this, lugging the engine upwards and securing his grip on its rounded metal edges.
He looked over to the taller man beside him now, gently smiling as he took a small step back towards the direction of the ship, his boot sinking back into a previous footprint he had made.
“Yeah, let’s hurry...Don’t wanna be late for Greasy Cat.”
~~~