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In the midst of this universal chaos — of your trajectory to reach the warp core — the wormhole has the audacity to spit you out, and throw you against a wall. You tumble back-first into metal, and feel yourself be instantly winded by the sudden shock. You gasp for air — an air that is thin, yet thick with the smell of grease. Breathing almost makes you gag, which in turn triggers an intense motion sickness.
You turn to hurl in a corner, resting your head against a cold, metal wall. You can feel the vibrations against your forehead, the hum of a ship’s engine you can tell is primitive, and overworked. You wipe the residue from your mouth, and hear the sounds of heavy boots racing toward you.
“Captain!” A familiar voice cries, and a hand immediately finds its way to your back. The touch grounds you, reminds you that it’s okay to lean back into it, to steady yourself.
You do, and are greeted by your engineer’s concerned expression. His eyes seem to scan you at a rapid pace, with a tender panic unlike anything you’ve ever seen before.
“Are you feeling alright? Any headaches, dizziness?” Mark asks, seemingly unaware of the personal space he continues to invade. He places the back of his free hand against your forehead, checking for a temperature. He sighs, removes it, and says, “We don’t have to do this right now, y’know. If you’ve got radiation poisoning, our main concern should be finding a medical ward.”
Slowly, you gather your surroundings, your situation. The place you find yourself in is dingy, cramped, with metal shavings scattered across the floor. But you’ve known from the moment you arrived, that the near-perfect gravity signals you’re on some kind of station. It’s nothing like the high-end ports you’re used to — they’re well kept, especially for a Captain of your calibre. This musty room is far from that.
The weight of Mark’s hand on your back is still firm in your mind. He watches you patiently, waiting for your response — your order. That thought reminds you of your purpose, your goal, and the professional relationship you must maintain with your crew.
You place a hand on Mark’s shoulder, using him to prop yourself up and stand. He stands with you, but as you let go of his shoulder, you push yourself away, creating distance. Mark’s hand drops, and it’s as if he too recognises his rank in relation to you. There’s a sadness that dawns on his face. Not the puppy-dog look you’re used to — it’s something more intimate.
You can’t get into it. Now right now, and certainly not here.
You step back and tell Mark that you must push on. He nods, twists on his foot, and then walks to a door at the back of the room. He seems to know where he’s going, and if pattern serves right, he’s a resident of this universe. He will guide you through — hopefully in the direction of a wormhole.
He leads you down a corridor, with exposed pipes and metal grating on the ceiling. You can see thick cables of wire along the ceiling, some dangling through the holes in the grates. It reminds you of very early ship prototypes, back when space exploration was a luxury, not commonplace. It also happened to be at a time where safety wasn’t exactly the most thought-out design aspect. The occasional electricity spark makes your feet move faster.
“I’m not sure how much you remember about the briefing, Cap,” Mark says, periodically looking back at you, “but today is the meeting and moving. We’re supposed to let the convict know we’re taking him, give him a quick overview of the mission, and then the guys will come in to prep for transport.”
You nod, and notice Mark seems a bit uncomfortable at the mention of speaking to the aforementioned prisoner. You question him about it, which causes him to laugh rather nervously.
“I mean.. yeah, who wouldn’t be?” He turns his body to the side and walks crabwise, so he can really look at you while he speaks. “This is the dude that blew up Filament Station, Cap. I don’t know why he was chosen for realisation.. but you seem to think he’s worth something.”
Mark doesn’t realise that these words don’t mean anything to you. You’re not from here, but the variant body of yourself that you’ve hijacked is. Playing along is easy, until history such as this is brought up. Context clues and Mark’s ranting explanations can only take you so far.
One thing you do realise is the patches on Mark’s grimy jumpsuit are different. There’s no Invincible patches at all. The only concurrent patch is his M2702 identifier. Of the new patches, one stands out, stitched to his right breast pocket. A grey circle, with the words C.O.I embroidered into the side. You flash a glance down to your own chest, and notice that you have the same patch.
“I trust your judgement, always,” Mark says, and he means it. There’s a firmness to it — not a careless agreement with your boss, simply because they have power over you. You’re not sure why it matters to you, but it does. Mark doesn’t connect the dots that you’ve registered this, and turns away, whispering under his breath, “Even if he is a mass murderer.”
The corridor leads to a lobby. Well, you assume it’s a lobby, on account of a few rusty chairs, and a desk with an attendant passed out on top of it. You and Mark share a look with each other, before approaching the desk.
“Hello, we’re here for the twelve o’clock consultation,” Mark says, knocking on the wood the employee sleeps on. They don’t stir, and after you shrug at Mark’s survey for validation, he bangs his fist harder on the desk. “HEY!”
The employee shoots up, a smudge imprint from their dirty table staining their forehead. It looks as though they momentarily experience a fight or flight response, but calm down once they discern you’re not a threat.
“Hi, hello, so sorry to wake you,” Mark says, sass laced on his words, “but we’ve got some fairly important business scheduled with an inmate of yours. So if you don’t mind, we’d like to get that over with.”
The employee looks at Mark with slight distaste, before turning to you. It’s like an arrow shoots into their mind, as they seemingly recognise you. Their eyes go wide, and jump down to their console, where they quickly move a couple of levers around. Mark makes a ‘hmph’ noise in satisfaction, believing his robust assertion is what won this interaction.
An alarm sounds, and an orange light above a door to your right begins to flash. The light cast circles the room, as the automated door scrapes irritatingly along the ground. Mark’s hands shoot up to cover his ears — it’s like nails on a chalkboard, and it’s agonisingly slow.
“I’m so sorry for the delay, Captain,” the employee says, nodding profusely at you. They pause, and then suddenly scramble to find something. They duck beneath their desk, hastily reemerging with something in their hand. They offer it to you. “You’ll need this keycard to enter his cell. It’s right at the dead end, you can’t miss it.”
You take the card, a dull orange with its plastic peeling off. It takes a lot of strength for you to not pick at the remaining film, and you place it into your pocket.
“I should warn you, Captain,” the employee begins, barely acknowledging Mark to your side, “This block’s full of those wacko Eden dudes, your boy included.”
The employee exhibits an unease for your safety, something you weren’t concerned with up until right now. You shift your gaze to Mark, who, if he weren’t already uncomfortable, looks as though he may start sweating. You nod in his direction, which soothes him a bit. He gives you a smile, before leading the way and entering the penitentiary.
Like before, a gloomy corridor stretches out before you. This time, however, the walls are packed in with jail cells, each as dismal as the other. Confined cubicles, with barely enough space, let alone necessities to live. Weary, weather-beaten felons seem to blend into their habitats — watching as you and Mark pass, with eyes akin to caged animals. From the noise of disgust Mark makes, you wouldn’t be far off in assuming this is something he believes they deserve.
Their doors are barred, unlike the encased bulletproof glass you’re used to on your ships. There are a few prisoners who stand close to these doors, hands hanging out, just within reach of you. You instinctively move your body away when you near these metal bars, less you be snatched.
Eventually, you are.
An unseen hand grabs your arm, not gripping forcefully, but still tugging you closer to the bars. You rip yourself away, and before you can even process what’s happened, Mark is up in the prisoner’s face yelling at them. Your split second of alarm drops the moment you see the prisoner themselves.
“Hey, ey, look, I meant no harm! Just tryna say hi to a nice face s’all,” Yancy says, throwing his hands up defensively. He shoots a look in your direction, the smirk plastered on his face growing wider. Familiarity calms your nerves, and is shared in that look with Yancy, until Mark forces the prisoner’s attention back on him.
“Now you listen here,” Mark says, reaching through the bars and grabbing Yancy’s shirt. Mark yanks him toward the door, causing his body to collide with the metal frame. He doesn’t wince, just slowly turns his head to your engineer, unimpressed. “You should consider yourself lucky that we’ve got bigger fish to fry. But if you try anything like that again, maybe my Captain and I will have to ensure your rations are cut off.”
“Captain, ey? I knews youse looked like a fancy kinda folk,” Yancy says, completely ignoring Mark’s threat. He turns to you, fascinated by your title. He seems lost in it, and you momentarily, before Mark pulls him against the bars again to knock some sense into him.
Yancy groans, tired of Mark’s macho routine. You give Mark a nudge with your foot, gesturing for him to drop the issue. Mark doesn’t let up, and it’s only when you kick him a little harder that he lets go of Yancy. Mark glances at you, peeved, and you send that look right back at him, fiercer.
You turn to leave. Yancy, either worried the conversation is over, or worried you in particular are leaving, speaks up, desperate to keep the ball rolling. “Oh, hey, uh, youse wouldn’t be a.. happenin’s to be headin’ down Simon’s way, would ya?”
You and Mark are both disconcerted at the mention of a new name. You have no idea who Yancy is referring to. He figures that out straight away, and fumbles to try to explain himself.
“Ya know, big guy, ats the end of the hall,” Yancy says, and you still haven’t a clue. Yancy mumbles in frustration. “Come on, youse knows who I’m talkin’ about.. the Butcher.”
He whispers that last part, and it doesn’t take long for you to put two and two together. The Butcher, the murderer, and the convict you’re on your way to meet. One and the same. Mark — the nervousness he harboured at first mention of the convict still lingering — moves forward to give Yancy a piece of his mind.
But, you place your hand on Mark’s shoulder, signalling for him to ease up and let Yancy speak. You confirm that you’re heading to the cell at the end of the penitentiary, and Yancy’s crazed temper seems to weaken.
“He’s uh—he’s not much of a ‘negotiations’ typa guy, if that’s whats youse is visitin’ for,” Yancy says, his gaze faltering as he speaks — but only for a moment. His raving energy is still there, just muffled. If anything, he seems insulted. “Believe me, I’ve tried. He’s justa big ol’ sook.”
“He won’t be negotiating anything. We’re only here to inform him of his realisation,” Mark says, evidently unamused with whatever Yancy has to say. He wants to get all of this over with.
You would be inclined to agree with him, save for the fact that this deeply intrigues you. You ask Yancy to clarify what he means when he says he’s tried to negotiate with ‘Simon.’
“Oh yeah, I tried a buncha times. Real fighter, that guy — someone youse would wants in ya corner,” Yancy says, and seemingly detaches from his usual demeanour as he continues. “But he ain’t the type’a guy interested in bein’ buddies, ya know? Kinda bummer really. I woulda liked to sees that handsome face of his more ‘round here.”
“Well, we’ll certainly keep that in mind,” Mark snaps, a fake smile plastered, as he bears his gritted teeth. He closes the distance between himself and you, and links your elbow with his. Agitation clearer than crystal, Mark whispers to you, “Captain, let’s go.”
You fight this. You unlink your arms with his. But this time, he doesn’t look back. It seems his dissatisfaction with the current events is all he can focus on, and doesn’t care that you’ve pulled away. You concede, and decide to follow behind him, hastily giving Yancy an apologetic look in the process.
Yancy reaches his hand forward to get your attention before you go, but he’s caught by Mark’s vigilant stare, and backs off. Instead, he calls out to you, and says, “Hey, youse just be nice to him, alright? Fella’s a good guy, deep down.”
“Beneath the blood on his hands? Unlikely,” Mark hisses, and storms off. Yancy defeatedly throws his hands up in the air, done with contesting the brick wall that is Mark’s stubborn nature.
The moment you’re out of eye and earshot from Yancy, you forcefully grab Mark’s hand and stop him. He quickly swivels to face you, bug-eyed and jumpy. You tell him he’s way out of line. He needs to pull himself together, and he doesn’t need to stand up for you. You’re more than capable of handling interactions on your own.
“What did you want me to do, just stand there and not say anything?” Mark says, aggravated by your lack of understanding. You understand perfectly well, but can’t seem to get through to Mark that this isn’t how things are done. “He grabbed your arm, Cap, and he could have done a helluva lot more.”
You say that it’s not his place to decide when you’re done speaking with someone. Maybe that concern is justified among friends, but Mark should know better than to intervene with his Captain — especially when you’re gathering potentially useful information.
Maybe your tone could have been kinder, because Mark’s face seems to lose its fervour. But it’s warranted, given how far Mark has been flying off the handle. The Mark you’re used to knows when the right moment to shut up is. This version seemingly doesn’t, and has grown a spine long enough to talk back to you. Maybe it’s this area, the station — or this dreary universe — that’s the reason for him. Desperate people live in desperate places.
“I just,” Mark trails off, eyes falling to a spot on the floor. He inhales to recalibrate, mustering his strength, before he says, “I’m sorry, Captain. It won’t happen again.”
You feel a sharp pain. Not a physical one, but it stings all the same. Regardless of his unruliness, this behavioural shift is uncanny. The coldness he displays, the swift shift from that warm, consoling manner you’ve found yourself focusing on. It isn’t something you should be privy to, professionally speaking. But that only makes you notice it more.
There’s too much at stake to be worrying about mixed messages, and yet it seems you can’t escape it. Or rather, you choose not to avoid it. In truth, you’re the one giving the ambiguity. That much is apparent from the tender pat you give Mark’s arm.
You don’t notice, but as you lead on, Mark’s hand instinctively moves to rub that spot on his arm.
You arrive at the end of the hallway. A door stands before you, a card scanner placed at eye-level beside it. You reach into your pocket and pull out the orange keycard. The door slides open, less screeching than last time, but just as painfully slow. The room you’re greeted with is similar to maximum security cells back home, a tiny space for the prisoner, on the other side of a wall of reinforced glass.
Sitting on the edge of his cot, leaning down and resting his head on his knees, your convict of interest — Simon — hums to himself. And there’s.. nothing strange about him. He’s just as muddy as the other prisoners you passed by, and if anything he seems too fatigued to be capable of any damage. His clothes are torn, poorly stitched, and his hair is shaggier than his sweater.
You find it hard to pair the mass murderer role, the Butcher title, to a man cradling his own legs.
Then, his eyes flash up to meet yours, and all of a sudden something frighteningly inhuman grasps your heart. It holds you tight, as does his gaze, locked with yours. The scepticism is gone. This is a man on familiar terms with brutality.
“Good afternoon, inmate 5378,” Mark starts, but Simon doesn’t falter. Mark thrums quietly, and continues, “We’ve been assigned to carry out your Conviction Realisation. You, as well as I, will report to the commanding officer for this mission, Capta—“
“I know who they are,” Simon interrupts, tone low like the drone of the station’s engine. It throws you off guard, which the convict catches. He doesn’t dismiss it, but breaks contact with you, to hand Mark a growl of revulsion. “And I’ve told you people before, I’m not interested in your ‘re-education,’ so piss off.”
Mark huffs, really huffs, like an outraged animal. “Y’know, I’m getting real fed up with you felons and your back-chat. This isn’t up for discussion, and we’re doing you a courtesy by informing you.”
Simon’s brows couldn’t have dropped any lower, as he pushes himself from the cot, offended by Mark’s audacity. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise how far out of your way you’ve come. I would’ve packed my things already if I’d known.”
“I don’t think I made myself quite clear.” Mark steps closer to the glass. Simon imitates, and scrunches his nose at the pluckiness this mere engineer is pitching him right now. “This is redemption for you. Participate in this and you earn your freedom, like the rest of you Eden fiascos.”
“ENOUGH,” Simon yells, slamming his fist against the glass. You flinch a little, but Mark flinches hard. Simon spits on the panel in front of Mark’s face, and says, “Fuck off with that optimistic integration bullshit. You’re eating into my meal time.”
You shoot a side-eye in Mark’s direction, who you notice is incredibly startled.. and oddly dumbfounded by the spit and tone. Maybe a little too dumbfounded, bordering something wildly improper given the situation. It’s a fine line, and the moment he realises you have caught wind of it, he shoves that away and tries to play it cool.
“Someone needs a coffee,” Mark mumbles, but you don’t laugh, and somehow that stings more than you catching his brief, perverse moment.
Simon staggers away from the glass, spitting out what’s left of the phlegm he built up just for Mark.
Mark, in turn, adjusts his posture, trying to return to some manner of normalcy after two fumbles. Transparent to Simon, especially through the glass, Mark mirrors his disdain. It’s distinct on his face, and on his tongue. “You’re lucky to still be alive, convict. Unlike most, our generous Captain deemed you fit for this expedition, so be grateful your life is spared.”
Simon doesn’t utter a word. His back remains turned to you both, as he leans his side against the back wall of his cell. His arms are crossed, shoulders instinctively drawn in to his chest.
“Good,” Mark says, exhaling to ready himself. “You have been chosen to personally explore the ocean on one of our newly seized moons. You’ll be sent down in one of our high-end subs, and all you have to do is take a few pictures of what you find. Fairly simple task.”
Simon takes a moment to process, tapping on the side of his arm mindlessly, before asking, “What’s down there?”
Mark clears his throat, face dropping momentarily. It’s as if he didn’t think Simon would ask that question. “We uh.. we don’t know. You’ll be the first to find out.”
Simon mumbles something under his breath. You assume it’s some obscenity, mocking Mark in some way. Your engineer seems to think so too, and similarly grumbles private insults. You give him a nudge, which really only makes him mutter them quieter.
With no movement from either of them, you decide to finally step in. You say to Simon that you’re unsure why he’s so apprehensive about taking this deal. It seems like a good chance at a new life for him, and it’s your belief that most people are capable of redemption.
You figure Simon fits into that category. He must, otherwise why would this version of you choose him specifically for realisation, knowing his past? Beneath the bestial visage, there has to be a heart aching for more than a metal frame and slimy rations. This is no life.
“If you really think that way, then why am I even here?” Simon questions, shoving himself off of the wall, and approaching you. “Filament Station wasn’t my fault. You all let the wrong people slip by, and now I’m the one getting punished. I have nothing to be redeemed of.”
“Tell that to the hundreds of lives the Consolidation lost in that explosion,” Mark says, appearing by your side the moment Simon’s face meets yours behind the glass. Simon leans his arm above you, pressed against the panel, choosing to stare you down rather than acknowledge Mark’s seething. “Don’t make me reiterate that this conversation alone is a lot more than you deserve.”
Something in Mark’s fire rings more genuine than you realise. It’s like Filament Station is more personal to him than just a collective loss his society experienced. Who knows — maybe this version of you had a connection to the station too.
“Please spare me of your self-appraising bullshit,” Simon says, darting a livid glare at your engineer. He aims that same glare at you. “If you’re not here to listen, then neither am I.”
You say you know how he feels. He rolls his eyes, propelling himself off of the glass. He scoffs, and the mucus stuck in his throat makes him cough immediately after. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve and groans. “No you don’t. You haven’t got a single, goddamn clue what it’s like to be a fucking scapegoat for a massacre. Even after sixteen years in prison like me you think you will, but you won’t.”
You say you know what it’s like to have no one believe you. Simon’s breathing seems to hitch, and he cautiously glances in your direction. You don’t dare look at Mark, because you can already feel the extreme confusion he sustains emanating off of him.
You don’t know how to even begin to explain that an alternate version of himself has trapped the both of you in an endless, multiversal goose chase — and he blames it on you. The whole crew of your ship does, and you fight each moment for the chance to make things right.
You know what it’s like to have reality against you. Simon appears to share that torment.
He brushes it off and looks away. You can tell it meant something to him, but he can’t accept that. You don’t blame him. It’s hard to find people to trust in a space so hostile. Whilst you haven’t been stuck in a box for sixteen years, sometimes the wormhole trips make you feel like life has passed you by.
“Who cares. Just ‘cause you pity me, don’t mean you’re not gonna kill me first chance you get,” Simon grumbles, physically turning his body away so you can’t see his face.
“We’re not gonna,” Mark cuts himself off, voice raised as the irritation overwhelms him. “Look, convict, we are offering you a ticket out of this place, so long as you do this. You’re earning your place amongst us in the Consolidation.. and like I said, it’s not a choice.”
Simon swivels, and seems to consider, but doesn’t yield. He peeks from over his shoulder, glare still as daunting as the first moment he laid eyes on you. He exhales, and says, “Do I have your word that all of this isn’t just an elaborate plan for my execution?”
Mark stays quiet. That disturbs you, that he can’t outright say it. But Simon isn’t looking at Mark. He’s looking at you.
Without a second thought, you say it — you swear it.
You’re unaware of the life this version of you has led, or will continue to lead once you’re gone. But if it were up to you, Simon would have your full assertion. From the looks of things, there isn’t much hope for this space station, or its inhabitants. They can’t afford the cost the loss of a body brings — a person brings. The expense for an execution this complicated isn’t something they’re capable of. But if it is, and that’s their true intentions, then you’re far from proud to call yourself a Captain in this universe.
Death isn’t a risk worth calculating, no matter the punishment someone deserves.
And maybe, if you’re capable of giving Simon a sliver of hope here, perhaps that fate will be bestowed upon you. There aren’t many things or idioms you hold dear, but you’ve been told once that an act of kindness received deserves an act of kindness given. Maybe not from Simon, per se, but the chance that someone else will come along with the same mentality encourages you.
Simon doesn’t react, barely blinks in fact, but he believes you. You’re earnest, and your lack of hesitation shows that. Trust takes time to build, but when you’re this desperate, it’s something you place your faith in blindly.
He openly hands over that faith to you, even as soldiers wearing C.O.I patches enter the penitentiary on scheduled time, and cuff him up. There’s a brief moment when he passes you, a shared gaze — maybe of compassion, or of condemnation, for being two sides of the same coin. Whatever it is, it’s genuine, but fleeting.
It leaves something burrowed in your stomach, that maybe this inescapable journey you’re on — it’s bigger than you, bigger than the people you know. There’s so much suffering in the multiverse, and you’re only acquainted with a fraction of it. There are countless lifetimes you’ll never see, and countless lives you’ll never be able to save. Simon’s included.
This strange connection, something of a dual understanding, you’ve only ever felt with one other person — and his hand once again finds a way to sneak onto your back, uninvited, but this time welcomed.
“That.. was strange, but successful I’d say. Seemed a bit intense on your end, Cap,” Mark says, moving from behind you to stand by your side. Your eyes linger on Simon being escorted down the hall, and can only pull yourself away when you feel a sensation.
Mark’s thumb gently presses a small circle into your back, and it’s like he’s in another world entirely. This sentiment, it’s like it shouldn’t belong here. You tell yourself that it shouldn’t belong in this place, as leaden and depressing as it is — but that’s not what you mean.
You don’t exactly lean away from it, but you straighten out of instinct — being caught with a posture unsuitable for a Captain of your standard. But Mark doesn’t move away, he doesn’t seem to focus on that standard right now.. or ever.
“Are you still feeling nauseous?” He asks, and you shake your head abruptly, though the pit in your stomach would disagree. He smiles — the puppy-dog is back — and removes his hand of his own accord. It’s sorely missed. “Maybe you’ll feel better when we’re out of this dump. I’m starting to feel light-headed.”
You laugh, softly, though it’s more than enough to make Mark’s grin spread large. You’re not aware, but it’s the first time this version of Mark had seen his Captain laugh in a long while. Accidentally, you’ve offered another act of kindness, that you’re correct to assume shouldn’t belong here. Maybe that’s why Mark does it so frequently, or tries to.
“Come on, I’ll make us a couple’a coffees once we’re back in the shuttle,” Mark says, offering to lead the way back.
You step forward, because you want to accept, you really do. Nothing sounds better right now than a quiet moment with your engineer, and a warm mug of coffee in your hands.
But, he moment your foot leaves the ground, something stirs. It’s so quiet in your mind, you almost dismiss it as a rogue ship noise. But you’ve heard this noise a hundred, maybe a thousand times before, and as if by memory you lift your left hand up.
Glowing its piercing, shiny blue, the warp crystal whirs. You can feel its vibrations against your skin. It’s time to go.
Mark looks at you, puzzled by your sudden apprehension of his offer. It gnaws at you, an expression he frequently shares with variants like him across the multiverse. It hurts to know that you can’t give him what he seeks, a comfort his Captain will never provide, nor reciprocate. Maybe that inspires you to try, to pay that comfort forward to your own engineer.
It’s all you can think about as the wormhole swallows you.