Distress

Just as the two women, in their enviro-suits, reach the umbilical that links the Namora back to the Prowler, Tasha concludes that she can no longer ignore the feeling she has of being watched. She had tried to ignore it and had, up unto this point, managed it. But she can’t anymore and so turns. The navigator has no idea what she expects to find, but now that she’s turned she realises that there is nothing and no one there. Still, she shudders and her skin crawls in the time before Francesca, who has taken note of Tasha’s actions, asks, “What’s up?”

Silence hangs in the air between the women for a few moments and then Tasha, following a shake of her head, assures, “Nothing. It’s just my mind playing tricks on me, I think.”

“Yeah, that’s not surprising. This ship is creepy what with the crew having gone mad and then butchered one another like they did.” Francesca then shivers.

Her reaction manages to elicit, however forced it might be, a smile from Tasha seconds prior to them silently acknowledging between one another that they are ready to get off the Namora, even if it is only going to be temporarily.

They do just that soon after, as both women step through the airlock and into the link between the ships.

Tasha had forgotten how far the umbilical seems to stretch. And though it makes her feel uncomfortable, she’d still rather be here than back on that transport ship behind them.

It takes the pair a few minutes to complete the traversal of the umbilical and then set foot back on the Prowler. They don’t remove their suits. Instead, they head straight for the bridge.

Francesca calls out, “Captain, Iain, Ville, have any of you seen Hector?” Her voice wavers slightly but she quickly clears her throat and waits in anticipation for a reply. One is not forthcoming and both women mark it as strange. They even exchange quick nervous glances before Francesca settles on resting her hand on the grip of the holstered shock pistol.

Like Iain’s, hers is also strapped against her hip, so that it is ready to be drawn at any time. It stems back to her training and was drilled into her during her days in the academy until it had almost become second nature. Not that her caution prevents her, or Tasha, from continuing stepping over the threshold of the always open pressure door and onto the bridge of the recovery vessel.

The first thing both women see is the curled up body lying on its side in the top section of the triangular shaped room. The body is motionless and is faced away from them so all they can see is the curved spine.

Tasha, on instinct, rushes toward the body to check to see if, whoever it is, is OK. Francesca is nearly a full step behind her and gets there just as Tasha finishes rolling the body off its side and onto its back, so that it is face up.

Immediately it becomes apparent that it is Iain and that he is dead. Both women recoil in shock at the sight of the deceased, now former, security chief whose helmet is partially filled with blood. His glazed over grey eyes staring blankly off into the distance.

“Fuck!” Francesca spits as she turns away from the sight and then takes a couple steps away.

Meanwhile, Tasha stays squatted in place; her mouth hanging agape as her hands tremble. Her mind wheeling as she wonders how this can be possible. It shouldn’t be. They are the only ones here. And surely it can’t have been Hector. No he wouldn’t have done this. She isn’t even sure what it is that caused the wound seeing as she can’t see it through all the coagulating blood in Iain’s helmet.

“Tasha.”

The navigator hears her name called and it wrenches out of her head and back to the here and now. Yet, it takes the auburn haired woman a few seconds to conclude that Francesca’s tone indicates that something else is wrong. That there is something that the junior security officer feels needs to be brought to Tasha’s attention. It’s why Tasha quickly raises her head and queries when she sees the expression of fear etched on the other woman’s face, “What is it?”

Francesca doesn’t move her body or her face. She stays rooted to the spot as if she’s statue. Only her mouth moves and informs, “You need to see this.”

Tasha wonders what it can be. She asks no further questions and instead stays silent as she rises out of her squat and back to her full height, turns and then hurries toward the other woman.

The navigator makes it maybe halfway before she gets a view of Captain Jimenez, her throat slashed open wide, thus revealing why Francesca sounded as terrified as she did when she last spoke.

Tasha stops dead in her tracks and then gags at the sight. She can’t help it. She wishes she could, but she can’t. It’s why she has to use every fibre of her being not to vomit, while her stomach churns and flips. Because of that alone Tasha has to turn away to avoid any accidents, only to get a glimpse at the partial outline of someone in the pilot’s seat.

Without hesitation she makes a beeline right for the seat, taking a sharp inhalation of breath as she draws closer to the destination. Once she reaches it and sees the sight of Ville, hunched over and stops. There is no need for her to examine him, she knows for a fact that he’s dead and that whatever fate he suffered will make her gag again. That is why she instead presses her index and middle finger against his neck searching for a pulse. He doesn’t have one. It’s not surprising, it’s what she expected, but still until the confirmation was made sadness had not hit her. It has now and it’s why she feels compelled to turn away, her head hung low as she utters weakly, “How did this happen?”

Francesca shrugs before declaring the only answer that makes sense to her. “Hector’s the only one unaccounted for.”

The junior security officer wishes that she doesn’t have to admit it, but it is true. He is the only member of Prowler’s crew not present or accounted for.

Tasha does not believe it and begins shaking her head profusely from side to side to convey her refusal to accept that the medic is responsible.

“What other option is there?” Francesca exclaims unable to see how the auburn haired woman cannot have reached, or be willing to accept, the same conclusion.

Before either of them can say another word there is the unmistakable clanging sound of metal on metal. It doesn’t chime once or even twice, but over and over, in a pattern. Without a doubt it is purposeful and sounds as though whoever is responsible is attempting to create a tune, or perhaps recreate one. It seems vaguely familiar to both Tasha and Francesca. Yet, neither of them can place it. Not that their struggle stops them from turning in the direction of the sound only for a heavily disfigured and scarred man to slide into view.

He fills the open doorway that is the only connection between the bridge and the corridor beyond it. An evil smile stretched wide across his face as Francesca demands to know, “Who the fuck, are you?”

Her words rocket from her mouth with vitriol in the moments before the scarred man raises the severed and still dripping bloody head of Hector.

Tasha screams, her head beginning to spin as she becomes light-headed and then somehow not only manages to catch sight of the discarded shock pistol on the floor between her and the scarred man, but also launch herself toward it.

Francesca having watched as Tasha lunged herself forward, as if in slow motion, reacts a few seconds after. She knows Tasha will never make it to the weapon before whoever it is that has hold of Hector’s severed head will. It’s why the security officer reaches out attempting to grab hold of the auburn haired woman’s enviro-suit and stop her. Unfortunately, her reactions are a hair too late and Tasha slips through her fingers and out of reach.

The scarred man’s grin somehow twists to become more despicable looking than it already had been before he threw himself into a lunge of his own. It puts him on a collision course with Tasha, who is utterly unaware of the level of danger she is in.

It’s why Francesca quickly pulls her shock pistol and then fires a single shot of it into the centre of the scarred man’s blood stained jumpsuit wearing torso.

The barb impales through the thick material of his jumpsuit less than a second later only to deliver a sudden discharge of electricity that inverts his momentum and sees him instead go staggering back away from Tasha.

The junior security officer takes the opportunity presented to her by the shock barbs and repositions herself before reaching out to grab hold of Tasha for what will be the second time.

It works and Francesca manages to grab hold of a fistful of the auburn haired woman’s suit and then haul her backward. The sudden change in direction comes as a complete surprise to Tasha who, having just about managed to lay her gloved hands on the discarded weapon, suddenly finds herself tumbling back the way she came. It sends her head spinning.

Nevertheless, Tasha manages to keep hold of the non-lethal weapon and quickly regain her balance just in time for Francesca to urge, “We need to get out of here, together.”

In unison they both turn their attention toward the door, the only avenue that will permit them exit from the recovery ship. The man isn’t there. Relief and dread shoot through their bodies as they wonder where he’s gone. Especially, as it seems that he has disappeared entirely, almost as though he was never here to begin with. He was and both women know it. They can’t both have imagined his presence, or that he was holding aloft Hector’s severed head.

“Where did…” Tasha begins, but never manages to finish as the scarred man appears, seemingly out of nowhere, at their sides.

Tasha screams at his sudden appearance and goes to fire at him with the shock pistol in her hand. She hasn’t fired one since she left the academy some years ago. But that is the least of her worries as their attacker is mid-way through a swing with a sliver of metal in his tightly clenched fist.

Francesca’s eyes go wide, almost to the point that they bulge out of her head. Tasha will never manage to get a shot off in time, especially with how close he is to her. That is why Francesca does the only thing she feels is appropriate and steps forward to put herself between them. Her eyes screwing tightly closed as she awaits whatever pain she will be met with. Seconds pass, they seem like hours to Francesca and then she feels the bite as the razor sharp sliver of metal effortlessly tears through her suit and then her flesh. The pain is immense, unbearable and sees her unleash a loud, deafening screech that sends her light-headed. If only that were the sum total of her plight, but it isn’t because she is forced to fight against her bodies wish to claim her consciousness and force her to pass out. That tells her that the wound inflicted upon her is bad, real bad. She doesn’t need to be a doctor, a medic or any other part of the profession to reach such a conclusion, she can feel it. Feel the blood pumping out of her, angrily. It’s as if being contained beneath her skin is somehow an affront to her blood. A crime that must be righted before the injustice is further endured.

And Francesca is right. The wound is very bad. In fact, her brachial artery, the main link down the inside of her arm as it runs from her armpit down toward her elbow, has been severed.

Still, somehow the junior security officer manages to fire, more on reflex than anything else, another shock barb.

This one, unintentionally, spears through the pupil of the scarred man’s left eye, claiming his sight and sending a massive shock convulsing through his skull and down his body as he screams with a bloodcurdling howl. Yet, it affords the women some relief as he stumbles back and away from them.

Tasha wastes no time and having grabbed a hold of Francesca hauls her quickly across and then off the bridge, as fast as their cumbersome enviro-suits will allow.