Chapter Text
Ryley Robinson is not having a very good day.
And considering the general state of his days of recent weeks, that's saying something.
He's sick. Can feel it in his joints, in the way his skin feels tight on his bones. He had woken up with a fever, so dizzy and nauseous he had barely been able to stagger to the filtration machine for a bottle of water, the greenish blisters on his hands gleaming dully in the night-mode lights and splattered with the blood and pus and glowing green stuff he's been coughing up for the last day or two.
(He's not thinking about what it is. Has been trying to avoid thinking about it since hearing Bart Torgal's last words, since Danby's; since the enforcement platform.)
But he had known, that morning, that there wasn't much time left. He had pulled his gloves on and left for the strange underwater river he had found the other day, and he had started to search for the facility his PDA had told him was there.
He had found the facility, alright. He had found the data downloads, the note saying, Treatment procedure: Unknown. The note mentioning death tolls in the twelve-digit figures. The note outlining the contagion profile, that he was already in the second stage, that it would be swiftly continued by ‘unpredictable alterations to biological structure', and then a complete shutdown of his body and a swift and painful death.
In short, he's dying.
He's been dying, slowly but surely, since landing on the damn planet. Whether from starvation or dehydration, or drowning, or the creatures that live here, or the illness, he knows his chances of survival have been in the single digits since the Aurora had split open.
But this, the words in his PDA saying that if he does nothing, if he doesn't find a cure for something that's killed over a hundred billion people, if he doesn't find a miracle, he'll die - that despite everything he's done to stay alive since he had first hit the water, he's still going to die...
He's not having a very good day.
The caves are eerily quiet as he numbly pilots the Seamoth out of of the facility, using the beacons to lead him back out to the main branch of the river. He pauses by the bones, disquieted by the new knowledge he has of it, the cracked skull frighteningly clear now.
"I know how you feel," he mutters to the skull, rubbing his temples with a wince, carefully avoiding the blisters clustered there and around his eyes.
Maybe he should just go back to his base, harvest some plants. There are enough natural poisons on this planet. See if the fabricator can make him something. Go to sleep and let things happen naturally.
This is, more or less, when the leviathan attacks.
Ryley Robinson is not having a very good day, but he does decide, very quickly, that he'd rather not die right here and now. Spitting words that are not Alterra-approved, he yanks the controls hard to the right, the entire Moth shuddering as it barely grazes the glowing blue leviathan.
It screams, and he nearly takes his hands off the controls to clamp them over his ears, the sound shuddering down his nerves and making his already pulsing headache even worse. His eyes hurt, his ears hurt; he's shaking from adrenaline and fatigue as he tries to aim the little vehicle, tries to stop it tumbling in the wake of the huge leviathan's movements.
Glowing cyan blue. Four eyes. No pincers, not like the ones near the Aurora, but a long, sinuous body topped with a hammer head.
It would almost be pretty if it wasn't currently screaming and pulling back to strike again.
It comes in fast, and Ryley acts first, thinks later; smacks the canopy open button and launches himself up. The leviathan just misses the ends of his flippers as its immense head smacks the Seamoth and crushes it into confetti against the rock.
Ryley is eight hundred metres beneath the surface, his transportation destroyed, in a twisting cavern full of dead ends, predators, and acidic saline pools, with fifteen minutes of air left and an angry leviathan snapping at his heels. He's starting to think he may not have much say in the matter of dying.
It launches itself again and he twists out of the way - too slow, not quite enough. It doesn't hit him head on, just clips him, but it's rather bigger than he is and he goes tumbling through the water, and the back of his head strikes the rock hard.
Stars burst in front of his eyes.
His vision is going grey around the edges. He's struggling to move, sluggish, uncontrolled. There are spots in his field of view, white and gold and shimmery, the blue swirl of the leviathan coiled around them and the glowing white points of the strange vegetation of the area forming constellations.
It's pretty, as last views go.
Ryley is just conscious enough to note that one of the stars is, in fact, more literally shaped like a star, four long points and one short one, superimposed over the blue of the leviathan. And then all he can see is black.
He's warm.
Not the burn of fever, but warm. Comfortable, lying on something soft and something soft over him. His feet and hands are bare and the collar of the reinforced dive suit loosened; Ryley forces his eyes open and finds his gear piled neatly on a table.
Fins and gloves, rebreather and air tank. His PDA rests on top, tool belt is neatly coiled beside them; the habitat builder is detached and lying a little apart. His things are lying on an Alterra-constructed table, he's lying in an Alterra-constructed bed, he's in an Alterra-constructed multi purpose room.
Definitely not dead, then, Ryley decides, because if Alterra's bought out the afterlife he's going to stay alive out of sheer spite.
That, and the pain in the back of his head has just returned with a vengeance that makes him wish he was dead, immediately squeezing his eyes shut and hissing. At least he's lying on his side in this Alterra-constructed bed; he must have hit the back of his head, and there's a thick dressing held in place with a roll of bandages.
While the pain fades, Ryley keeps his eyes shut and thinks hard.
He's in a base, presumably made with his own habitat builder. His things were piled up neatly nearby, his head is bandaged.
Last he checked, he was about to be killed by a leviathan. An improvement it may be, but a confusing one, frankly.
Someone else must have survived, then. Perhaps someone whose radio had been destroyed, unable to send out a distress call, someone who had also been able to gather the resources to get this deep. There had been a hundred and fifty-seven people on board the Aurora. He knew of eleven or twelve whose lifepods and final messages he had found, and he knew that Captain Hollister had gone down with the ship - but that still left over a hundred and forty others it could have been.
Then he's not alone. Ryley's breath catches. He's not alone. Someone else has survived.
(He immediately pushes the thought that this is a dying hallucination out of his head as unhelpful.)
"Hello?" he tries to call and immediately falls to coughing, curling in on himself in the bed. Still sick, still dying, he has to remember that, and whoever else survived is likely also sick as well. They may not be alone, but if they don't find a way to get better, they'll still die all the same.
His bout of coughing leaves him feeling weak and shaken, eyes shut tight. There's a strong desire to go back to sleep, because he feels bone tired, an exhaustion more debilitating than any he's ever felt; at the same time, he's simply too sore to actually drift off.
Sick, sore, and tired, but he's also curious, curious and alive. He's alive, and isn't sure how or why, and more than sleep, he wants answers.
Breathe in, slowly, evenly. Not too deeply or his lungs will protest again, just enough to get him air without making him cough again. Out, and in again. Keeps doing that, swallows gently against his burning throat.
There's a bottle of water he's just noticed on the table with his gear. Ryley shuts his eyes tightly, then slowly, carefully, starts to push himself upright.
So far, so good.
He's noticing more. His boots are beneath the table, neatly lined up, and he doesn't even do that in his own base. Beyond it is a water filter machine, salt already collecting in its tray. Stacked neatly against the wall beyond the filter, a small pile of first aid kits, more probably used to make the bandages currently wrapped around his head, and then the rounded bulk of a wetroom.
The only other thing he can see is a bulkhead leading to who knows where. Leading to who knows who.
Cautiously, Ryley stands (more or less), reaches for the water, and gulps down enough that he has to fight to keep it down. Slowly, slowly! he reprimands himself, and sips it a bit more carefully, still holding on to the table to keep himself upright.
His head hurts. His vision is swimming. He wants to go back to bed and sleep for a week. It's only curiosity and the thought that in a week he might be dead that keeps him upright, keeps him alert.
At least, at least he doesn't have to wait for long. With an obscenely loud clunk that makes a jag of pain flare in the back of his skull, the bulkhead starts to swing open.
On the other side is someone who's glowing.
For a moment, Ryley wonders if his head injury is worse than he had thought. But no, nothing else is glowing - just his apparent saviour, around his age, short black hair, wearing a pair of brief shorts with part of an Alterra logo on it and apparently cut from a standard AEP suit.
It's his blood, Ryley realises distantly. He can see the patterns made by veins and arteries, can see his heart glowing through his ribs. Blood glowing gold, shining through his skin.
"Uh," Ryley says.
The stranger smiles, approaches, hands Ryley a PDA. He glances down, finding words already typed up.
Hello! it says, cheery somehow even through the text. I apologise in advance for the awkward mode of communication, I can't speak. To answer what I'm assuming will be your immediate questions:
1) You're safe.
2) The creature that attacked you is called a ghost leviathan. They're territorial, but otherwise not aggressive. I apologise that this one destroyed your vehicle, they were just trying to defend this place.
3) I had to borrow your hab builder to create this room and the items in it. My own shelter is in disrepair and some parts are flooded. With your permission, I'd like to borrow your repair tool, then you'll be able to move around more.
4) Please don't worry about possibly infecting me, I have it as well (currently dormant). The bacteria also caused, well, changes. (You may have noticed I glow :-P )
5) No, I still don't know if there is a cure. I have some theories on why it's dormant in me, but nothing verified yet.
6) If your cough is particularly bad, I have nebulised medication you can take. I also have some medications for pain and fever, but I don't know if you'll react badly to them.
7) I have food if you feel you can keep it down.
I hope that answers most of your questions!
Ryley reads those words, brow furrowed, glances back up at his patiently waiting saviour. Glances back down at it.
"Just one question," he says slowly, and hands back the PDA. "Who are you?"
There's an interesting play of expressions across the stranger's face - surprise, irritation that he had apparently forgot to answer something so basic, a flash of amusement. With a smile, he taps at the PDA and hands it back for Ryley to read.
And Ryley's breath catches in his throat, because he recognises that name. He knows it. Has seen it written in reports and manifests, has heard its owner's voice, speaking dreamily of the world they live in, with delight over new discoveries, with resignation over his apparently-not-quite-impending death.
It's a voice that has kept Ryley company when he's been at his loneliest, has kept him confident when he's been at his most afraid, has helped when he's hated and feared the world he's trapped in by showing the beauty and wonder in it.
Sorry about that! the PDA reads. It's been a while since I talked to anyone (so to speak ;-D ) (Sorry). My name is Bart Torgal. And you?