Dead Star Dockyards

The Captain had been expecting to receive the survivors aboard this strange black box with open arms, even if this occasion was not one for high spirits.

He was met with a corpse.

At least something that looked like a corpse.

Given the way they were flitting around the beams, he had assumed that they were in top condition. The faintly breathing mass of pale and bruised flesh was no doubt one of the "Designated Survivors" that the good Draco Helmsguard had spoken so highly of.

"Someone get the Healer, immediately!"

"I am already here sir!" A woman clothed in a white and blue garment, donning a belt with various satchels and pockets, nearly tripped in her hurry to get up onto the deck. "Who needs my help?"

The Captain gestured to the lump of flesh on the floor.

"Oh great heavens! What have we here?!" Rapidly closing and dropping to analyze him, she pulled out a small knife and a vial. Placing the sharp edge on the print of Donovan's thumb, she made a small but deep cut. She collected some of the blood from this wound in the vial.

Producing an eyeglass from one of her many pockets, she analyzed the blood sample.

The Captain watched her countenance change from panic, to bewilderment, to a cocktail of fear and confusion. "Did he poison himself as a measure against Split Decay? How is he still breathing!? Quickly, quickly, carry him to the ward! He needs immediate attention." She gestured towards the smattering of curious crewmembers that had nothing to do for the moment. "Don't forget the furball!"

They're handling was rather rough, but it was enough to move him.

"Now if you'll excuse me, Captain, I have a patient to see to."

She trotted off behind them, chastising them for their rough handling while trying her hardest to ready him for treatment.

The Captain turned his attention back towards the Noah, and the strange platform that had descended from it. Seeing as it was an exit, it followed that he could enter from there.

Sure enough, as soon as he took a stance in the center of the plate, it began to rise. The inside of the ship smelled awful. Blood, urine, feces, vomit, sweat, all bombarded him, but he remained unfazed. He had been in the presence of far worse.

The materials that made up the ship, both inside and out, were unfamiliar to him. The inside especially seemed strange. The walls, floor, and ceiling seemed to be metal or the carapace of some sort of crustacean, yet had a certain softness to it.

Different worlds always had differing cultures and wide range of products that never ceased to grab attention, but the materials always had similar properties.

There were many such examples in this enclosed space. The sheets on the bed (a universal constant for some reason) appeared to be some form of extremely luxurious silk, yet it was dull. It was not out of the realm of possibility, he assumed, that this color could be a sign of high class, or that there was something he just couldn't see about it. The Skwiven and Velar had examples of that in their culture, but the humans of this planet were just that, human.

There had never been such a discrepancy noted amongst other humanoids.

The lights were as much a mystery. The white lights seemed reminiscent of the light of a star, and he could see no flame. The various colors of those in the seat at the front, while very colorful, were not nearly as interesting as some of the other objects and fixtures that littered this small space.

The recesses in the wall above the bed were filled with strange things. One of them, no thicker than the blade of a knife, emitted the same light as the ceiling. Another was a block, or was at least block shaped, and seemed to be of the same stuff as the interior. The intriguing bit was the fact it was open, and had stuff inside.

He could not make out what that stuff was, but the vague similarity it held to the cloth on the bed and the suit that Donovan wore lead the Captain to believe it was clothing.

"Who are you?"

A voice originating from nowhere, yet surrounding him all the same. It was in a language he had spent a great deal of time learning.

He did not forget his lines.

"I am a Captain."

"You are not MY Captain." The voice was accusatory, hostile even, but it was nothing more than a test.

"But I am a Captain nonetheless." He relaxed and closed his eyes, part of the skit that had been devised to signify that he was not hostile. Apparently, this voice would be able to see through deception.

"What is the password?"

The Captain took a deep breath. He had practiced the pronunciation of the words many times, yet he still found some difficulty when it came to dictation.

"Onomatopoeia, Anemone, Consequence, Sspecific." He slurred the last word a bit, immediately wondering what the result would be. Surely he wouldn't be killed, right?

ARC was silent for an uncomfortable length of time.

"A match. It is a pleasure to meet you 'Captain'. My duties do not include conversing with you, especially not without the presence of an operator, but I will act on my discretion to make an exception given the extreme circumstances. Will you be able to guarantee the safety of the Designated Survivors?"

The Captain was unable to understand the vast majority of what was said. It could make out some choice words, but his proficiency in 'English' was nowhere near the level required to understand that sentence.

Fortunately, Draco had informed him of a cop out that would get ARC to converse at a lower level.

"I'm sorry, but I could not understand that."

Short and easy to remember.

"Hm. The password was correct. Nice to meet you 'Captain'. I would not be allowed to speak to you alone normally, but I will make an exception thanks to the situation. Will you be able to make sure he is safe?"

Far easier to understand. More of the words were in his lexicon, any that weren't could have their meanings inferred.

"I do not yet know if he will be safe. Given the reaction of the Healer, it should be possible. What should I know to help?"

A period of silence once again followed. ARC was pondering how much information should be given, and how to phrase it in a way that the Captain could make sense of.

"Do not tear his clothes, they are hard to cut and risk injuring him. To take them off, peel the flap behind his neck and pull the tab underneath down as far as you can. Slip your hands inside the openings and slide it off. Return it here. Do not remove the band around his elbow, it is covering a deep wound. He needs water and food. Once he is able to move, return him here."

ARC had dumbed down the instructions into something a ten year old should be ale to understand. Given that the barrier of instruction was one based on communication, not intelligence, it assumed that they would be able to make inferences as to what needed to be done.

"What of the animal?"

He was referring to Mercedes.

"Donovan would like it if she lived, but his life is first. You may hold her down if she fights."

"If she fights? Has it not been trained? Is it hostile?"

"Mercedes is young, immature. She will be fearful and in pain. Be calm, do not show hostility or panic. The bag in the corner has some food that will help her calm herself."

ARC flashed the lights over the bag of dog treats that had been tossed about in the mad scramble.

"I promise to do all I can to save his life. Where is the other one?"

"She will join you shortly."

- - - - -

It hurt.

Everything hurt.

His bones screamed as if they were being drilled into, crushed, and twisted.

His skin felt as if it was being flayed with a salt crusted whip, dunked into boiling water, and exposed to a freezing atmosphere.

The joints all responded as if they were perforated, punctured with needles.

The muscles wailed in agony, seemingly torn and incapable of tensing.

A ringing in his ears, drowning out all other sources of noise.

Don couldn't move, mostly, and where he was it was a pain like no other.

His breathing, soft, restrained, weak, was still enough to send tremors of agony around his chest and abdomen. His ribcage felt like it would explode from a tiny whisper of breath.

His mind, overwhelmed with signals of pain, was on the verge of collapse. A migraine the likes of which he had never experienced before. He was not suicidal by nature, but if death meant he could escape this senseless pain, he would be tempted.

But he was alive.

Barely conscious, on the verge of insanity, in an agony he felt he did not deserve, yes, but he was alive.

And he felt he had sufficient proof.

If he was truly dead, he believed he had a few ways to go.

Some form of Heaven this experience was most certainly not.

Reincarnation was also off the table.

Purgatory? Some dimension of half-ness? Also unlikely.

The theory of simply vanishing was also out of the question, the pain was proof again.

And yet it was not Hell, or some other torture derivative afterlife.

That would imply that there was only pain, something that was not the case.

For at the moment, despite all the pain and suffering he was experiencing, there was also a sensation of comfort, pleasure, peace.

It was coming from his right hand, and a portion of his left leg. He couldn't tell where they were in relation to the rest of him, nor did he really care. He could focus his attention on that to alleviate the pain, if only slightly.

From time to time, the pain akin to a blade traveling down his throat signaled that he was being fed.

He was thankful to not be throwing up, not sure if he would be able to stomach the pain of actual acid flowing over what seemed to be exposed nerves.

This went on for a long time, his only respite from the constant pain being the periods he was left unconscious in sleep. He couldn't tell if the pain was starting to die down, or if he was getting better at tolerating it. He also realized that there was not much of a difference between the two.

After a certain point, Don just wanted to see, hear, and taste again, so his relief after seeing just the slightest bit of light appearing at the bottom of his field of vision was immeasurable.

The burning sensation in his irises at this miniscule change imbued him with a subtle rage. Thankfully, the ringing had subsided slightly, but his taste buds had yet to return.

The next time the food was shoveled into his mouth, he could faintly make out the sounds of someone speaking, likely to him. A pinch of pain on his cheek suggested that his caretaker wasn't too proficient with feeding another person, likely the result of spilling some food on him.

He held back a groan, knowing it would only serve to further his suffering.

At times, the sources of warmth around his hand and leg would disappear. He was not so immature as to panic, but he did wonder where they went. Whatever caused it would always return after about half an hour, his knowledge of this the result of counting during his boredom.

The first thing he was going to do after waking up fully was ask for painkillers, or maybe even administer them himself. The pain was a little bit more intense about his elbow, so maybe his band was still there? Maybe that pain was just a remnant of the injection.

He couldn't even remember if there were any doses of the painkiller left. He could vaguely remember being drugged beyond belief at one point. He would be mad at ARC if he didn't understand it was absolutely necessary. Perhaps it had noticed the signs of extreme pain onset and had administered them in response.

That must have been a terribly careful balancing act, keeping him awake enough to fly but drugged enough to pay attention.

A shrill noise distracted him from his thoughts. It constantly changed pitch, but seemed to maintain a rhythm. A song? Whistling?

Was someone whistling? The tune sounded familiar, but he couldn't put a finger on what it was.

Not a marching song, he could differentiate them from other genres. Probably nothing that had come out recently either. The proclivity of modern musicians to focus on electronic noises and what sounded to him like walls of noise made it nigh impossible to actually catch a tune to whistle to.

Don didn't exactly have time to appreciate the pleasures of entertainment given the intensity of his study, but he could clearly remember this song from somewhere.

But when? Where? What was this song?

He brainstormed, trying to figure out what it was, where he had heard it. He had plenty of time.

Was it from a movie? That would make sense. He hadn't exactly seen many movies over the course of his life, so he could remember some of the ones he had seen. Doctor Helmsguard had shown him a few of his favorites from his vast collection of 'classics' from the time before the collapse, the golden age of film.

Many had catchy songs.

This was definitely from one of those movies, he no longer had a doubt about that. In fact Don was pretty sure he remembered which movie this was from.

If his memory served correctly, it was from a series, three or four movies long. Was it about an adventurer? Explorer? What was it that the protagonist called himself? Was he named after one of the old countries? A province in North America?

He looked for like, religious artifacts, or something along those lines, in the underdeveloped areas of the world.

An Archaeologist!

A small laugh escaped him, and the whistling stopped.

A pity, he quite enjoyed it.

Immediately, he started to regret this involuntary expression of emotion. He finally figured out what the body by his leg was.

At first it shook, tensed and at the ready, before launching itself towards his body. Pain ripped through him in places where the excited canine stepped on him.

"NO! BAD DOG! NO!" An effeminate voice, likely the one responsible for the whistling, shouted at Mercedes to stop.

But it was far too late.

Already Mercedes had her nose in his face, furiously sniffing and licking him. Another body reached across him, adding its weight to the prickly sensations moving like waves across his skin.

He couldn't hold back any longer.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!! GRAAAAAAAGH-UUUAAAAAAA!!!"

Possibly the loudest scream he had every released, accompanied by involuntary spasms. All only worked to further his pain.

It did manage to stop Mercedes, but a body still lay across his chest.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm SORRRYYY!!"

She scrambled to get off of him, evoking a groan of pain when she pressed her weight on his sternum. Don knew Mercedes was prone to strike again.

"Sit!" He managed to choke out the command at the expense of some discomfort, a positive if it meant that Mercedes would stop pouncing on him. He was glad he took the time to train her.

"You, aaagh, painkillers, rrrngh, please."

It was a plea borne of necessity.

"Painkillers? Where?" She sounded panicked, his sudden waking evidently having thrown her off balance.

"ARC, ask ARC."

Don was stuck in a feedback loop of pain. The sensation would cause him to tense up to alleviate the pain in one area of his body, only to ignite the same searing sensation in the place he tensed up.

Only intense will power and deep, lengthy breaths were keeping the situation from getting out of control.

"ARC? The computer?"

"GO!"

"Okay!" Something scraped against the floor, likely a chair. He could hear her muttering "painkiller" to herself repeatedly as she exited whatever room they were currently in.

Mercedes was not distracted by this person's disappearance. Her focus was entirely on Donovan. For the moment, she was obediently seated, but the steady thumping noise told Don she was very, very, excited. Her whines indicated her patience was running thin.

Desperate to avoid the experience from before, he struggled a few clearly annunciated words.

"Here. Down."

The same series of commands he used to get her to lay on the bed with him.

With enthusiasm, she laid down right up next to the left side of his body with her back to him. Her neck resting on his armpit, she was pushing her snout towards his own, attempting to lick him. The pressure she exerted, as with the beating of her tail against his leg, stung a bit, but it was far better than her putting her body weight on his chest.

To help satiate her desire for contact, he (begrudgingly) moved his left arm to slowly rub her chest.

Her days as a petite puppy were gone, while she may not be fully grown she was getting there. Her coat was fuller now, and he could feel her muscles beginning to develop. It was truly shocking how fast dogs grew.

He tried to open his eyes a little further, only to be met with further pain.

A lengthy period of time ensued as he waited for the painkillers to arrive, their presence denoted by the increasing volume of hurried footsteps.

"Here! Here they are!" The woman walked next to him, prompting a light growl from Mercedes. "Oh shut it. Now then, the band. It said something about a clasp, and a button I needed to press..."

Don could feel her fumble about with his band. It hurt a bit, but her hands were softer on his skin than Mercedes ignorant roughness.

It was still annoying that she could not figure out how to open it up.

"On one of the corners."

*click*

"Yellow cylinder, orientation irrelevant."

"Thank you."

A series of pops ensued.

"Done!"

In response, Don drew his left hand to his elbow as fast as he dared, slamming the cover back down and pressing the button that would release the relevant chemical.

"Pheew, gimme a minute."

He returned his arms to his sides, waiting for the chemical to spread throughout his body. The effects were close to immediate.

True to his word, the drug took full effect within a minute, almost fully dispersed throughout his body.

"Better." There was still a light sting, but he could move.

Kind of.

He was more than comfortable to take his time sitting up, much to Mercedes' displeasure. He rubbed his eyes in an attempt to clear his vision.

Still blurry.

It was like he was looking through wax paper.

He could vaguely make out Mercedes' black and brown on a . . . blue? Purple? Indigo background. The ceiling and walls where a bright white, and he could vaguely make out what looked like orange splotches here and there.

The one color that stood out to him the most was the golden hue that situated himself to his right.

Realizing that there was something seriously wrong at the moment, Donovan elected to shut his eyes again. He wasn't blind, for now, but he didn't know what would happen if he continued to strain himself.

It was at this point he seemed to remember that there was someone holding onto his hand.

Moving his left hand to Mercedes' head and squeezing the hand in his right, he formally greeted his caretaker.

"To whom do I owe the pleasure?"