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Fate Twister (Redux Edition)

Act 1
“Transmissions”


Chapter IV
“The Hell We Create”

Date: Unknown [Three Weeks After Anomaly]

Over what felt like hours, Don tried his best to put to words his refreshed memory of that day. He had seen plenty of questionable things during his time in the Marine Corps and with Skylark, but that day had been the craziest thing he had seen. It had been so drilled into his head to just ignore what had happened that he had mostly forgotten about it. Weaver had sat there following along intently, hardly speaking or even moving save for occasionally writing something down on his sci-fi looking tablet. Luckily, by the time he was getting towards the end, he was getting more used to speaking again. Sure, the muscles were different and he often slurred his words, but it was understandable to Weaver… At least he hoped so.

“So that is it?” Weaver exhaled slowly before reaching for his cup of now cold coffee.

“Yeah… I wasn’t allowed to know anything else.”

“Any particular reason why?”

“Well… Other than not wanting to be involved with a bunch of Spooks like yourself?” Don coughed lightly. “Not really.”

Weaver hummed at this. “You said… CIA… Central Intelligence of the ‘old’ United States?”

Don gave a light nod. “And based on what I figure… Anyone that was there that day is either long dead… Or just don’t exist in this… Erm… Timeline.” This ‘Timey-Wimey’ bullshit was hurting his brain.

“I was thinking the same… What I would do for access to that case file…” Weaver sighed again, speaking under his breath.

Don could care less.

“The limitless potential of separate timelines…” Weaver said awkwardly before combing his hair back for the 10th time in the last hour. “It baffles me that no one else in my line of work seems interested in that sort of thing.”

Alright, Don would bite. “Why are you?”

“Do you understand how quickly we could solve technological hurdles if we were able to tap into the trials and successes of different timelines?” He challenged, excitedly. “Imagine a history of Humanity where the Dark Ages and Bubonic Plague never stagnated our species for several centuries? A history where we never halted Lunar operations at the start of our space age? Or one where we had harnessed the power of Slipspace a hundred years earlier?”

“Or one where we killed ourselves off in all out nuclear war…” Don added a bit darkly, understanding what Weaver was getting at.

“Ahh. The pessimist thinking. That is the difference between us, Donald…” Weaver said, matter-of-factly. “Always thinking in hardship and failure… I… See opportunity… I see progress. Advancement… Evolution.”

“You think after our track record we could handle that sort of thing without… you know? Pissin’ in someone else’s’ yard?”

Weaver gave a tsk tsk. “Again… A fine example of the modern pessimist.”

Don groaned. “Your wife must love your tenacity for conversation.”

Weaver seemed unfazed. “Funny. I don’t have the patience for commitment like that.”

“Shocker.” Don grumbled.

“Hmm… And what about your wife, Donald?” Weaver stung back as he adjusted his coat nonchalantly. “How would she feel about your absence?”

Don grew silent.

“Would she like you as you are now?”

He wouldn’t have an answer. Clearly taking jabs at this man might not be the best idea here.

Weaver smirked slightly. “That is what I thought…” He paused before standing with a sigh. “It's been fun listening to your tale, Donald… I look forward to revisiting it and learning more… Until then… Don’t let the weight of your lost commitment tug at your head too much.”

~~

A day and a half later, Weaver and Wates were briskly heading for the Comms room of the IG-91 Wales, Weaver’s dedicated Palomino-Class Research Freighter. Captain Evanson had been raising hell demanding their presence, despite being under instructions to leave Agent Weaver as he worked. After hours of mulling over the little bit of further information that they had gotten from the two, they hastily found their way to meet with the Captain.

“What is it?” Weaver asked loudly as he entered.

The Comms room was quiet; the few deck officers and Captain were standing still, looking forward to the main projection screen in front. The lights had been dimmed and everyone was almost fixated onto the screen which showed some feed of footage from a CMA Battlegroup. The small fleet was engaged in frantic combat with several bulbous purple and blue vessels, obviously shielded and very alien. Unlike anyone on the deck had seen; Unlike anything Humanity had seen before. This was First Contact.

The feed from the main ship, the CMA Hercules, showed the massive alien ship firing a single battery of projectiles at the Hercules’ escorting Frigates, the CMA Arabia and Vostok, destroying them simultaneously.

“Where is this?” Weaver asked Captain Evanson quietly.

“Harvest.” The Captain answered, not breaking his gaze to the feed.

The screen would show a swiftly injured Hercules turning in a hurry to begin an emergency Slipspace jump away from this new enemy. The room fell silent watching this; no one in the room had words as the urgent broadcast continued, the feed of which switched to several reports and videos of ground combat between local CMA forces and several different colorful types of extraterrestrials. Some were scrawny and rangy; others were larger and bulky. A spattering of different alien species obviously ordered in some sort of caste from first glance; their armors differentially indicated rank or position. Regardless of what little information they had from just the collected raw feeds, invaders were highly advanced; equipped with stable plasma weaponry and active shielding against the kinetic weapons of Humanity. On top of that, the larger species that seemingly acted as officers or commanders were very similar to the two subjects they had picked up from Cygnus.

Captain Evanson brushed his fingers through his beard, a nervous tick of his, as he wondered how to address this. “Let it be known… By the initial report I received just minutes ago before I called you all here… On the date October Seventh, 2525, Epsilon Indi Battlegroup 4 was sent in response to a reported Alien threat. Under the command of Captain Veredi, the group consisting of just three ships arrived to find what we all just saw.” The Captain stepped forward towards the screen, peering closer at the combat feed.

The Comms Room was simply shocked at such a possibility. They had no doubts that there were confirmed and unconfirmed cases of intelligent life in the galaxy, but no one could have predicted an outright militant force of this scale.

“14. Seconds.” The Captain continued, pointing to the screen as he turned to everyone. “14 seconds is all the battlegroup could sustain before running off with their tail between their legs. I doubt I would be far from the only one that dreads the implication of this… But at face value, these bastards look well more prepared than anything we have faced… Well… Possibly of all human history.”

“My god.” Wates exhaled shakily.

“Now, I'm not a betting man, but I think this is only going to be the beginning.” The Captain trembled slightly. “So, I am moving forward with us leaving the system. Space is a large vast emptiness, but we are just a small hop from that system so we will be leaving soon.”

The Comms officers gave nervous and shaken nods. No one wanted any part of dealing with such a crushing force.

Captain Evanson looked from his crew and straight to Weaver and Wates. “I would highly suggest you go to your ‘Subjects’ and press them about this. I need something to report immediately. Time is up.”

Wates looked towards Weaver, worried. “Do you think they will know anything??” He asked quietly.

Not being one to dally on critical situations, Weaver silently turned and briskly left the room. It seems he was going to try a new approach.

[CONTENT WARNING]
[FOLLOWING SCENE INCLUDES DETAILED TORTURE METHODS]
[Scroll/CTRL+F to [END] bracket]

Weaver soon would arrive at the chamber Donald was being held in. Walking with a stern briskness, the man took up one of the taser prods from the table just outside of the lab. Donald had been resting his eyes, almost dozing off for some sleep. This was about to change.

“So, Donald.” Weaver snarled as he stepped quickly into the room. “Were you or your friend going to tell us about the attack?”

Don shot a confused look at the man. “What attack?”

The ONI Agent stood there for a moment with a dagger-like stare. “Are you playing me for an idiot?”

“No. Of course not!” Don blinked.

“Then start talking. I am done with our hospitality.”

“I…” Don swallowed, having no clue what Weaver was talking about.

Weaver gave a sharp exhale and quickly pressed the taser prod into Don, giving him a good zap!

Don jerked helplessly; bound to the table, he had no were to wiggle to and was forced to just tense against the restraints and take it. It wasn’t the worst he had ever been shocked before, but he wasn’t sure if he could take much of that stuff.

“We can do this all day, Donald.”

Don gave him the same confused and nervous look.

Weaver gave him another hearty zap! Letting Don jerk and yell out again only to wait for the room to get quieter. “You bastards attacked a major colony and decimated a minor battlegroup. Why?”

“W… How?!” Don shouted, catching his breath. “We have been here the whole time! Stuck to this fucking table!”

The man smacked the taser prod against Don’s abdomen, hitting him hard enough to leave a mark. “Don’t you raise your voice at me, Donald!” Weaver spoke angrily as he trailed the inactive business end across Don’s belly. “Answer my question.”

He gave a trembling breath, giving Weaver a panicked look.

Weaver shocked him again, right above his navel. “You are out of time, Donald!” Weaver raised his voice above Don’s pained yelling.

Don was up shit creek at the moment. That last one was ungodly painful; his body convulsed, making the restraints dig into his skin as he struggled.

With a sudden smile, Weaver removed the prod and leaned in close to Don’s face. “It’s either this… Or I can handle my disputes with your friend instead.”

“No. Don’t.” Don gave a panicked nod. While he wondered if Mike was even alive at this point, he would rather take the brunt of any of this bullshit to spare his brother if he could. It was the only way.

“Good.” Weaver chuckled. “I’d rather see you squirm anyway.” He said, before driving the prod firmly into Don’s side, turning it on to electrocute the shit out of him once again.

The next several hours, near continuous zapping, striking, and scrapes ensued; Agent Weaver taking his time to make sure Don did not dip too far into falling unconscious. He was relentless with his demands and treatment of his subject. He wanted answers and he was going to get him, through blood and tears if need be. He was going to beat it from Don whether he had it or not, only stopping to feed himself and to keep him straightened out. No matter how brutal it was, Weaver now showed why he was so dangerous. He performed everything with an amount of unnecessary calculation; everything was perfect, everything was planned, slow and deliberate. Determined and without prejudice. He was consistent down to even the point he would comb his hair back to keep himself perfect while cleaning up anything coming from Don during all of this.

This left Don exhausted, bruised, and defeated. His body was covered in sore bruises, small cuts, and char marks from the electrocutions. After hours he held no energy left; he only could vocally react to continued treatment or the occasional pause for questions. He was getting tired. In his time with Skylark, he had undergone a few training sessions to handle torture but, with many things in life, what works on paper and in demonstrations sometimes won’t do anything in the face of reality. While he may have nothing to fight back with, he would be certain of one thing: Weaver was not going to leave this room until he was dead. He’d endure as much as his body could take before he let this bastard get at Mike.

“I don’t understand it either, sir.” Wates said, joining the room recently. He didn’t seem too interested in watching all of this. “It’s been hours.”

“We keep going.” Weaver gave a challenged sigh.

“Sir…”

Weaver twitched slightly. “He talks or dies, Wates!” He almost yelled at his assistant. “He will crack! If that is the last thing I do, god damn it!”

Wates trembled under the shouting superior, but he knew his position. “Of course.” He gave a nod.

Weaver took a second to grab his bottle of whiskey he had on a nearby cabinet and filled a glass with it before plopping a single ice cube inside. He swished the liquid in the cup, letting it cool slightly as he combed his hair once more with the other hand; composing himself in order to continue. He took a mouthful of the whiskey and exhaled, looking back at Don.

“What would your wife think of all of this, Mr. Caster?” He taunted. “Would she be impressed with your perseverance?”

Don groaned softly at the mention of his woman again. He had spent so much time struggling to keep himself deep in his own mind to cope with everything that he had managed to not think too much about what he and Mike had left behind. It was just stifling with just how long this had gone on for; how much longer would be alive?

“Oh?” Weaver straightened, returning to his intensity from just before as he drew closer to Don’s side, leaning in. “What was that? I couldn’t fucking hear you.”

Caster tilted his head to look at Weaver.

“What would she think?”

He paused for only a second before he felt his mandibles curl into a slight smile. “She… Would want me to wring your goddamn neck you…syphilitic bag o’… wasted piece of shit.” He groaned softly, huffing with the classic defiance of a Marine.

Weaver blinked, stunned, before scowling. “Fine.” He stood and splashed the rest of his drink in Don’s eyes.

The ONI Agent was going to continue as he had promised, but Don had stung back; letting it be well known he could handle more. Weaver turned away from the subject to grab a towel from one of the nearby tables. He marched back to the interrogation table and flipped a knob, loosening the restraint around Don’s neck.

“Hose, Wates.” Weaver demanded as he quickly threw the towel around Don’s head and yanked firmly back, smacking his head back against the metal platform with force.

Don gagged at the towel and gave a weak bit of struggle. There was hardly anything he could do as his head was suddenly covered and yanked back. His thoughts were a bit fuzzy from the head smack, but he frantically was able to remember one of the specific training sessions they had done more than once. Waterboarding. A method of using a body’s gag and drowning reflexes against them without actually doing much damage. He was trying to remember exactly what to do as the stream of water hit the towel around his head, quickly drenching him in a wall of wetness.

He tightened up and inhaled twice, holding his breath as the water seeped into his nostrils and mouth. The water was partially refreshing with its coolness. His skin and mouth had not tasted drink since the previous day, but this was nowhere near his train of thought as he struggled against the towel; his orifices drowned and his breath tightly held to fight off the reflexes. The two ONI Agents kept the water flowing for what must have been almost a minute. They stopped, letting Don get a single breath out and in before continuing a few times more.

“Stop and prop him up.” Weaver ordered as he yanked the towel from around Don’s head, letting the water hit Don’s face before it stopped.

Weaver moved around back to the side of Don, eager to see how he handled this change of pace. Wates leveled Don’s head back up with the neck restraint, letting he and Weaver gaze on each other. While he was pleased to see water dripping from Don’s drenched mouth and nose, he noticed his subject held a firm and determined look. He gave a huffing snort, spraying the water from his nostrils right into Weaver’s face. The Agent recoiled, yelling furiously as he quickly grabbed a new towel to clean his face; this clearly struck a heavy nerve. The man looked back at Don like he had been gravely wounded.

The man grew red in the face, several bits of his hair messy now from the spray and towel. Instead of straightening himself as he consistently had, he yanked a pistol from under his coat and jammed the barrel into Don’s throat. He gagged heavily, his empty stomach churning against the sudden retaliation.

“Do you think this is funny?!” Weaver yelled into his face, digging the gun deep into Don’s mouth.

He could obviously not answer save for pained gags.

“Hand me the vice grips, Wates.”

Oh shit.

“This mouthy bastard has too many teeth.”

[CONTENT WARNING END]

Not too much later, Weaver cleaned his hands of blood and saliva in the nearby sink. He started drying his hands with another nearby towel as he peeked once more at the four alien molars laying rinsed and drying in a tray nearby. The room had fallen quiet save for the soft ragged breathing of Don, who lay almost still, mouth oozing blood from the removal of his furthest back teeth on his mandibles. He was so numb from pain that he couldn’t move or speak; all he could do was gasp frantically for breath as he rested still in the restraints. He had never known such pain.

“I wonder what in their genetic makeup causes the pigment in their blood.” Weaver said, now calmer after getting that out of his system.

“Uh… I don’t know… It's not the same as ours.” Wates said with a bit of hesitation. The guy was still kinda green and squeamish about this sort of stuff.

Weaver hummed. “Would you undo the chassis locks on the table? I want to get him rolled down to the furnace to see if he likes being cooked a little.”

“Yes sir…” Wates sighed as he did as he was told.

The two prepared to move the bloody and sobbing heap that was Donald. With the table now unlatched from the floor, the entire platform could be pushed in any direction now.

“And that is that… Clear sir.”

“Good” Weaver exhaled slowly as he finished drying his hands finally. “Allow me another sip of my drink and we can-”

The ship suddenly buckled harshly beneath them, violently enough that the two Agents almost lost their footing. Weaver hugged the workbench he had been standing at, while Wates stumbled back into the opposite wall. The two looked at each other confused as the lights of the ship flickered; the blaring of alarms beginning. Before they could move, the sound of an explosion far off could be felt as it vibrated the ship. This was quickly followed by a hard careening jerk of the ship, everything that wasn’t secured to the floor or wall was toppling over and the two men were thrown off their feet for good. The clattering and slamming of a few cabinets, a desk, and the entire interrogation rig crashed over onto their side; Don and the contents of such were spilled onto the floor of the lab. The lights of the section of the ship fell dark and black for a moment before the red warm glow of the emergency light came online.

“Jesus Christ.” Weaver groaned, rolling over to his side. “Wates.”

“Still here… I think” The Assistant grunted. “Stuck under this cabinet.”

“Stuck?”

Wates gave a struggle. “This thing weighs a lot. It got pinched on something so… I'm… Not dead yet.”

“Good.” He sighed, his body a bit sore now. “I’d hate to have to replace you.”

“Can you just get up and get this goddamned thing off me!” Wates snapped. “I’ve got to watch you play Judge and Jury all fucking day! Now get up!”

Weaver was never the one to allow an assistant to dare speak back to him but… he’d give Wates a pass this time. “Alright, ok. Be right there.”

He got up and staggered himself over to the topped cabinet resting on top of his assistant. He straightened himself before he leaned down to grip the thing. As the two started lifting the cabinet, Don would shift on the floor. The rig had toppled over and all of the restraints had busted open on impact. He didn’t really care to wonder if it was a safety feature or a malfunction; he was free. Floored and scorched with pain from everything, he would find himself free and was able to move; though he doubted how much mobility he had especially after being dumped on the floor so hard. Unnoticed by the two ONI Agents, he trembled painfully as he rolled onto his side. He needed a moment to compose himself before moving more, though he feared he didn’t have that time.

“There you go.” Weaver said, offering a hand down to Wates, lifting the man up to his feet.

Wates gasped a bit. “Nope. That’s my knee. Ah shit.” The man winced in pain. He was more banged up than he had thought.

“Wates. That is fine. Just stay against the wall and I’ll go figure out what the hell happened.” Weaver said, heading for the hallway.

Doing his best to be silent, Don pushed his shaking self from the floor onto his hands and knees. While the other man stayed more focused on himself, he would struggle to catch his breath as he looked down at the floor, heavy drops of blood falling from his numb mouth. No time to worry about that; he needed to get moving and arm himself somehow. He panicked and grabbed the nearest thing to him, which ended up being a meter long metal rod that looked like it was the bar of a lab coat hanger rack. It was hollow but sturdy enough. Using it to prop his weight onto, he pushed himself up as best he could. He had gotten used to flexing all of his muscles, even if they were currently shot from everything, and so he found that standing wasn’t too terrible of a concept as it was. Staggering slightly, he gripped the side of the interrogation rig that he had been attached to. About this time, it seemed like the ONI Agent in the room would notice Don getting back up.

“Oh… Shit.” Wates would look up finally at the large dark figure standing in the center of the room.

The ONI Agent decided waiting for his superior was not a smart option, and would do his best to hobble towards the exit of the lab. The man worked his limp leg, trying his best to get around the room without getting too close to Don.

Not wanting to let this guy bring Weaver back, Don knew he had to stop the man. Stepping awkwardly around the flipped rig in the center of the room, he out-hobbled the smaller Human. Gripping the pipe firmly in his hands, he did his best to cut off the fleeing man. The ONI Agent grew more and more frantic as he closed the gap between himself and the door. At the last second, Don swung the pipe at the man’s head.

Missing his mark somewhat, the metal pipe cracked Wates in the back of the neck. An audible thwack rang out and the man fell in a heap on the floor; out of action for sure. Don staggered heavily as he caught his balance, teetering on his first unaided steps in his new form; flexing all of the muscles in the right places without practice. Certainly, his brain had some new wiring helping that out. Rushing footsteps approached the lab, causing him to step back slightly, bracing both of his hands on his metal rod. Weaver came skidding around the corner in a rush, stopping dead in his tracks at the sight of the large, bloodied, and furious silhouette in the dim light.

The Agent cursed as he swiftly drew his handgun again; Don tried to advance as best as he could to swing at the glint of the weapon. His legs didn’t give him as much of a stride as he had hoped, and he had swung just short and Weaver would fire. The round zipped the short distance to graze Don’s side just above his hip. If not for his advance catching the man off guard it would have been worse. Fighting with forced determination, he shoved the metal rod forward, driving it into Weaver's arms and chest. The handgun went off once more, but the shunt forced Weaver back out into the hallway, staggering in a panic.

The ship buckled again, sending both of the men falling in separate directions. Don lost his balance and collapsed over top of Wates’ body while the other fell against the side of the hall opposite the lab door. The clattering of Weaver’s gun rang out; either in his fall or during impact it slipped its grip and was now between the two of them. He grunted, checking the back of his head for injury before propping himself up some. Through the lab entryway, he could already see the other regaining his footing from the floor. His eyes glanced at his gun resting nearly at the mouth of the door; closer to Donald than him.

Don made a move for the gun, forcing himself up and moving as best as he could. He had to get the gun before the man could. Weaver was quick to recover as well and pushed off from the wall as hard as he could, charging towards the door. While he wouldn’t get to his gun before Don, he was pressing forward either way. Not giving an inch, he drove his shoulder firmly into the larger guy’s gut, specifically going for an area with several bruises and cuts to have the most effect.

Heavy pain shot through Don’s body as the man’s weight shoved into his injured stomach, sending him back just in shock; a good hit from the smaller man. He staggered back and fell against the fallen interrogation rig, leaning his weight against it to try to stay up. Frantic, he glanced up just in time to see Weaver snapping up the metal rod and swinging it up at his head. There was a flash in his vision as the side of his head was struck, and he barely felt his body meeting the floor with a thud; his body tingling and ears ringing from the fight.

Weaver stood over the downed alien and smacked the rod against it several times; each strike sounding with a wet tender thump. After half a dozen or so, he stepped back with the bloodied and bent pipe before dropping it, going for his pistol nearby.

“It’s been fun, Donald.” Weaver shouted, barely catching his breath, his hair in tassels and blood spread across his uniform. He checked the magazine of his pistol to make sure he had rounds left; he only fired twice, but just had to be sure. “You weren’t going to survive the ship anyway and you know it.” He snorted and spat in disgust onto Don’s back.

Donald barely was coming back to grips from the strike to the head; his body still tingling while he struggled to regain mobility. He groaned as he moved his limbs to spread out, his right arm not moving as well now. If he could get something to fight back he would try, but the only thing besides him was the bottle of whiskey Weaver had brought into the lab.

The Agent paused, watching Don move around with his belly against the floor. He reveled in this bastard’s undying will to keep going. When this was all said and done, he would remember Donald as one with a never-ending spirit. With a grin, he clicked the magazine back into his pistol and stood over Don for a final time, stepping his foot onto a heavy wound above the subject’s lower knee.

With the weight pressed onto his leg, another scorch of pain shot through Don. Left with no options, he gave one last fight, and jerked his leg from under the man’s boot, causing Weaver to immediately topple over as his leg was swept out. The Agent tilted over just enough that Don had enough time to turn and swing an open hand at the pistol, smacking it clean from Weaver’s hands.

Weaver yelled out as he retaliated, dropping forward to punch Don wherever it would hurt the most. Turning onto his side, Don elbowed the man as he grabbed the whiskey bottle from the floor before swinging it into the side of Weaver’s head. The bottle shattered against the man’s head, a large shard slicing across his cheek and cutting some of Don’s hand.

With an agonizing scream, Weaver toppled over clutching his sliced face; the stain of the whiskey burned his eyes and wound fiercely. Don quickly got back up to his aching feet to look down at the shrieking heap of a man. He was most certainly out of the fight now, and Don wouldn’t want to do anything to waste time or supplies. Ignoring the man’s screams and flailing, he would check the ONI jacket and find a pair of six round magazines for the pistol. He took those as well as a small medical kit from the floor, gathered up the pistol, and staggered out the door.

Neither way seemed obvious as the way for him to go, but he was going to find Mike and try to get them somewhere safe. He had no idea where ‘safe’ was, but at least they would have their options of dying on their feet giving up a fight. After a few steps he would stagger once again in pain, leaning into the wall of the corridor. Blood dripped from several places now, including his side, legs, and the newly discovered hole through the outer meat of his right upper arm; the path of the second pistol shot had gone all the way through and he had not felt it in the fight. He barely felt it now, but that was clearly through the luck of adrenaline. He had to tend to some wounds now or risk bleeding out. Precious moments for a better chance of not dying later.

He took a knee against the wall and set down the magazines and the medical kit, opening it up to find some gauze. Keeping the pistol half ready down the hall, he took what looked like thick blood soaking pads and put one on either side of the wound, wincing in pain as the amount of wetness kept the clothes in place before he started wrapping a heavy amount of gauze around his upper arm. Luckily there was plenty of gauze and those pads. It must have been a trauma kit of some sort, and it was a good thing that medicine hadn’t changed that much in however much technology advanced here had. He addressed the other wound spots as best as he could; his work was far from perfect, but that was what he was going to get. Using most of the content in the kit, he would take the aspirin tablets inside and stuff several of them in his throat. Gagging at the pasty taste he looked at the last remaining items: Some seasick pills, antacids, and a small syringe labeled “Combat Stim.”

“What’s one more thing for the fucking cocktail.” He shook his head in thought as he, per the directions, stabbed the business end into his thigh; the stim sending a surprisingly warm and tingly feeling as it spread through his body.

With a grunt, he left the kit and took only the magazines before standing up. He had gotten better with his legs thanks to the forced crash course on walking he just had to recently take, and would find that he was going to make good progress. Despite his occasional stagger, he kept a good pace through his pain.

Throughout the ship, several loud clangs and light shaking were heard barely over the alarms. The sound of gunfire rattled faintly through the hall, obvious evidence of the fact that the ship was being boarded. Don didn’t know or care who, but he would use the situation with unbiased opportunity. He kept the pistol up as well as he could, the serious wound to his upper arm screamed in pain, struggling to hold the weight of his limb and the small pistol in his grip. Occasionally he would lower it to his side and slow for a break, being very careful to listen as he progressed. With each doorway he passed, he would glance in and see nothing he found interesting. There were some chemistry projects and storage rooms he could see through the glass in the thick metal doors, but not his friend. So, he would press on.

“I’m going to grab Weaver and his guy!” A voice yelled ahead at a T-junction in the corridor; the boots and gear noises of an armed operative approached quickly.

“Grab them and get your asses to the Prowler!” Another shouted after him, a bit further away.

Before Don could really do much to prepare, a black armored man with a rifle ran around the corner. Both parties snapped their weapons up and fired; rounds flew just over Don’s head, while he placed two rounds at the man. The heavy pistol rounds struck the Armored agent in the metallic chest plate, causing him to reel back from the kinetic impact as he tried to level his gun back correctly. Don quickly fired the rest of the magazine. The follow up shots were more effective, another one to the plate, and the second blew through the man's neck clean through, leaving his body to clump back with a lifeless thud.

“Mason!” The second of the other shouted further in, followed by the sound of him rushing from that direction.

Don quickly fiddled with the empty pistol to find the thumb release for the magazine. Once cleared, he shoved a full magazine in with force, and racked the slide back to chamber a fresh round. There were probably some more fine controls for the handgun, but he didn't have the time to figure it out. Rack and Clear logic always worked. With a ready weapon, he paced passed the downed Agent and pressed against the corner of the corridor as the other quickly approached.

Using the element of surprise, he stuck himself barely around the corner with the pistol up. The man was only a few meters or so away before meeting the rapid volley of a magazine of heavy pistol rounds. The rounds hit an even spread against his armor, and into his belly and head. One more dead Agent fell to the ground.

Don reloaded once more and watched around the corner before checking the other way, listening. Hearing no one else, he could re-equip himself. He moved from the corner to the first Agent he downed to gather a better weapon. As he knelt and pried the rifle from the man’s hands, he gave it a once over inspection. It seemed to be a pretty streamline bullpup platform that he didn’t quite recognize. A cut down carbine chambered in 7.62 NATO and with no accessories save for a vertical grip and a long carry handle which seemed built into the weapon’s frame. He saw the etching of “Misriah Armory MA5K” on the side near the charging handle; a carbine assault rifle, Don recognized that. Replaying the reloading animation from the games in his head, he gave a huff and pulled back the charging handle to check to see if the weapon was chambered. He took a second to unclip the Agent’s bandolier of magazines and clipped it awkwardly around his neck and shoulder, leaving the mag carrier at a mid-chest level towards his active hand. He would grab the other Agent’s identical set up and prepare to move.

“Be advised.” A radio on the chest of the second downed Agent chirped. “We have a group of Scientists holding down in the Assembly Room of Corridor H. Room 38. Prioritize a team to go pick them up to get them to the Prowler”

Into the heat again. Don figured, looking up at a decorative green strip along the wall with the word ‘Corridor H.’ He was close.

“We lost vitals on Mason and Fletcher near there. The boarders might be in the section of that ship too, sir.” Another voice answered.

Don plucked the radio from the Agents chest and stepped in the direction of the numbers climbing to 38. With an extra rifle around his shoulder and what felt like ten mags hanging from him, he was as prepared as he could be. Now when he found Mike and got him going, there was enough for him to help the fight. He was still keeping an ear out for any more incoming Agents as well as he could; his ears were currently full of a low but sharp ringing from the enclosed combat. Hopefully he wouldn’t permanently damage his hearing, but that was the sacrifice of the situation. He drew close to room 38.

Looking up at the solid metallic door, it appeared to be sealed closed; several hard mechanical locks were visible on the edge of the door frame. Stumped by this, he noticed a keypad on the right of the door with a large button with the word ‘Call’ on it. He shrugged and would press it because why not? As the sound of a door chime tone would be calling out within the room, he leveled the rifle at his side, preparing for whoever would open the door. They could be armed, but it didn’t seem as if Wates had been, so there was a good chance they would not be.

In a moment or so, the external locks would click and slowly unclamp from the door as it slid open. Before him were several men and women in lab coats, clearly seeing him and going into a panic at the sight of him. Don held the trigger of the rifle, sending a spray of automatic fire into the group within the room. The bodies of the scientists fell quickly to the rounds and he held no care towards their screams; he and his friend had been here for weeks and the cause of all of their pain and struggle was from these bastards. He paused his fire only to step further into the larger room for more targets. He found at least a dozen more and he would empty the rest of the weapon’s magazine into them.

“Charge him!” One of the men of the unarmed group yelled as the rifle clicked empty, and several would.

Without missing a beat, Don would let the rifle fall on its sling as he swung the other around his shoulder, quickly firing the second weapon into the charging group of scientists. Once he was done, there was none left standing in the room. He must have slaughtered 20 or so ONI Scientists just in this one room. As he reloaded the rifle, the sound of one survivor would cry out; a woman in a utility suit would poke her hands and face out in fear from behind a cabinet.

“No! Don’t shoot!” She yelled.

Don simply racked the charging handle of the weapon and brought it up.

The woman dipped back into cover. “I know where your friend is!”

Don paused.

“I’ll take you to him!” She cried out terrified from behind the metal cabinet, peeking only slightly out at the pause. “Is that what you want?”

He looked down at the woman for a breath or two, before wordlessly waving the barrel of the gun for her to come out and do so.