Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The world around you is a canvas of shadow, painted in endless shades of gray and black. In some areas, the darkness is patchy, allowing slivers of lighter gray to seep through like faint, dying stars. In others, it's an absolute absence of light, a darkness so deep it seems to swallow even the concept of light.

This lightless realm stretches boundlessly in all directions, an infinite expanse of nothingness that defies comprehension. Yet despite the emptiness, you can't shake the feeling of being watched. An unseen presence looms, its attention prickling across you like static electricity.

Unnerved, you attempt to move, to put one foot in front of the other and escape this oppressive void. But your body refuses to obey. You strain against invisible bonds, willing your limbs to respond, but remain frustratingly immobile.

Panic begins to bubble up from your core as you glance down, seeking reassurance in the familiar sight of your own body. But where your legs should be, there's only more darkness. No feet, no walking stumps, not even the vague outline of a form. It's as if you've been reduced to nothing more than a consciousness floating in an endless sea of black

[BATTLESHIP_CONDESCSION] DID YOU THINK YOU WERE FREE?

The panic grips tighter, suffocating you. Taking in air is impossible; there is no air.

[BATTLESHIP_ CONDESCENSION] YOU WILL DIE IN THE HELM JUST LIKE THEY DID.

Ghostly hands emerge from the darkness, grasping with desperate fingers. Faces materialize—hollow-eyed, mustard yellow tears streaming down their cheeks. Other helmsmen. Spirits trapped in this helm.

Their touches burn like ice, pulling you deeper. You try to scream. No sound escapes. The darkness closes in as the ship's presence looms.

You gasp awake, chest heaving as you gulp down air. Bright sunlight streams through the window, blinding you. The viscous sopor slime of the recuperacoon sloshes around you, its familiar embrace a stark contrast to the formless void of your nightmare.

With trembling hands, you reach for the palmhusk Karkat had given you. The device's soft glow is comforting in the aftermath of your dream. A message from Karkat blinks on the screen:

carcinoGeneticist [CG] began trolling twinArmageddons [TA]

CG: I'M PUTTING OUT METAPHORICAL FIRES. TROLL ME WHEN YOU WAKE UP.

twinArmageddons [TA] is an idle troll!

Relief washes over you as reality reasserts itself. It was just a dream. You're not trapped in the helm, powerless and alone. You're here, in the rebel camp, surrounded by friends and allies. Karkat is here. And Dave, your human soulmate, is here even if he's not talking to you at the moment and is a complete asshole.

You cling to the palmhusk, its solid presence anchoring you to the waking world. Your hands continue to tremble, causing the device to shake. You close your eyes and rest your head against the cool edge of the recuperacoon. The contrast between the warm slime and the cool surface helps ground you further.

You exhale in and out, and your heartbeat slows to a normal rhythm. You try to focus on reality. You're free. You're safe. Well, as safe as you can be. The nightmare isn't real—not anymore. But the lingering fear clings to you like a second skin.

You reach for a nearby towel and begin wiping sopor slime from your hands and arms. You grimace as you clean the palmhusk, hating how the sticky substance gets into every crevice of the device. While it's far from new tech, you've always despised it when your electronics get gummed up.

Once the palmhusk is relatively slime-free, you type a response to Karkat:

TA: ii'm awake

carcinoGeneticist [CG] is an idle troll!

Well, so much for chatting with your moirail this morning. Whatever fires he's putting out must be keeping him busy.

With a sigh, you drag yourself out of the recuperacoon. The process of drying off is tedious, particularly when it comes to your ports. You take extra care around these areas, patting them dry with the rough towel. It occurs to you that you never asked if submerging your ports in sopor slime was safe. The fact that you didn't go into shock is probably a good sign, but mental note: maybe ask about that later.

Your gaze falls on yesterday's clothes, strewn across the loungeplank. With no other options readily available, you resign yourself to putting them on again. It's better than the helming suit; anything is better than wearing that again.

Once dressed, you collapse onto the loungeplank with an audible sigh, sliding your thumb around the casing of the palmhusk. Waking the device, you exhale once more when you see no new message from Karkat.

Karkat's really out here telling you to rest and recover when he went through the exact same shit. He didn't get helmed, but he did experience torture and imprisonment like you did. He should be recovering as well—but no, he's Karkat. Defiant and headstrong, and the troll you have diamond eyes for. You've somewhat approached the topic with him about him needing to rest, and he just shrugs you off. Well, more like he tells you he understands, but that the rebellion can't afford for him to take a day off right now. You think it's hoofbeast shit and you know the rebellion would be just fine if he took the time he needed to recover physically, maybe not mentally, because who knows how long that shit is going to take. You also know Vriska would gladly take over for the time being, while Karkat was out of commission.

You both just need time to let the dust settle, and then there's this whole mess with Dave, too. You don't know quite what to think of the human so far. He seems to you that he's a complete nookwhiff, avoiding you like you're carrying some sort of highly contagious alien plague.

Speaking of Dave, you look down at your soul-marked arm. You feel something, it's faint, but the feeling of longing courses through you. This is what Dave is feeling. It feels invasive being able to probe into his emotions, you feel shitty even knowing that he can feel yours. What will happen when you inevitably have an episode? Is he going to feel your self-hatred when you're in a low, or how about your inflated energy during a high?

You lean back on the loungeplank as you stare at your marked arm. There's nothing you can do about that right now. Your eyes catch on the inked ring on your finger, and you trace over it with your finger attached to your unmarked arm. You claw delicately, touching the red line.

As you continue to lie there dazed in your own swirling thoughts, your palmhusk lights up with a message.

adiosToreador [AT] began trolling twinArmageddons [TA]

AT: uH, hEY SOLLUX,

AT: i HOPE I'M NOT,, BOTHERING YOU OR ANYTHING,

AT: bUT I WAS WONDERING IF YOU COULD COME TO THE MEDBAY WHEN YOU HAVE A MOMENT,

You blink at the messages—you had gotten your hopes up thinking it might be Karkat responding back to you.

TA: why? ii'm fiine.

AT: wELL, iT'S JUST THAT, uH, yOUR PORTS NEED TO BE CHECKED AGAIN,

AT: tO MAKE SURE THEY'RE HEALING PROPERLY AND, uH, nOT INFECTED OR ANYTHING,

AT: i KNOW I CHECKED THEM YESTERDAY, bUT THEY NEED TO BE LOOKED AT EVERYDAY TO MAKE SURE THAT THEY ARE HEALING CORRECTLY.

TA: can't you ju2t check them later? ii'm bu2y.

AT: i UNDERSTAND YOU'RE BUSY, bUT THIS IS, uH, pRETTY IMPORTANT,

AT: iNFECTIONS CAN BE REALLY SERIOUS, eSPECIALLY WITH NEW PORTS,

TA: fiine. when do you need me there?

AT: uH, wHENEVER YOU CAN MAKE IT IN THE NEXT HOUR OR SO WOULD BE GREAT,

AT: i'LL BE HERE, sO JUST COME WHEN YOU'RE READY,

TA: ok. ii'll be there 2oon. ju2t let me fiinii2h 2omethiing fiir2t.

AT: tHAT'S GREAT, tHANKS SOLLUX,

AT: sEE YOU SOON,

adiosToreador [AT] ceased trollingtwinArmageddons [TA]

The palmhusk drops from your hand onto the cushioned loungeplank. It does a little bounce and then settles as you run a hand through your hair. Except you don't—your longer inky locks have now been shaved, cut close to your scalp. Your finger brushes against the bristles, and your frown deepens.

You shouldn't be giving Tavros such a hard time. He's just trying to make sure you're healing correctly. The idea of someone prodding at you just makes you feel sick.

Prodding, drilling, and pain. The memories assault your senses with vivid intensity. You're back on that cold metal table, straps digging into your flesh as the drill whirs closer. The high-pitched sound makes your teeth ache. Your muscles strain against invisible bonds, phantom restraints materializing from your subconscious to pin you to the loungeplank.

Agony blossoms from each port, a starburst of torment radiating outward. It spreads like poison through your veins, leaving numbness in its wake. Your body becomes a patchwork of fire and ice.

Time loses all meaning in this purgatory of memory and sensation. Seconds stretch into eternities as you relive the trauma over and over. The cycle seems endless, inescapable.

Then, a flicker of sensation breaks through. The slightest twitch of a finger. It's minuscule, barely noticeable, but it's real. You latch onto it, clinging to this tiny shred of reality like a lifeline in a storm-tossed sea.

Control creeps back into your arm. It feels leaden, uncooperative, as if it belongs to someone else. But it's yours, and you can move it. The rough fabric of the loungeplank scrapes against your prongs as you drag them across its surface. The texture is harsh, almost painful, but you welcome it. It's tangible, immediate—an anchor to the present.

You focus on that sensation, using it to pull yourself back from the abyss of memory. Your prongs move back and forth, back and forth, until the skin feels raw and oversensitive. It hurts, but it's a different kind of hurt—one that reminds you that you're here, now, alive.

The soft hum of the air conditioner filters into your awareness next. You hadn't noticed it before, but now it seems impossibly loud in the quiet room. A chill runs across your skin, raising bumps along your arms. You've always thought they keep it too cold on this ship.

Feeling creeps back into your walkstubs, pins and needles prickling uncomfortably. Standing takes effort; your body feels as heavy as if it were forged from lead. But you force yourself upright, swaying as the room tilts around you.

You stand there, breathing deeply, willing the world to stop spinning. Your vision begins to clear. The edges of objects sharpen, colors becoming more vibrant as the hazy fog lifts from your mind.

Without conscious thought, your feet begin to move. You head towards the medbay, your thinkpan on autopilot while your body navigates the familiar route. Other trolls give you a wide berth as you pass, their eyes skittering away from your blank stare. Perhaps it's the distant look in your gaze, or the way your hand trails along the wall for support, fingertips leaving faint smudges on the cold metal surface.

The journey to the medbay passes in a haze, your feet carrying you on autopilot through the familiar corridors. Time seems to skip and stutter, and you find yourself perched on the edge of the cold examination plank. The crinkling of the black paper beneath you sounds impossibly loud in the quiet room.

Your fingers move to the hem of your shirt, tugging it upwards with robotic motions. As the fabric slides over your skin, exposing the stark metal of your ports, a wave of panic crashes over you. Your prongs grip the edges of the plank The paper covering crinkles and tears under your claws, the sound harsh and grating in your ears.

Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps, chest heaving as you fight against the rising tide of fear. The room seems to shrink around you, the walls pressing in. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to ground yourself in the present, but the memories of your time in the helm threaten to overwhelm you.

Warm hands touch your ports, and your world explodes into chaos. The unexpected contact sends electricity arcing through your nerves, igniting every survival instinct you possess. Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, jerking away. A sound rips from your protein chute—a strangled whimper and growl that you barely recognize as your own.

Your eyes snap open, meeting Tavros' startled gaze. His hands are frozen in midair, shock written across his features. Or is it platonic pity? The thought makes your acid sac churn. Shame crashes through you. Your shoulders slump. You plead with him to ignore your outburst, to pretend this moment of weakness never happened.

"Sollux, are you okay?" Tavros' words reach you as if through water, distorted and muffled. The concern in his voice is palpable, wrapping around you. You want to answer, to reassure him, but your tongue feels heavy and uncooperative in your mouth.

Your gaze drops to the floor, unable to meet his eyes any longer. The pattern of scuff marks on the metal becomes fascinatingly intricate as you struggle to regain your composure. Your bloodpusher thunders in your ears, drowning out the ambient sounds of the medbay.

You take a deep, shuddering breath, trying to force your body to relax. It's just Tavros, you remind yourself. You're safe here. But the mantra feels hollow, unconvincing even to your own mind. The phantom sensation of biowires still crawls across your skin.

You raise your head, forcing yourself to meet Tavros' gaze once more. You open your mouth to speak, to offer some kind of explanation or apology, but the words stick in your throat. How can you explain the storm raging inside you? How can anyone you know understand what it's like to have your very essence violated, your autonomy stripped away?

Instead of words, a small nod is all you can manage. It's not much, but it seems to be enough for Tavros. He offers a gentle smile, his expression relieved at you letting him help.

"Okay. I need to check your ports now. Is that alright?"

You swallow hard, fighting against the wave of panic that threatens to overwhelm you at the thought of anyone touching your ports. But you know it's necessary that Tavros is only trying to help. With another shaky nod, you give your consent. You did this yesterday, and you know Tavros, you should be fine right now.

Tavros moves slowly, telegraphing each action before he makes it. You appreciate his caution, the way he's trying to make this as comfortable as possible for you. Still, you can't help but tense as he approaches. All you can think of is the unwavering pain you felt from their installation. You think about him touching them, and that's all you can imagine. You squeeze your eyes tight.

Soon, light and gentle prongs trace around the metal flush with your skin. Your eyes fly open as you watch with held breath. Tavros checks every port with gloved hands, his touch clinical but considerate. The latex squeaks softly against the metal, an oddly mundane sound in the tense atmosphere. He's careful and gentle with each one, his movements slow and deliberate

Tavros moves methodically, his examination careful and thorough. His brow furrows in concentration, lips moving as he makes mental notes. When he reaches a port on your shoulder, nestled in a particularly angry-looking bruise, he presses gently.

White-hot pain echoes from the site, radiating out in waves that make your vision blur. A strangled gasp escapes your lips, your body jerking. Your claws dig even deeper into the examination plank, leaving deep gouges in the padding. The sharp sting in your fingertips is almost welcome, a distraction from the deeper, more insidious pain.

"Fuck!" you curse, unable to contain your reaction. The pain is intense, far worse than the dull ache you've been experiencing.

"I'm sorry." Tavros grimaces, pulling back. "Uh, that one is certainly infected."

You nod jerkily, not trusting your voice. Sweat beads on your forehead, and you can taste blood where you've bitten the inside of your cheek. The pain throbs in time with your bloodpusher beat. You try to turn and look at the port, but the attempt only makes your eyes go cross-eyed. The location makes it impossible for you to see clearly.

"How bad?" You manage through gritted teeth.

Tavros leans in for a closer look. "It's pretty inflamed. The skin around the port is swollen. We'll need to clean it thoroughly and start you on some strong antibiotics."

The news settles heavily in your digestive sac. An infection is the last thing you need right now. You close your eyes, trying to push down the surge of frustration threatening to overwhelm you. You figured you weren't going to make it out of this situation without any extra lasting effects. The trauma and the permanent ports apparently weren't enough; now one is infected.

You know you're making a bigger deal out of this than it actually is. It's an infection that'll go away with proper care. However, you've been in the rebellion for sweeps, and you know well enough that antibiotics aren't easy to get a hold of. Wasting it on you makes an uneasiness settle on top of all of the other shit swirling in your clusterfuck of a thinkpan right now. You feel like you don't deserve it to be wasted on you. You hear Karkat's voice in your pan—him cussing you out fondly for thinking such thoughts.

"I think you deserve it. Are you calling me a fucking liar?" His voice echoes in your pan, and it causes a small uptilt to your lips.

Your momentary reminiscing thoughts are shattered by a new voice:

"Yo, Tavros, my man." You hear that unfamiliar voice in the tongue of the language that you drilled into your thinkpan over and over until you could get it as perfect as you could. It's attached to one of your more personal problems right now, and you turn to see Dave frozen in the doorway. His playful nature drops the moment he sees you, and his upturned lips flatten.

The atmosphere in the medbay shifts.

You watch as Tavros' head perks up, and he smiles. You know Tavros' own language skills are lacking, but he seems to have the general idea of what Dave is saying.

Dave's presence, unexpected, throws you off balance. Your bare chest. The exposed ports. Dave's gaze flicking over them. For a moment, nobody moves. You're caught in a tableau of awkwardness, you on the examination plank, Tavros with his medical supplies, and Dave frozen in the doorway.

Dave's gaze flicks between you and Tavros, trying to decide whether to stay or bolt. You want him to leave, to avoid this uncomfortable confrontation, but you're tired of this dance of avoidance.

The silence stretches, becoming almost unbearable. Just as you think Dave might turn and flee, he breaks the tension with a forced casualness:

"Well, isn't this a Kodak moment? Alien doctor's office edition. Should we pose for the scrapbook or what?"

His attempt at humor falls flat to your own aural clots. Was that supposed to be funny? Without a laugh, the words hung awkwardly in the air. You can see him fidgeting behind this stoicism, his hand moving to adjust his shades—a nervous tic, perhaps. You see right through this hoofbeast shit, though you do happen to wonder if being an ass was a part of his core personality, too, or if that was just another mask.

"Uh, sorry to interrupt your... whatever this is." He gestures vaguely at you and Tavros. "Guess I'll come back when it's less crowded here. Don't want to crash the alien medical party."

He takes a half-step backwards, preparing to make his exit. But then he pauses, his gaze landing on your exposed ports. For a split second, his cool facade cracks, and you catch a glimpse of something—concern? guilt?—before it's quickly gone.

"You… okay there, man?"

Before you can even think of how to respond, Dave is already backing out of the room, his words tumbling out in a rush:

"Actually, never mind. Not my business. I'll catch you later, Tavros. And, uh, you too, I guess." He nods vaguely in your direction.

With that, he's gone, the door sliding shut behind him. The abrupt exit leaves you and Tavros blinking in confusion. You're stunned for only a moment before anger replaces the feeling. He couldn't even use your fucking name. 'Uh, you too, I guess' makes your blood simmer. He talked to you like you were an afterthought.

What is his fucking problem with you? Granted, he's not like this to Karkat, but from what you can gather, it's not like they are even remotely peachy with each other either; it's certainly a far cry from what you've been dealing with from him. He's hostile and dismissive with you, and you can't put a prong on the irritating question of 'why'?.

"Well, that was odd..." Tavros comments, breaking the heavy silence.

You can only nod, still staring at the door where Dave left, as if you could will him to come back and explain himself. The rational part of your pan knows that's not going to happen, but it doesn't stop the frustrated desire.

You turn back to Tavros. There are more pressing matters at hand than Dave's inexplicable behavior.

"Hey, Tavros, I've got a couple of questions about... all this." You gesture vaguely at your ports.

"Of course, what do you need to know. I can uh..try to help if I can? Admittedly, I don't know much, but I'm learning. Equius has loaned me a couple of books on the matter."

You take a deep breath, organizing your thoughts. "Is it safe for me to use the ablution trap? And what about sopor slime? I didn't even think about it last night, but should I be keeping the ports dry and out of the slime? Don't know how I'm going to do that one…" You trail off thinking about how you can logically immerse yourself in sopor slime without it affecting your ports.

Tavros considers for a moment before responding. "Showering is fine, but try to keep the water pressure low around the ports for now while they are healing. As for sopor, it shouldn't cause any issues, but we'll keep an eye on it. If you notice any irritation or unusual discharge, let me know immediately."

You nod, absorbing the information. It's a relief to know you can still engage in normal activities, even if you have to be more careful now.

You're pulling on your shirt again when Tavros clears his throat.

"Try to come here every day, so I can check on your ports." You nod in reply, pushing your limbs through the arm holes.

You stand, making your way to exit the medbay.

"Also, Sollux, don't push yourself too hard…" You nod again easily, just ready to get out of the block. You've had enough of poking and prodding for a lifetime. "Um." The word hangs in the air, and you finally turn to Tavros. You wish he'd just finish already.

"I'm saying this as a friend and a mediculler. I'm privy to your medical records because of the latter, uh. But I know we don't necessarily have your medication abroad, but I'm going to try and make it a priority to acquire some. I know how difficult it can be. Again, my concern only stems from being your mediculler and this is not a pale advance or anything." He rushes out, waving his hands and shaking his head enough to leave him breathless.

As you process his words, you come up short on how to respond. You're glad he's thinking of your medical needs, and you didn't take it as a pale advance at all. You not taking your meds will certainly be a problem, you certainly won't be surprised if this whole ordeal triggers an episode to swing you one way or the other like a fucked up roulette. You're waiting for the inevitable other shoe to drop on this whole experience.

"Thanks, Tavros." Is really all you can bring yourself to say.

It seems to bring a smile to his face, and you finally take your leave.

Standing outside of the medbay after the door closes, you begin to wonder: What now? Sliding your palmhusk from your pants pocket, you first check the time and then see a notification from a message from Karkat.

CG: HOW ARE YOU FEELING?

You rub at your face. With everything that has happened, you don't feel half-bad. Sure, the flashback episode earlier, you could have gone without, but you don't feel bad? Your body doesn't feel tired despite feeling like it should.

TA: 2urprii2iingly not liike complete shiit

You hit send, with your thumb claw clacking against the screen, and wait, leaning against the wall of the ship.

CG: GOOD

CG: IT SEEMED LIKE YOU DIDN'T SLEEP WELL, SO I WANTED TO CHECK IN

CG: I'M SURROUNDED TO MY FUCKING SNIFFNODE IN ADMINISTRATIVE WORK. FEELS LIKE PEOPLE ARE JUST PULLING THINGS OUT OF THEIR WASTECHUTE NOW TO GIVE ME

TA: anythiing ii can do two help?

CG: YOU SHOULD REST

You feel a growl of irritation start to bubble in your chest. You are fine you don't need rest. You need to be useful to help out and do something.

TA: kk you lii2ten to me you braiin-dead nook2niiffiing moron

TA: ii'm fuckiing fiine

TA: ii can only 2tare at the2e 2tupiid wall2 for 2o long before ii lo2e my 2hiit

TA: 2top treatiing me liike ii'm made of fuckiing gla22

TA: ii can help out two

There's a long pause. Long enough to think that maybe he's gotten busy again. You're just about to shove your palmhusk back into your pocket when you get another message from him.

CG: FUCKING FINE

CG: GO CHECK IN WITH EQUIUS

CG: HE MENTIONED SOMETHING ABOUT NEEDING HELP

TA: fiinally you 2ee rea2on

TA: don't worry your pretty liittle head kk

TA: ii'll try not two burn down the whole fuckiing 2hiip whiile ii'm at iit

CG: MY THINKPAN IS NEITHER PRETTY NOR LITTLE, YOU INSUFFERABLE PRICK

CG: JUST GO MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL BEFORE I CHANGE MY MIND AND STRAP YOU INSIDE A RECUPERACOON

TA: kiinky

TA: but ii'll pa22

With that, you close out of the message and open one up with Equius. You feel like he most likely is in the engine room, but you could be wrong, and you don't want to make your way all the way down into the bowels of the ship for your inkling of an idea to be wrong.

twinArmageddons [TA] began trolling centaursTesticle [CT]

TA: hey eq

TA: heard you miight need 2ome help

Continuing to lean against the wall, you are surprised at just how fast he replies.

CT: D --> Indeed, I could use the help.

CT: D --> I'm just now finishing up in the communal nutrition block. I will be available to have your help shortly.

Hmm, eating. That's something you should do. You don't feel particularly hungry, which is odd since you know it's been a while since you've eaten. You'll get some food in yourself regardless.

TA: don't 2weat iit

TA: liiterally

TA: ii thiink ii'll be headiing there two, 2o ii'll meet up wiith you

CT: D --> Splendid.

twinArmageddons [TA] ceased trolling centaursTesticle [CT]

The communal nutrition block is cramped compared to most ships you've been on. Four long tables, their dark metal surfaces bolted firmly to the floor, dominate the space. The room's minimalist design is familiar, reminiscent of countless other rebel ships you've spent time on.

As you enter, the smell of food, a mix of familiar spices, and the underlying scent of ship-grade nutrient paste wafts through the air. It's not gourmet, but after your ordeal, anything edible is welcome.

Your eyes scan the room, taking in the handful of trolls scattered about, some eating in silence, others engaged in hushed conversations. At the far end of one table, you spot Equius. His head snaps to you when he sees you, and you point to the serving windows. Hopefully, that's enough to convey your next actions. He nods, and you make your way to the serving counters.

There's a soft clatter as you slide your tray along the metal railings, which seems unnaturally loud in the relatively quiet room.

The serving windows are simple stainless steel counters with sneeze guards and heat lamps. As you approach, an array of dishes line the counter, most familiar but prepared with what's clearly rationed ingredients. The variety is better than you expected—given the circumstances. There's grubloaf, nutrition cylinders, and a vat of sopor-free slime that passes for soup these days.

Once you've filled your plate you make your way to the table you spotted Equius at and take a seat across from him. You notice he's finished his plate and you hope you aren't keeping him.

He looks at you for a moment before resting his elbows on the table and interlacing his prongs. You avert your eyes from his intense stare and scoop some of the grubloaf into your mouth.

"How familiar are you with Delta-grade engines?"

You stare at him for a moment, ceasing in your chewing. You ruminate on it and swallow down your food. You've dabbled in the hardware of the ships, but you're far from being an expert or at the same level that EQ is at.

"I know that Delta-grades are on the lower end of power output. For this ship this size, it's either running a Delta or an Epsilon." You pause. You also now know that The Battleship Condescension has an engine unlike any other grade. Unwanted feelings of the Battleship Condescension's monstrous engine flash through your pan. The memory of its pull on your psionics sends a shiver down your spine, your fork clattering against the tray as your hand trembles.

Equius nods, oblivious to your momentary discomfort. "We do indeed have a Delta engine. I've been working on upgrading it." Excitement creeps into his usually stoic demeanor. "With the materials from the new ship, an upgrade is now feasible."

You quirk an eyebrow, sensing there's more to this. "I'm sensing a 'but' here."

Equius nods, a bead of sweat forming on his brow. "Yes. I need someone to essentially 'plug in' for lack of a better term, for testing the stripped engine before installation. To calculate power level draws."

"We have other goldbloods aboard, but not many and certainly not at your level; they are at the lower end of the psionic spectrum. However, I can ask them if you are unavailable."

The implication hangs heavy in the air. You're aware that he's asking you: a powerful psionic, to voluntarily connect to ship systems after your traumatic experience.

You sit back, your fork dropping onto the tray, considering his words. You recoil at the idea. But—an opportunity. A chance to reclaim control.

"I... I'll think about it. Give me some time to process everything first."

Equius nods. "Acceptable. The testing phase is not immediate. Inform me when you have decided."

The matter-of-fact dismissal is somehow easier to handle than the constant coddling from everyone else. At least Equius treats this like any other work decision. You nod in acknowledgment.

As you finish your meal in companionable silence, your curiosity about the ship's systems grows. Despite your reservations, you can't deny the pull of a new challenge, the allure of diving into complex machinery and bending it to your will.

"Can I at least see the engine room? Just to look, not to... connect or anything."

Equius nods. "That would be useful. You can assess the scope of the project."

You follow Equius down the steep metal staircase into the bowels of the ship, ducking under low-hanging pipes and cables. The flimsy steps rattle and shake with each footfall, the sound echoing in the narrow space. As you descend deeper, the drone of the engines grows to a deafening roar, reverberating through your body.

The air grows thicker and hotter, laden with the acrid stench of oil, ozone, and scorched metal. You cough into the crook of your arm, your lungs protesting the assault. Sweat begins to bead on your forehead, trickling down the back of your neck.

You emerge onto a cramped gantry overlooking the engine room proper. The space sprawls out before you, a chaotic labyrinth of pipes, conduits, and hulking machinery. At its heart sits the battered form of the ship's Delta engine, its once-sleek lines marred by years of hasty repairs and jury-rigged solutions.

Your eyes narrow as you take in the engine's sorry state. Mismatched panels cover gaping holes in its housing, held in place by a patchwork of welds and bolts. Bundles of wires spill from open access panels like mechanical entrails. The entire assembly shudders and groans, as if struggling under its own weight.

"Fuck."

Equius nods. "We've been pushing it hard, and replacement parts are... difficult to come by." He wipes a sheen of sweat from his brow with a grease-stained cloth that he pulls out from his pant pocket. "I fear we're reaching a critical point. Without some significant intervention, I'm not certain how much longer it'll hold together. Before rescuing you, we took a serious hit, and this patchwork was the solution."

You lean over the railing, your eyes tracing the intricate web of systems before you. Despite the engine's battered state, the fixes show ingenuity.

"Yeah, I can see the patchiness. Shit, these engines are just about trash."

His lips flatten as he nods. "Which is why I am replacing them."

Going down the rickety stairs, you step closer to the engine, now grasping the railing around it. Your mind automatically begins to catalog the issues. From what you can see, it looks like worn bearings, inefficient fuel lines, and outdated power couplings. It's a testament to Equius's skill that this hunk of junk is still running at all.

"How long has this thing been limping along?"

Equius moves to stand beside you. "About eight sweeps. I'm assuming—I have not been on this vessel that long. We've been making do with scraps and salvage. But with the new materials..." He trails off, his eyes gleaming with the possibility of finally giving this rebellion ship the upgrade it desperately needs.

You nod, understanding. A better engine means faster travel, more efficient power usage, maybe even improved stealth capabilities. It could make a real difference, especially right now. You don't know exactly how well the rebellion is faring right now but if you had to take a guess, you are assuming not well. Karkat would know the details, he would tell you if you asked. Something in you hesitates to do so. Do you want to really know how bad your cause is faring right now on top of the other mess you are dealing with? No, right now, you just want to help. To lose yourself in the familiar comfort of circuits and code, to feel useful again. You push aside the nagging doubts and fears, focusing on the task at hand.

"So your plan is to take the engine from one of the other ships and put that in here?" You eye the size of the current engine. It's massive, easily taking up a third of the engine room. Replacing something like that is going to require an enormous amount of time and effort, which you feel as if the rebellion doesn't have right now. "How are you even going to get the old one out?"

Your eyes trace the complex network of pipes, wires, and support structures connecting it to the ship. You turn to look around the block, expecting to see a large hatch door or some other indication of a way to extract an engine of this size. Your eyes scan the ceiling and walls, but you don't see anything obvious. It then dawns on you—they'd have to dismantle it piece by piece, right here in the engine room.

"First off, how are you getting the engine out?" You straighten up from leaning over the railing. The metal creaks under your shifting weight, a reminder of just how old and worn this ship really is. "Secondly, is that new ship engine even going to be viable? It's from such a smaller ship comparatively."

You gesture towards the current engine, its massive bulk dwarfing everything else in the room. "This thing is huge. The engine from that little shuttle we came in on is what, maybe a tenth of this size? How's that going to power a ship this big?"

Equius wipes his brow again with a grease-stained cloth, leaving a dark smear across his forehead. You can't blame him too much. It is rather hot down here, your own palms are sweaty.

"Your concerns are valid. But I believe you're misunderstanding the nature of the upgrade I'm proposing."

He moves to a nearby console, his heavy footsteps reverberating through the metal grating beneath your feet. The console is wedged into a cramped nook, sandwiched between a hulking piece of machinery that hums ominously and a grimy wall covered in a tangle of exposed wires and blinking indicator lights.

His thick fingers, nimble for their size, dance across the console's interface. The air before you shimmers as a holographic display springs to life, bathing you both in a soft blue glow.

"We're not simply swapping out engines." He manipulates the image to show a complex schematic. "We're building a new one with the parts available." His thick fingers trace over the designs, showing you what looks to be a blueprint for this new engine.

"Shit, EQ." You whistle. "This is a very large and ambitious project." You slide your hands onto your hips, leaning in closer to study the blueprint. The complexity of the design is staggering, and you can see why he needed help.

Equius nods, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Indeed. It will be a significant undertaking."

"Who do we have working on this project?"

"Myself, you, and Nepeta is currently stripping various parts from the other ships." You grimace. That's not a lot. A project of this size would take multiple trolls days. You wonder if you even have that. Without the ship engine, you'll be sitting ducks if the Empire comes.

"Well." You sigh, wiping at your brow. The heat of the engine room is oppressive, making sweat accumulate on your skin. "I guess let's get to work. What do you want me to do first?"

Equius nods. As you both move towards the engine, you fall into a familiar rhythm. It's been a while since you two have worked together, but you know each other's quirks. You examine the engine with Equius' practiced eyes; he points to objects and diagrams explaining what they are. Your hands move over the machinery, identifying weak points, mapping out the best approach for removal.

As you work, you find yourself slipping into a state of focused concentration. The constant hum of the engine, the warmth of the machinery—it all fades into the background. Your mind is fully engaged with the task at hand, calculating theoretical power ratios, envisioning improved configurations. You're both working around each other, taking the time to come back up from your work and discuss next steps.

Time loses meaning as you and Equius work. The physical labor is a welcome distraction from your tumultuous thoughts, and the intellectual challenge of improving the engine design gives your mind something concrete to focus on.

It's not until you straighten up, your back protesting the movement, that you realize how much time has passed. The ache in your muscles and the growling of your digestive sac are clear indicators that you've been at this for hours.

As you wipe the sweat from your brow, you notice the blinking light on your palmhusk. With a start, you realize you've missed several messages from Karkat. A twinge of guilt mixes with a flutter of anxiety in your chest. You've been so absorbed in the work, you lost track of time and ignored your moirail's attempts to reach you.

You hesitate, hand hovering over the device. Check the messages? Or stay in this bubble of productivity?

Equius's voice cuts through the background noise of your indecisive pan. "Captor, I believe it's time we concluded for the night."

You turn to see him wiping his hands on a rag, his usually pristine appearance marred by smudges of oil and grime.

"What? But we're just getting started. We can't stop now."

Equius shakes his head. "We've been at this for hours. The work will still be here tomorrow. I need rest."

You open your mouth, ready to argue, to insist that you're fine, that the work is too important to stop. But you catch yourself, realizing that pushing Equius might raise suspicions about your state of mind. Instead, you nod slowly, feigning reluctance.

"You're right. It's been a long day. You go ahead and get some rest. I'll just finish up this last bit and then head out."

Equius eyes you skeptically for a moment, but then nods. "Very well. But do not stay too much longer. Your health is important to the rebellion."

As he turns to leave, you call out, "Night, EQ."

The sound of his heavy footsteps fades away, leaving you alone in the vast space. The engines hum softly, almost soothingly, beckoning you back to work. Your hand drifts to your pocket, feeling the outline of your palmhusk. Karkat's messages still wait, unread.

For a brief moment, you consider pulling it out, facing whatever worried or angry words your moirail has sent. But the thought of breaking this bubble of productivity, of facing the reality outside this room, is too daunting. Instead, you turn back to the engines, your mind already racing with plans for the night's work.

"Just a little longer. I'll check in with KK soon. Just... not yet."

As you lose yourself once more in the work, the palmhusk sits forgotten in your pocket, its unread messages a silent reminder of the world you're trying so hard to avoid. The night stretches ahead of you, full of potential breakthroughs and uninterrupted focus. You know you should rest, should check in with your friends, but the pull of the work is too strong to resist.

With Equius gone, you can really dive in. Time becomes fluid, stretching and contracting in odd ways. The rhythm of your work—the clang of metal on metal, the hiss of steam, the whir of machinery—becomes a kind of meditation. You lose yourself in it, your mind racing with calculations and possibilities.

You're not sure how long you've been at it when a voice cuts through your focus:

"I've been trying to get in touch with you for hours."

The voice echoes inside your pan, cutting through the rhythmic clanging and whirring of the engine room. You freeze, tools still clutched in your grease-stained hands, wires dangling forgotten from your fingertips. For a moment, you're not sure if you've actually heard anything or if it's just another trick of your exhausted mind. It wouldn't be the first time you've experienced auditory hallucinations after long hours of intense focus.

You blink hard, trying to clear your head. The acrid smell of engine oil and ozone fills your nostrils, grounding you in reality. Sweat trickles down your back, your shirt clinging uncomfortably to your skin in the sweltering heat of the engine room.

"Sol." The voice comes again, clearer this time. There's an edge of frustration in the familiar tone. You feel a prickle of irritation at the back of your neck, but you still don't turn around. Maybe if you ignore it, it'll go away. You've been making such good progress on the engine upgrades, you don't want to break your concentration now.

"Gog damnit Sollux! Look at me!"

The voice is angry now, loud enough to startle you out of your stubborn denial. You spin around, nearly dropping your tools in the process. The movement makes your head swim, reminding you how long you've been down here without a break.

And there, standing at the foot of the gantry, arms crossed, is Karkat. His hair is a mess, sticking up at odd angles as if he's been running his hands through it in frustration. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced than usual, a testament to his own exhaustion. His clothes are rumpled.

"Okay. So not a hallucination."

Karkat's scowl deepens. "No shit, fuckass. Did you forget how to answer a goddamn message? Or are you just ignoring me on purpose?"

You blink, remembering the palmhusk you'd shoved in your pocket hours ago. You'd silenced it to focus on your work, and then... well, you'd gotten a bit carried away.

"Uh. Lost track of time, I guess."

Karkat's expression softens, concern seeping through the cracks in his anger. "Sollux. You're supposed to be resting. Have you done that? Or ate? Or did anything that wasn't tinkering with this fucking engine?"

You open your mouth to respond, then close it again. You genuinely can't remember. Realization hits like a bucket of cold water, shocking you out of the focused haze you've been living in. You sway on your feet, the fatigue you've been ignoring crashing over you like a wave.

"Fuck." You rub a hand over your face, smearing grease across your cheek. "I... I don't know."

Karkat sighs, the sound heavy with exasperation and worry. "That's it. You're taking a break. Right now. No arguments."

As he reaches you, you can see the deep concern in his eyes, hidden beneath layers of gruffness and irritation. It's a look you've seen countless times before, one that never fails to make you feel both guilty and cared for at the same time.

"But the engine—"

"The engine can wait." Karkat cuts you off, his hand grasping your arm to keep you from turning back. "You, on the other hand, look like you're about to keel over. Come on, you stubborn asshole. Food, shower, sleep. In that order."

As Karkat guides you away from your work, you realize just how right he is. Your limbs feel like lead, and your eyes are struggling to stay open. You let him lead you out of the engine room, the clamor of machinery fading behind you as you ascend the stairs. The sudden quiet makes your ears ring, and you stumble on the steps.

Karkat's grip on you tightens, steadying you. "Careful."

You're seated in the cafeteria, a tray of food placed in front of you. The smell of it makes your digestive sac lurch, reminding you just how long it's been since you've eaten. How many hours have you been down there?

"Eat. And don't even think about arguing. I'll force-feed you if I have to."

You pick up your fork with a shaky hand, managing a few bites. As you eat, Karkat watches you intently, his brow furrowed. He worries his lip between his dull teeth, and then his eyes dart down to the table before meeting your face again.

"Sol. I think... I think you might be heading for an episode."

You pause mid-bite, considering his words. The food tastes like ash in your mouth as you process what Karkat's saying. You set your fork down, taking a moment to really assess yourself. Your mind races, cataloging your recent behavior and physical symptoms. The lack of sleep, the hyperfocus on your work, the tremor in your hands—they're all there, the telltale signs you've learned to recognize over the sweeps. But something feels... different this time.

You don't feel the euphoric rush of a manic episode building. There's no flood of ideas, no sense of invincibility. Instead, you just feel... driven. Focused. Like you're finally able to do what needs to be done without your usual doubts and hesitations holding you back.

Your thoughts are clearer than they've been in perigees, not the chaotic jumble that usually precedes an episode. You're tired, yes, but it's a physical exhaustion, not the bone-deep weariness that comes with your depressive phases. Still, you can't deny that you're exhibiting some of the classic symptoms. The obsessive focus on your work, the neglect of basic self-care, the irritability when interrupted—they're all there, red flags waving in Karkat's face. You know you should be more concerned, should probably listen to Karkat's worries. But right now, all you can think about is the progress you've made on the engines, the breakthroughs waiting just around the corner if you could just get back to work.

"Good."

Karkat's eyes widen in disbelief, his thick eyebrows shooting up towards his hairline. "No, not 'good'. What the fuck, Sollux? You know how bad these episodes can get."

You shrug, a bitter smile twisting your lips. The familiar taste of self-deprecation coats your tongue like bile. "At least when I'm manic, I can get shit done. Maybe I can help finish the engine upgrades faster." Your fingers twitch, already itching to get back to work.

Karkat's face contorts with a mixture of anger and concern. His jaw clenches, a muscle twitching visibly. "No. Absolutely not. You're not using your episodes as a fucking productivity hack. We're going to deal with this properly, like we always do."

"Look, KK. I appreciate the concern, but I don't think this is actually an episode coming on. I'm just... tired. Overworked. It's not the same thing."

Karkat's eyes narrow, skepticism etched into every line of his face. "Bullshit. I've known you long enough to recognize the signs, Sollux. The obsessive focus, the lack of self-care, the way you're talking about your work... It all points to an episode."

You shake your head, frustration building. "No, you don't understand. This is different. I'm in control. I know what I'm doing."

"Do you? When was the last time you ate a proper meal? Or took a break that wasn't forced on you?"

You open your mouth to respond, then close it again. You can't actually remember the answers to those questions, and that realization sends a chill down your spine. But you quickly push the discomfort aside, clinging to your conviction that you're fine.

"This morning, I tried to."

Karkat's expression softens, seeing the flicker of doubt in your eyes. "Sol. Look, having an episode right now... It's to be expected, okay? You just came out of a fucking traumatic experience. Being helmed, being used like that..." He trails off, his voice tight with suppressed anger. "And you're off your medication. Your pan chemistry is all fucked up right now."

You bristle at his words, feeling defensive. "I'm not having an episode, KK. Yeah, I've been working hard and throwing myself into things, but that's because there's shit that needs to get done. The rebellion needs these upgrades. I'm fine."

Karkat's brow furrows, frustration evident in the set of his jaw. "Sollux, you're not fine. You're showing all the classic signs—"

"I know my own pan, Karkat." You cut him off, pushing your food away. "Just because I'm actually being productive for once doesn't mean I'm having an episode. I've got this under control."

You see the worry and skepticism in Karkat's eyes, but you hold firm to your stance. You're not ready to admit that there might be a problem, not when you're finally making real progress on your work.

"Fine," Karkat says after a moment, his tone making it clear that it's anything but fine. "But I'm keeping an eye on you. And if things get worse, we're dealing with it whether you like it or not."

You slump in your seat, relief twisted with irritation washing over you. "Fine. Can I go back to work now?"

Karkat sighs heavily, the sound a mixture of exasperation and concern. His fingers drum an impatient rhythm on the table."Finish your food first. And then you're getting some sleep, even if I have to knock you out myself."

Your lips part in protest, indignation rising in your chest. He's treating you like a fucking wriggler, and you're about to voice that complaint when you catch the 'try me' look on his face. Your jaw snaps shut, fangs clacking together audibly.

As you make progress on your plate, Karkat's posture relaxes. The hard line of his shoulders softens, the furrow between his brows easing. Dark circles mark the skin under his eyes, and his hands tremble with exhaustion. He really has no right to be getting onto you about this, you think bitterly. He works himself to the bone as much as you are at this moment. But you keep that thought to yourself, not wanting to start another argument.

He follows you as you both make your way to his block. After eating, you're really starting to feel just how tired you are. Your pan feels sluggish and your limbs are heavy. Every now and then, Karkat's hand twitches towards you, almost as if he wants to steady you but isn't sure if he should.

In the silence, you find your thoughts drifting to Eridan of all people.

"Hey, KK. What's going to happen to Eridan?" You never did find out what the end result was about what to do with him.

Karkat's step falters for a moment, his shoulders tensing. "We haven't decided yet. It's... complicated."

You nod. It's a complicated matter, makes sense to not know what to do. "He did help me escape. But that doesn't erase what he did before."

"Exactly." Karkat runs a hand through his messy hair. His claws catch on a tangle, and he winces. "He's a traitor, but also potentially valuable. We can't just ignore the information he might have, but we can't trust him either." He pauses, glancing at you. "What do you think? You spent some time with him during your escape."

You shrug, your tired mind struggling to form a coherent opinion. The memories of your escape are already hazy, and the exhaustion you feel makes remembering like grasping smoke.

"I don't know, KK. He seemed... different. Regretful, maybe. But I was pretty out of it." Karkat hums in thought, his brows furrowing.

"I know the fucker only helped you to help himself. You must know that, too."

You sigh, feeling the weight of that truth settle on your shoulders. "Yeah, I know. My safety was the least of his concerns. I was just... a way to get off the ship."

Karkat's hand finds your shoulder, a grounding touch in the storm of your thoughts. You lean into it, grateful for the support. The two of you walk in silence for a while, each lost in your own thoughts.

As you near his block—your shared block, you remind yourself—you can feel the pull of sleep becoming almost irresistible. The prospect of sinking into the sopor slime, of letting oblivion claim you for a few blessed hours, is the most appealing thing you can imagine.

Karkat punches in the code to open the door, the soft beep of the keypad a welcome sound. The door slides open with a quiet hiss.

He turns to you. "Get some rest, Sol," and goes to leave. Without thinking, you reach for him, your long fingers grasping at his upper arm. The touch is desperate, almost clinging, and you feel a flicker of embarrassment at your neediness. But the memory of your nightmare springs up unbidden—the feeling of being trapped, alone, helpless. Logically, you know it was just a dream, a daymare—no—nightmare... but your bloodpusher starts to pound against your thorax at the mere thought of being alone right now.

"I know you have shit to do, but—" Your voice catches. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to continue. "Can you stay?" The words come out softer than you intended, almost pleading. You release his arm, self-conscious, and watch as he turns to face you fully.

Your eyes meet, and you're struck by the intensity of his gaze. Bright red eyes, usually so full of fire and determination, now shine with concern. His brow furrows, etching deep lines of worry across his forehead. For a moment, you regret asking, not wanting to add to his already heavy workload.

But then his expression softens, understanding dawning in his eyes. "Of course."

Without another word, Karkat moves back into the block. He doesn't make a big deal of it, doesn't press you to talk about what's bothering you. Instead, he settles himself nearby as you prepare for sleep. His presence is a comfort, a silent guardian against the demons that haunt your pan.

As you sink into the sopor slime, you feel some of the tension leave your body. Your sleep is deep and restful, Karkat's steady presence keeping the worst of your fears at bay. You don't know when he gets up to leave or even if he sleeps at all, but the nightmares don't come that night.

When you wake, the first thoughts in your pan are about the engine. The complex schematics and potential modifications dance behind your eyelids, as vivid as if you were still studying them. Your bloodpusher beats rapid against your ribs, and you feel startlingly, completely awake. The lingering sopor slime clings to your skin, but you barely notice it, your mind already racing with plans.

Quickly and efficiently, you wipe the sopor from your body, the cool air of the block raising goosebumps on your damp skin. You dress in a flurry of movement, your fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers in your haste. As you pull on your final layer, you glance around the block. Karkat is nowhere to be found, his recuperacoon untouched. You briefly wonder if he had gotten any sleep at all, a pang of guilt mixing with your impatience to get to work.

You're about to dash out the door when Karkat's words from last night echo in your pan. He thinks you're headed for a manic episode. The thought makes you pause, your hand hovering over the door control. You need to prove him wrong. You're not spiraling; you're just dedicated to your work. And to prove that, you need to show that you can take care of yourself.

Eating first would be a good start, you think. But then you catch a whiff of yourself and wrinkle your nose. Right. Shower first, then food. THEN you can finally work on the engine. It feels like an eternity of steps between you and what you really want to do, but you force yourself to comply. Sucks to suck, you guess.

As you gather your things for the shower, you can't help but feel a mix of pride and frustration. Pride that you're being responsible, taking care of yourself like a functioning adult. Frustration that these basic tasks feel like such massive obstacles between you and your work.

You head to the communal ablution block, your mind still buzzing with ideas for the engine. As the warm water cascades over you, you find yourself mentally disassembling and reassembling components, your fingers twitching with the urge to get back to work. But you force yourself to go through the motions of cleaning thoroughly, even taking the time to wash behind your ears like you're a fucking wriggler.

Once clean and dressed, you make your way to the nutrition block. The smell of food makes your stomach growl, reminding you that you actually are hungry. As you pile food onto your plate, a sense of accomplishment settles over you. See, Karkat? You can take care of yourself. You're fine.

Turning a corner, you run into something solid but short. You look down to see a fellow goldblood. He's knocked onto his ass and sprawled on the metal floor, and you curse.

"Shit, sorry. I didn't see you." You reach down and offer a hand, and he gladly takes it.

The troll accepts your offer, his smaller hand gripping yours as you pull him to his feet. "N-No worries." He stammers, brushing off his clothes with shaky hands. He looks unremarkable—just another face in the crowd. His eyes catch your attention, though; the irises are a solid yellow. You think you've seen him around the ship just passing by, but you can't place him. Is he new?

Feeling awkward just staring at him and him staring back at you, you make a move to continue on your way to the serving counter. You've got places to be after all.

"Hey, wait!" The goldblood calls out, desperation edging his voice.

You pause mid-step, curiosity warring with irritation. You want to keep walking, so you can be closer to your ultimate goal of working on the engine, but something in his tone makes you turn back, with an eyebrow raised questioningly. He seems nervous, fidgeting with his hands as he looks up at you.

"Um, you're Sollux Captor, right? The psionic who just escaped Battleship Condescension?"

You nod slowly, unsure where this is going and not liking what others remember you for. "Yeah, that's me. What about it?"

The troll's eyes widen. "I... I just wanted to say thank you. For everything you've done for the rebellion. You're kind of a legend among us lowbloods." He gives a shy smile. "I'm Zebede, by the way."

You're taken aback by the earnest gratitude. It's not something you're used to. "Oh. Uh, thanks, I guess." You rub the back of your neck. Okay, well, you weren't expecting that. "I didn't really do it to be a legend or whatever, though."

Zebede nods quickly. "Of course! I just meant... well, you give us hope, you know? That we can fight back against the empire. Make things better."

His words stir something in you—pride wars with discomfort. You're not used to being seen as some kind of hero. But you have to admit it's... nice. Yeah, you're pretty great, aren't you? You escaped fucking THE Battleship Condescension.

"Look, I appreciate the sentiment. But I don't need hero worship. I'm just doing what needs to be done."

Zebede looks like he wants to argue, but thinks better of it. "Right, sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I should let you go. Thanks again, though. For everything."

As he turns to leave, you feel a sudden impulse. Maybe it's the sincerity in his eyes, or the way he looked at you with genuine admiration. Whatever it is, you find yourself calling out.

"Hey, Zebede."

He turns back, surprise evident on his face.

"Call me The Catalyst." A small smile tugs at your mouth. It feels good to claim your title, to own the role you've taken on in this rebellion.

Zebede's face lights up, his earlier nervousness replaced by genuine excitement. "Is that your title? I would be honored to!" He beams at you, straightening up as if the very act of using your title has given him confidence. "See you around, The Catalyst." He waves, before making his way out of the communal nutrition block with a newfound spring in his step.

You continue inside the block, momentarily forgetting why you were in such a rush. You leisurely grab a tray and food before sitting down at a table. However, the distraction doesn't last long and soon your leg is bouncing and your hands are itching to get back to things. You manage to force down about half your food before the urge to return to the engine room becomes overwhelming. With a clatter that seems disproportionately loud in the quiet block, your fork drops onto the tray. The sound makes you wince, drawing a few curious glances from the other occupants of the room.

With a mixture of guilt and relief, you stand up, grabbing your tray to dispose of the remaining food. As you do, you catch sight of your reflection in a polished panel. Your eyes are bright, almost feverish with excitement and lack of sleep. For a split second, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, Karkat might be right to worry. You shake the thought from your pan, pushing it away with almost physical force. He is not right, you tell yourself firmly. You are in control. You showered and ate! You are fine. The mantra repeats in your head, a shield against doubt and concern.

Finding yourself back in the engine room with the smell and air just as bad and heavy as last time, cloying your senses. Looking around, you don't see anyone. Equius is missing from his usual little makeshift desk squeezed between the wall and another part of the ship's machinery. The desk is littered with machine parts and old oil stains. A steaming cup perched precariously among the clutter catches your eye—Equius must be around somewhere.

You don't have to wander long until you spot Nepeta, her sleeves rolled up to her elbows, grease smears decorating her arms and face like war paint. She's grunting with effort, struggling to carry a heavy machine part that looks comically large in her small hands.

"Hi Sollux."

Seeing her struggle, you react instinctively. A soft red and blue glow envelops the machine part as you lift it effortlessly with your psionics. The sudden loss of weight causes Nepeta to stumble before she catches herself, exhaling in relief.

"Thanks!" She cheers, her smile bright against the grime on her face. She gestures for you to follow her, leading the way through the maze of machinery. As you walk, the part hovering steadily between you, she glances at you curiously. "What are you doing down here?"

"I've been helping EQ with the engine. Where is he, by the way?"

Nepeta points to a clear spot on the floor, indicating where to set down the engine part. You comply, lowering it gently with your psionics. "He forgot something in our block, so he's grabbing it real quick."

You nod, a frown tugging at your lips. That's fine, you tell yourself. You can get started without him. Without another word, you move over to Equius' workstation, your fingers itching to grab the tools you've been using. As you turn around, tools in hand, you notice Nepeta watching you.

"What?"

Her gaze softens, concern evident in her olive eyes. "How are you holding up?" The words are simple, gentle, and you know she means well. But a discomfort itches under your skin, making you want to squirm away from her gaze.

You clench the tools tighter, the metal edges digging into your palms. Is this how everyone sees you now? Sollux, the troll that got forcibly helmed? Do they all think you're in some fragile state, ready to shatter at the slightest touch? You can tolerate it from Karkat—he's your moirail, after all—but you can't handle the rest of your friends treating you like you're made of glass.

The memory of yesterday's meeting flashes through your mind—the way everyone's eyes lingered on you, on your new additions. The platonic pity, the concern, the unasked questions hanging in the air. It makes your skin crawl.

"I'm fine." The words come out more aggressive than you intended. You see Nepeta flinch at your tone, and you force yourself to take a deep breath. "I'm fine." You repeat, trying to infuse the words with nonchalance instead of irritation.

Nepeta doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't push. Instead, she nods slowly, her eyes still filled with worry. "Okay. But if you ever want to talk..."

You cut her off with a curt nod, already turning back to the engine. You don't want to talk. You don't want to think about what happened, about how it's changed you. You just want to work.

She leaves you alone after that, going back to her own work, which you are grateful for.

You're so engrossed in your work that you barely notice when Equius returns. It's only when you look up, stretching your cramped muscles, that you spot him. He's drinking from the mug that was on his desk earlier, grimacing as he sips the now-cold liquid.

He greets you and goes over what the plan is for today, and you get back to it, already working on what he assigned you. He goes over to his own area to work and pauses.

"This wasn't how I left it."

Oh, the area you were working on last night. "I worked on it after you left."

He turns to you. "You worked through the night."

You groan audibly, frustration bubbling up inside you. "Not this shit again." It takes all your self-control not to snap at him, to lash out at yet another person treating you like you're made of glass.

"I'm fine. I'm just focused on the work. Isn't that what we need right now? To get this engine upgraded as quickly as possible?"

Equius nods. "Yes. Which is why I am noting this change in your pattern."

"So what? I got more done."

"Indeed. I am merely observing." He turns back to his own work. "If your work quality declines, I will inform you."

The dismissal is clear. Part of you is relieved he's not making a big deal of it like everyone else. But another part is annoyed that he just... doesn't seem to care beyond the work output.

"Fine. Can I just work then?"

"You may."

You nod curtly, already turning back to your work. Your fingers itch to grab your tools again, to lose yourself in the familiar world of wires and circuits. As you hunch over your workstation, you can feel Equius's gaze lingering on you for a few moments longer before he finally moves away.

Time becomes fluid as you immerse yourself in your task. The rhythmic clanking of metal, the soft whir of cooling fans, the occasional hiss of escaping steam—it all blends into a soothing white noise.

You're not sure how long you've been at it when the insistent buzz of your palmhusk finally breaks through your concentration. The device vibrates aggressively in your pocket, demanding attention. At first, you try to ignore it, unwilling to break your flow. But the vibrations continue, relentless in their urgency.

With a resigned sigh, you set down your tools. The wrench clatters against the metal floor, the sound jarring in your hyper-focused state. Wiping your grease-stained hands on your pants, you fish the palmhusk out of your pocket.

The screen lights up, revealing a barrage of messages and missed calls. Karkat's name dominates the notifications, each message more frantic and angry than the last. Well, there goes proving him wrong... no, you can still patch this up. It's loud down here after all; you simply didn't hear your palmhusk. It's the lie you tell yourself and try to believe.

With a heavy intake of breath, you brace yourself to read his messages:

CG: SOLLUX, WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?

CG: IT'S BEEN HOURS SINCE ANYONE'S SEEN YOU.

CG: IF YOU'RE HOLED UP IN THE ENGINE ROOM AGAIN, I SWEAR TO GOG...

CG: ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PALMHUSK, ASSHOLE.

CG: I'M GETTING WORRIED HERE.

CG: SOLLUX, PLEASE. JUST LET ME KNOW YOU'RE OKAY.

CG: THAT'S IT. IF YOU DON'T RESPOND IN THE NEXT FIVE MINUTES, I'M COMING DOWN THERE MYSELF.

CG: AND TRUST ME, YOU DON'T WANT THAT. I'LL DRAG YOUR SCRAWNY ASS OUT OF THERE IF I HAVE TO.

You switch to your missed calls log, wincing when you see a total of four from him. The last call was just minutes ago.

You rub at your face, only to realize too late that your hands are covered in engine grease. You can feel the grime smearing across your skin, adding to your frustration. Grabbing at your nearby towel, you try your best to remove the mess. The rough fabric scratches against your skin as you scrub, probably just spreading the grease around more than actually cleaning it off.

Once you're as clean as you're going to get, which isn't very, given the state of the towel, you pick up your palmhusk again. The screen glows accusingly, Karkat's messages still front and center. You know you need to respond, to head off the impending storm of your moirail's worry and anger.

Your fingers hover over the keypad, uncertain. What can you possibly say? 'Sorry, I was busy' seems inadequate. 'I didn't hear my palmhusk' is a lie, and Karkat would see right through it. You're tempted to snap back, to tell him to stop treating you like you're made of glass. But you know that would only make things worse.

You start to type:

TA: kk, ii'm fiine. ju2t lo2t track of tiime workiing on the engiine.

TA: no need two come down here.

CG: FUCK YOU FOR MAKING ME WORRY. AGAIN! MIGHT I ADD

CG: HAVE YOU GOTTEN CHECKED OUT BY TAVROS YET?

TA: why

Your fingers type out the question before you can really think it through. As soon as you hit send, you realize it was probably the wrong thing to say. Karkat's response is almost immediate:

CG: DON'T ASK ME WHY

CG: BECAUSE OF YOUR FUCKING PORTS YOU DUMBASS

Oh yeah, that. You remember how Tavros told you that he needed to check them until they've healed. It completely slipped your pan. Your hand instinctively moves to touch one of the ports on your temple, the metal still feeling foreign against your skin. Shit, did you even take the antibiotic Tavros gave you? You don't remember doing so.

You pull away completely from the engine. You'd better get on that before Karkat drags you to the medbay, and you show him even more evidence of not being well.

TA: iim goiing now

You quickly type out before yelling to Equius that you'll be back, causing Equius to look up from his work. He nods and gives you a thumbs up before getting back to his work.

CG: GOOD

CG: TELL ME HOW IT GOES

You roll your eyes at his insistence, but type back a quick affirmative before shoving the device into your pocket.

The journey to the medbay feels longer than usual. Each step away from the engine room is a struggle, your mind constantly drifting back to the work you've left unfinished. You pass by other trolls in the corridors, some offering tentative greetings that you barely acknowledge. Your focus is singular: get to Tavros, get checked out, get back to work.

As you push open the medbay door, the sterile smell hits you immediately, a stark contrast to the oil and metal scents of the engine room. You scan the area, expecting to see Tavros at his workstation. Instead, your eyes land on a familiar figure perched on one of the examination tables.

Dave.

Your soulmate is sitting there, his shades firmly in place despite the dim lighting of the medbay. Tavros is hovering near him, in the middle of some kind of examination. Dave looks up as the door closes behind you, his face unreadable behind those shades. For a moment, neither of you moves or speaks.

You're frozen to the spot, your hand still on the door handle. A part of you wants to turn and flee, to retreat back to the safety of the engine room. But another part, the part that's been curious and confused since your dramatic reunion, keeps you rooted in place. At least he can't run away from you here, you think wryly.

Tavros looks up, a smile of recognition spreading across his face. "Sollux! I was hoping you'd come by today. How are you feeling?"

His words snap you out of your momentary paralysis. You force yourself to step fully into the room, letting the door close behind you. "I'm fine. Just here for the check-up you wanted."

Tavros nods. Relief. Concern. "Good, I'm glad you remembered. I was starting to worry I'd have to send someone to fetch you."

You bristle at the implication that you needed to be "fetched," but you swallow down the retort. No need to make this more awkward than it already is.

"I'm just finishing up with Dave. Why don't you have a seat? I'll be with you in a moment."

You nod stiffly, moving to sit on the examination table furthest from Dave. As you settle in, you sneak glances at him. There's so much unsaid between you, so much to figure out. The silence in the medbay is oppressive, broken only by the soft whir of Tavros's wheelchair and the occasional beep of medical equipment.

You're acutely aware of how you must look—covered in engine grease, probably sleep-deprived and disheveled. Not exactly the best impression for your newly discovered soulmate. You resist the urge to wipe at your face or straighten your clothes, knowing it would only draw more attention to your unkempt state.

Tavros turns to Dave. "Dave, uh... hang out for... second?"

"Yeah, man, no problem."

Tavros turns and begins his examination on you, his touch gentle but clinical as he probes at the metal implants. Every brush against the ports sends a shiver down your spine, your body instinctively wanting to recoil from the contact. You grit your teeth, forcing yourself to remain still. Your gaze drifts back to Dave. He's hunched over something in his lap, his attention focused intently on whatever he's holding. As you watch, you realize it's some kind of device—similar to a palmhusk, but damaged.

"Hold still," Tavros murmurs, pulling your attention back to the present. You realize you've been leaning forward, trying to get a better look at Dave's actions. You force yourself to sit straight again, focusing on a point on the far wall as Tavros continues his work.

"How has the antibiotic been?"

Oh yeah, the antibiotics you haven't taken yet. "Great."

Tavros nods with a smile. "Good, in a couple of days we should start to see this port get better."

As Tavros continues to check on each individual port, you find your gaze wandering back to Dave. He looks bored just sitting there. He's slumped over, lightly kicking his legs, pointedly staring at a blank wall. Sometimes he'll look down and fiddle with the device in his hand.

Tavros moves away from you, mentioning grabbing an ointment, and your eyes continue to look at the device in Dave's hand. Maybe you could...

"I can probably fix that."

Your voice sounds too loud in the quiet room, and you immediately want to take the words back. Dave's head snaps up, his attention on you. Even with his shades on, you can feel the weight of his gaze.

For a moment, neither of you speak. You can feel a blush creeping up your neck, embarrassment warring with a strange sort of excitement. This is the first real interaction you've had with your soulmate since your dramatic reunion, and you've opened with an offer to fix his broken tech. Smooth, Captor. Real smooth.

Dave seems to tense, his casual posture becoming more rigid. "Oh yeah? You an expert on Earth tech now or something?"

You can tell he's trying to play it cool, but there's an undercurrent of hostility in his words that catches you off guard. It's clear he's as uncomfortable with this situation as you are, maybe even more so.

"I, uh. I just know tech in general. Thought I could take a look, if you want."

Dave's fingers tighten around the device. "Right. Because alien tech and Earth tech are totally the same thing."

You can feel the conversation slipping away from you, the awkwardness in the room ratcheting up another notch. But something in you refuses to back down completely.

"More alike than you'd think, probably."

Dave seems to consider this for a moment, his face unreadable behind those shades. Then, with a movement that seems reluctant, he slides off the examination table. His posture is stiff as he takes a few steps towards you, the broken device clutched tightly in his hand.

"Whatever, man. It's already busted. Knock yourself out, I guess."

He holds out the device, but his body language screams discomfort. It's clear he's forcing himself to make this small gesture, every line of his body tense as if ready to bolt at any moment.

You reach out to take the device, acutely aware of the space between you. As your fingers close around it, you can see Dave's hand twitch, like he's fighting the urge to pull back. The device transfers between you with minimal contact.

As you begin to examine the device, Tavros returns with the ointment, breaking the awkward silence. The rest of your check-up passes in a blur.

You're heading back from the medbay, Dave's broken palmhusk tucked under your arm, when you nearly collide with someone coming around the corner.

"Sollux."

You freeze. Aradia stands there, first shocked and then her arms cross, her rust-colored eyes pinning you in place with that look.

"AA." Your voice comes out rougher than intended.

"We need to talk. Observation deck. Level three.”

"I'm kind of busy—" You gesture with the palmhusk.

She's already walking. "That can wait."

You stand there for a moment, weighing your options. You could go back to your block. Start working on Dave's tech. Lose yourself in something productive instead of—

Aradia glances back over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised.

Fuck.

You follow.

The observation deck is empty, just a viewport and a couple of benches bolted to the floor. Stars streak past in silence, cold and distant. Aradia settles on one bench. You take the other, maintaining the space between you.

"So. What's this about?"

She doesn't answer immediately. Just looks at you with that calm assessment, like she's cataloging every detail. The dark circles, the tremor in your hands, the weight you've lost.

"You look like shit."

"Wow. Thanks. Really feeling the friendship here."

"I'm not here to coddle you. I'm here because you were helmed just a couple of days ago, and you're acting like it never happened."

The words hit harder than you expect. You look away, focusing on the stars. "I'm fine."

"You're working yourself into the ground."

"I'm being useful."

"You're running away. Throwing yourself into engine repairs, fixing broken tech. Anything to avoid dealing with what happened."

Your jaw clenches. "What else am I supposed to do? Sit around and cry about it?"

"You could acknowledge that it happened. That it was traumatic. That you're allowed to—"

"You're not my moirail, Aradia." The words come out sharper than you intend, cutting through the space between you like a blade. "You don't get to tell me how to process my shit anymore."

The silence that follows is heavy. Aradia doesn't flinch, doesn't look away. She just watches you.

"You're right. I'm not. I haven't been for many sweeps. But I am your friend. And I'm also the one who was there in that shuttle when you had to helm again to get us out."

Guilt twists in your gut. You push it down. "So what?"

"What is—is I want you to stop pretending you're fine when you're clearly not. I watched you shake in that helm, Sollux. I felt how terrified you were. And now you're acting like it was nothing."

"It was barely anything—"

"That’s a lie and you know it. You were helmed. The thing you've been terrified of since you were young actually happened."

The words hit like a punch to the chest. You stare at her.

"Don't."

But Aradia doesn't stop. "I gave you those forged documents when we were younger. Documents to make them think you were low-level. To buy you time. To keep you out of a helm for as long as possible. Because I knew—we both knew—what helming meant to you. What it represented."

Your hands clench into fists. "AA—"

"You had nightmares about it. You'd wake up in a cold sweat, convinced you could feel biowires crawling under your skin. You were so scared of ending up like all those images of psionics that you dug from the depths of the net that you pushed me away. You thought it would be easier for me if I wasn't there to watch it happen."

"Stop." The word comes out strangled.

"And now it's happened. The thing you spent your entire life running from—it caught you. They strapped you down, connected those biowires. Used you exactly the way you were always terrified they would. And instead of dealing with that, you're working however long and probably skipping meals and pretending everything's fine."

"What the fuck do you want from me? You want me to fall apart? Have a breakdown? I can't—the rebellion needs—"

"The rebellion needs you alive. Not burnt out after a week because you refused to process what happened."

"I'm handling it!"

"By running away from it."

"I'm working! I'm being useful!" Your voice rises, echoing in the small space. "I'm fixing things, helping with the engines, contributing something instead of just being another broken thing that needs to be taken care of!"

"Sollux—"

"No!" You're pacing now, the ports on your body throbbing with each step. "Everyone keeps looking at me like I'm going to shatter. Karkat won't let me do anything without checking if I'm okay first. Tavros keeps monitoring my ports. And now you—" You gesture at her. "You're here doing the same thing. I don't need another person trying to fix me, AA. I especially don't need my ex-moirail trying to pale lecture me about self-care."

The words hang in the air between you, harsh and cutting. You want Aradia to get angry, to snap back, to leave. It’s a response you’ve very rarely seen from her—did you finally push her there?

Instead, she just looks at you. Really looks at you.

"Are you done?"

You sigh, giving her a slow, tired look before slumping onto the bench. "Maybe."

You feel drained.

"They're worried because they care. That's what people who care about you do."

"Well, it's suffocating."

"Maybe. But you know what's worse? Watching someone you care about self-destruct in slow motion because they're too stubborn to admit they're struggling."

Your hands tighten on the fabric of your pants. You want to argue, to tell her she's wrong, but the truth of it sits heavy in your chest.

"I don't know what else to do. Every time I stop working, I see it. If I let myself think about it—"

"It'll catch up to you anyway. Whether you face it now or later, it's going to catch up. Wouldn't it be better to deal with it bit by bit instead of letting it all hit you at once?"

You exhale shakily.

"I'm tired, AA. I'm so fucking tired. But if I stop, if I’m not strong—if I let myself rest—I'm scared I won't be able to start again. That I'll just... shut down.”

“I just want you to know that being strong doesn't mean refusing to acknowledge you're hurt. It means letting yourself heal."

You stare at the stars, processing her words. The ports throb. Your hands shake.

"I don't want Karkat to worry. He's got enough shit to deal with without me falling apart on him."

"Karkat's your moirail. That's his job. Let him do it."

"What if he can't handle it?"

"You know he would do anything for you. But you don't get to decide for everyone else that we're better off not knowing you're struggling."

"You sound like you're reading from a self-help book."

"Maybe I pulled it from there, maybe I didn’t. Doesn't make it less true."

You're quiet for a moment. Then: "I'm sorry. For snapping at you. For the moirail comment."

"Yeah, you were an asshole about it. Means you're still you despite what you think."

You feel your lips twitch. Almost a smile.

She stands up.

"AA?"

She pauses, hand on the door panel.

"Thanks. For not giving up on me. Again."

The door slides open, but before she leaves, she glances back.

"The thing you were scared of happened. You survived it. You're still here. You don't have to figure this out alone."

Then she's gone, the door closing behind her with a soft hiss.

You sit there in the empty observation deck, Dave's broken palmhusk still clutched in your hands. The stars streak past, cold and infinite.

You pull out your palmhusk and message Karkat:

TA: aa cornered me

TA: iim gonna actually try two 2leep toniight

TA: and eat 2omethiing

TA: dont get u2ed two iit

His response comes fast:

CG: ABOUT FUCKING TIME

CG: THANK YOU ARADIA

CG: AND SOLLUX?

CG: ONE NIGHT IS BETTER THAN NOTHING

CG: I'LL TAKE IT <>

You stare at the message for a long moment. Then you haul yourself up and head toward the nutrition block.

One night. You can do one night. Then cycle after cycle after that.

Hours later, you're hunched over your workstation in your shared block with Karkat. You think about your conversation with Aradia while the device Dave gave you is spread out before you in pieces, its innards exposed under the harsh light of your desk lamp. You've managed to take it apart, fascinated by the alien components.

Your fingers move deftly over the circuitry, mind racing with possibilities. It's complex, but not incomprehensible. You're so absorbed in your work that you barely notice the passage of time.

Your palmhusk buzzes, jolting you out of your focused state. It's a message from Equius asking where you are, as he still needs help with the engine.

Shit. The engine. You don't know how you forgot. The realization hits you. Guilt and anxiety swirl in your gut. You've been so caught up in this human device, in the puzzle it presents, that you've lost track of time. You glance at the disassembled device, then back at your palmhusk. The engine work is crucial, you know that. But something about this project, about the connection it represents to Dave, makes you reluctant to abandon it at this moment. Are you hoping maybe he'll finally fucking acknowledge you if you get this done for him... maybe?

You find yourself typing out a response to Equius, your fingers moving almost of their own accord, telling him you'll be there soon.

But even as you send the message, your eyes drift back to Dave's palmhusk. You'll finish this tonight, you promise yourself. After the engine work.

You dive into the work once more when you reach the engine room, losing yourself in the familiar rhythm of calculations and adjustments. Time blurs as you and Equius work in tandem, the complexity of the engine upgrades demanding your full attention. It's almost a relief, this total focus that leaves no room for thoughts of soulmates or unfinished projects.

Before you know it, the ship's night cycle has begun. Equius insists on calling it a day, and you would usually protest, but you do find yourself tired and itching to continue taking apart Dave's palmhusk.

"We've made good progress. We'll continue tomorrow."

You agree, and as you stand from your hunched over position, your joints crack and your body reminds you of how long you've been working. Equius is right—it's definitely time to throw in the towel for now.

As you make your way back to your shared block with Karkat, you realize you haven't seen your moirail all day. The thought sends a pang of guilt through you. You've been so wrapped up in your own projects and worries, you've neglected your moirallegiance. You check your messages as you walk and you see nothing from him there as well... strange. Maybe he's already gone to sleep. You'll join him soon enough.

The corridors are eerily quiet at this hour, your footsteps echoing off the metal walls. As you approach your block, you find yourself hoping Karkat will be there. Maybe you can have a quick feelings jam before sleep, clear the air and reconnect.

But when the door slides open, you're greeted by an empty room. Karkat's recuperacoon stands untouched, the sopor slime still and undisturbed. A frown tugs at your lips as you check your palmhusk again. Still no messages.

You consider sending him a message, asking where he is, if he's okay. But something stops you. Maybe it's pride, or the lingering frustration from your recent disagreements. Or maybe it's just exhaustion finally catching up with you.

Your eyes drift over to the workstation with Dave's palmhusk spread over it in pieces. It's late. Your pan thinks to what Aradia said to you earlier and you shake your head—you should get some rest instead of working on it. It'll be there tomorrow.

With a sigh, you start your nightly routine. As you slide into your recuperacoon, the sopor slime enveloping you in its soothing embrace, your mind drifts. To the engine upgrades still to be completed. To Dave's device, lying in pieces on your workstation. To Karkat, absent without explanation.

Your last conscious thought before sleep claims you is a vague promise to yourself: tomorrow, you'll balance things even better. Work on the engine, finish Dave's device, spend some time with Karkat, eat, take breaks, and even take your antibiotic. You'll be a perfect fucking example of the fact that you have your shit together.

The sopor slime works its magic, pulling you down into the depths of sleep. For a while, there's nothing but peaceful darkness. No nightmares even.

It's the screams of the dying that wake you. Loud and pulsing inside your pan. Your eyes snap open.

A shrill alarm blares.