In the dark, a pair of hands wrestle you into submission. One catches your wrists and pins both twiggy things to your chest, the other slots against your throat in warning. You are pulled against a warm body. You are pulled against the only other survivor.

       Not technically. You tell yourself UTAH and Half-Hand and Dimples are dead— you ignore the pained whimpers you cannot see the source of— the shift of fabric and something wet— the crack of ceramic and bone, of a broken body building itself again, forcing itself to stand— heaving, lurching, grabbing and tearing until— they’re dead, you repeat. They’re dead, they’re dead, they’re dead. They were dead the moment they entered this room, from the moment they arrived here. The hand squeezes your throat just enough to sting. You cannot bear to be proven wrong.

       You fight against his grip. It’s instinct. It’s habit. It’s years of neurosis culminating in a cortisol-fueled flurry. But the last drone is brasher than Vidal— your spine aches from the force, he curses and threatens to gut you if you keep squirming. This does not deter you, and when you scream like a stuck pig he moves a hand from your throat to your mouth to shut you up. When you force your teeth through the rubber of his glove, through the skin of his hand, he swears to God that he will do worse than kill you. The inside of your mouth tastes of rubber and salt and copper. He clings to you like a lifeline.

       “Shut the fuck up!" His voice is too loud, too close. He wrenches you back and you are forced to follow, and continues sputtering to the darkness, “Let me go— let me go or I’ll snap her neck—“ His attention turns to you. “What did you say? What the fuck did you tell it!?”

       Nothing. You said nothing. He would not believe you even if you had the words to explain. You are nothing more a favored captive, but he is too blinded by fear to spare reason.

       His body moves back, away from something— you cannot fathom what. Perhaps his vision extends further than yours. Perhaps he is more in tune with his other senses. Perhaps he knows, somehow, that a monster in the abyss draws near. You are dragged away by another step— still fighting, still thrashing, all too easily overpowered. Stuck between two ways to die; completely cognizant that you will not. He still needs you. You are all the worse for it.

       His back connects with the wall. His grip slackens. He forgot the body no longer had sway over the land. He forgot that once past the point of no return, the body stopped being an anchor and became just another overgrown structure. The land was free to do as it so pleased. He forgot the body was just for show. He screams. It is raw and throat-ruining, it bounces off the walls and makes your teeth ache. You tumble forward and catch yourself, hacking up snot and spit, choking down air in shuddering breaths. The gloves keep you from skinning your palms to shreds, but they do not spare you the pain, only replace the scraping sting with the burn of friction.

       He calls your name. That isn’t your name. He’s talking to you, though. Begging, pleading, like a dog that needs to be put down for its own good. Help, God help me, you have to get me out of here. Get it out, get it out. Oh God, oh God!

       He didn’t deserve it. That’s never stopped anything from happening, and it never will because the world you're in is a system of intended cruelty. But it’s why you try to save him. Why you push past your own fear and sick and stand on your feet and push yourself through the dark. Why your hands search, search, search until they feel the teflon of Dijon’s suit. Why you gather as much of him in your hands as you can,

       and pull [ He's screaming again. ]

       and pull [ You're hurting him. This isn't right. ]

       and pull. [ Stop. Stop before— ]

       something gives, and you lose your balance, and you fall back with him in your grasp.

       You don't realize until you feel his weight on you— the lack of weight, rather. If the room were brighter— if you were more present— if you weren't so fucking stubborn— you would see that only half of the third drone pulled free.

       He tries to speak before it ends, tries to gurgle a final prayer, but all that escapes is a strangled moan. You think he is sobbing. Then the moment passes

and he's gone for good

and you are left behind.

       It takes longer than it should for you to realize what happened. It takes even longer for you to accept it. You would say: There are more pressing matters to worry about.

      Metal shrieks against itself. Thew is pulled taut, stretching until it snaps from the force of the bulkhead's opening. In the burning light, you see the bodies of your former team strewn across the floor: their protective suits are ripped to shreds; their fingers twitch like the dead limbs of an electrocuted animal; their internals are on full display— wet and wriggling from a slow digestion. You do not turn around because you know that's where Dijon is.

      What-Was-Miller eclipses you. Six feet and two inches of fused tendon and restructured bone— a face made of ripped skin and muscle— a body eaten alive and bloating, bursting at its seams. What-Was-Miller stares down at you with bloodshot eyes and a bleeding mouth full of crooked teeth. He can’t speak; his vocal cords are too heavy to even scream. He advances towards you with unsteady steps, and you retreat until your back hits the wall.

       Another step. Closer. Too close. A hand outstretches. You are so tired of being touched.

       The crack of a gunshot. What-Was-Miller’s throat explodes outward in a splay of bone shard and scattered tissue, and lead embeds itself into the paneling and concrete beside you. The world is defeaned by your ears ringing.

       He is not dead. You know this to be true before he slumps to the floor, face first. The damage severed his spinal column, robbed his body of the nerves connecting body and brain for now, but now will become then just as the sun will set. Five minutes is all it takes: the carnage will sew itself right with a million threads and What-Was-Miller will rise like a ghoul from its grave. And you'll be there, waiting. Because for all of your bark, you're just as helpless and even more afraid.

       Vazquez is smarter than you. He doesn't waste a second; three hundred pounds of muscle and armor barrels into the room and hurls itself towards you like a bull let loose. His hand clamps on your shoulder before you have a chance to be shocked. He rips you to your feet, then over his shoulder. Vazquez takes off in a sprint. The world becomes a spinning mess of momentum and motion sickness.

       The square of pitch darkness leading to the room you were trapped in is behind you, receding faster than you thought was possible. You hear Vazquez swearing beneath his breath. You watch the floor drop from behind you both; you watch the walls close and crumple a foot from where you just were; you watch the living architecture, the stalagmites of calcium and pulp lashing out in hopes of either impaling or caging. You don't want to find out which. You won't— the law of EIRs forces even the most hostile of his halls into something traversable, and Vazquez does not stop running until you slam into the back of the elevator and its doors close completely.

       You wonder what happens to the bodies. What happens to the room? When you're both gone, and Eyes is well and truly alone, who can say for certain what becomes of everything? It's better not to think about it. It's better that you are both here, too close to be comfortable, too panicked to be grateful, too covered in the filth of other humans to feel like one yourself. This isn't the first time you've felt this way, is it?

       Vazquez does not set you down until the doors open on the surface.

—

       Later, you would be sat in your terrible room on the edge of your terrible bed, a shock blanket wrapped around your shoulders and the Head Doctor dabbing blood (not your blood) from your scalp with a damp tissue.

       You do not need this. You do not fucking need this. You do not need her soft hands patting and soft words reassuring, you do not need the tests that make you see spectres or the music that reminds you of everything you will never have again— you need to scrub the day off with scalding water and a rough rag. You need to sleep for weeks, months, years. You need to forget.

       Instead, you stare at the growing pile of red towelettes and wait for the Head Doctor to leave. You cannot forget; sleep is a fickle thing; and water restrictions in the station dictate the next time you will be allowed to shower is in ten hours. No exceptions. All of the apologies in the world from the Head Doctor curdle on your tongue and the white-foamed saliva beneath it.

       It is in that moment you realize she does not care for you in any way that will save you. You are an obligation born of guilt and fostered by a role of importance you were never meant to have. You are a pet project she refuses to let die. The Head Doctor will offer every comfort she can to you, and you will suffer all the more for it. She will hold you down as you struggle, she will care for your failing body, she will loosen the collar from your neck— but her hands will never remove it. This is not a kindness. This is a death sentence in slow motion. She should have killed you when she was supposed to. She should have killed you.

       The Head Doctor is gone before your thoughts can solidify into action. She leaves behind a shadow. She leaves behind your savior. She tells the bloodbag to keep an eye on her, please? Just for the night, make sure she doesn't hurt herself. Until she falls asleep, in a low voice— a voice you were not supposed to hear. The bloodbag protests, negotiates his time down to half an hour. He says he does not want to upset you. You think you are well beyond that point, and that you are secondary to his own disgust. You think, after everything, he earned it.

       But she agreed, and so he stands in the corner and lets the minutes tick by. You do not move from your position on the bed, even as the lights turn off in a soft command for you to sleep. The blood dries and mats in your hair. You feel hands on your throat. You try forcing yourself to be anywhere but here, but the day's events replay with such detail that you worry you are hallucinating again.

       The hour passes. The beast in black armor shifts, moving for the door, and panic surges. You cannot be alone again. You are scared to be alone again. You are certain that the moment he leaves, the room will lose its shape and swallow you whole, and you will be dragged a thousand feet into the earth never to be seen again. You can feel your nausea rising.

       "Wait," you spit out. Your wheeze brings him to a halt. The bloodbag's mask just barely angles towards you, a movement noticed only because you watch with the same paranoia as a rabbit watches a wolf. "Stay."

       It is a command spoken like a plea. It is beneath you, or beneath where you should be— it is a mockery of every horrible thing you experienced at their hands. If you continued spilling your guts and tears, your voice would crack like the first frost under a steel-toed boot.

       You do not. He understands, though, and his hand drops from the doorknob and he returns to his post.

       She stands behind the monster you begged not to leave, wet locks obscuring her bloody face, eyes burning into you in spite of this. Her voice is low and you hate how much it sounds like your own. She says,

       "You missed your chance. I told you so."

       If Angel notices your staring, he does not comment. He sits as far away as reality allows and pretends to be anywhere else.

       You are too afraid to sleep.