Because in a blink of an eye, he's crushed to unforgiving steel by his throat and this thing is leaning over him like a living nightmare, like those things he'd seen through another Hugh's eyes a lifetime ago - not nearly so toothy, but just as malformed, just as aberrant. They'd had frosted over eyes like living death, bodies warped and pearly and melting in on themselves, forming into something horrid and new. This thing has the shape of a predator in every way imaginable, those eyes too alive. Too vivid, too flat, too pointed. Like blades.
Like teeth.
It's too fast. Caelan has something screaming in their veins, and Hugh has it in his spine as a whisper, a silky cool stop them stop them stop them that threatens the very well-being of this ship. His spores can't be contained, they coat half the ship by now. More. The air around them is thick with them in his panic, glittering faint in the light like a tapped toadstool. Ready to be breathed in and--
(He can't. They'll all go live at once. The whole ship. He doesn't have control like that, he'll - they'll all - he'd rather die--)
Hugh's foot is kicking absently at Caelan's chest, dragging panicked and animal at the space between them. Trying to get more. Room to breathe. He has to shut his eyes to fight down the terror at the fucking sight of them and twist his head, grab clumsily for the soft little body curled behind his ear. He hopes he doesn't hurt it in his panic. In his fight not to become something more and bring this ship to ruins the way they all expect of him, someday.
(Look at how the meat struggles as if it isn’t fruitless. As if it can escape.)
The air is heavy with that stench, that bone-deep shake of - a different kind of predator, maybe. One that sits and waits and spreads in patience instead of seizing their prey with their bare hands and twisting. Instead of feeling that last twitch as a sad little life comes to an inevitable end.
(And they could. Oh, they could. It would be so easy to, so simple, to snap the meat’s neck. To tear it off to get to the warm, red insides of it. It would be a gift, even, a mercy from the things plaguing it.
The Song sears through their fingers in hot temptation, in dark promise.
Just a taste, they think. Only a taste - )
Ca—ssius--
A flash of something hot like anger pierces through them at his name, clarity ripping through the heavy veil of the Song not a moment after.
He knows Cassius' name, comes the wild, protective thought. This not-quite human has gotten close enough to Cassius to know his name. What did he do with him, this scrawny, struggling thing?
(Because they know what people are like. Know the cruelty they are capable of. The lies, the traps, the apathy. And Cassius - their Cassius is so kind, so fucking kind and trusting. And Caelan - Caelan will carve open this guy's fucking skull if anything has happened to-)
Oh.
Their grip loosens around the man’s neck as the violence, the tension, bleeds out of them like slit throat. They let his back slide down the wall inches at a time until those sturdy boots of his find solid ground, because -
Because there, on his shaking fingers (like a white flag, like an offering, like a lifeline) is a small, soft body wriggling tiny, squishy legs. A smaller piece to a much larger puzzle. A single thread leading to something greater.
An anchor, no matter how small.
“Cassius,” said with all the warmth their voices (shrieking, laughing, bellowing, wailing) will allow. The Song is clawing at the edges of their senses, demanding and ruthless in their greed, but – they shove it away with renewed strength. Pin it down to where it’s just a whispered hum instead of chorus.
(They don’t release the man’s neck yet, no, still too wound in the Song for that, but – maybe their touch is gentler with their sudden softness. With the sudden comfort of home. Maybe their claws just a bit blunter, just a little more human.)
Caelan lifts a bony, sharp hand to the maggot, to Cassius, careful to offer more palm than sharp edges. He crawls into it willingly. Piles against their mockery of a nose when they lower it to him.
He smells – safe, their Cassius. Happy, even, despite the relief, the concern. He hasn’t been lonely in their absence, the comforting squirm of him bubbling across their senses like a balm. Relief feels like fiberglass across their skin, sharp in the way it loosens them.
(And it’s not just from the maggot, either. His smell is on the man, too, equally happy, equally safe. The realization causes their muscle to flutter, their mouth to fit just a few less teeth.)
Okay. Maybe it's not the best idea to get so - fighty. With this thing. This Hunter. But there's a funeral dirge for the entire ship thrumming in his bones and Hugh is nearly swallowed alive by it, barely holding it back by sheer conscious effort. Fighting so desperately to keep himself as - himself. The terror makes it so much worse. Harder. More tempting.
(He could make them all respect him. Listen. Make a home for Cassius that no one could threaten, with their stiff limbs and misty dead eyes, make a corpse of this ship and burrow himself right into the heart of it, imperious and powerful - could make them suffer for the indignities they've piled onto him - he could he could--)
The Hunter could be described no other way. All those voices, those sharp angles, those teeth. Cassius neglected to properly warn him of what he would walk into, but - why would he, when he loves this thing so much? When he doesn't feel that human, primal terror at the sight of it? (Them? It?) Not like Hugh, eyes squeezed shut and jaw clenched tight enough to ache. Head twisted to the side because the wet hot stink of blood on their breath is overwhelming.
(He flattened a hand to their breastbone, higher, and felt the threatening prickle of teeth where they shouldn't be.)
And isn’t that telling, how Cassius turns to them with that shiny little maggot head of his and tilts it expectantly. How he actually listens to the struggling man reeking of fear and a whole dumpster fire of other things. Must have done something big to have gotten into Cassius’ good graces so easily – it’s not even been a week.
They watch him for a moment longer. Smell the panicked struggle of that - other on him like a bad wound. It isn’t just him, either. It hangs heavy in the air now that they’re aware enough to drag it out from the rest of the stink. Their eyes sweep over his face, take in the pretty little thing caked into his hair and the glittery snarl.
Not quite human, not quite monster, but fighty all the same. Probably a good thing for him that Cassius was here, then. The Song would have had a field day.
(Would have enjoyed the taste.)
“Yeah, fine, Cas,” Caelan finally says, unable to keep the amusement (the shrieking, the guttural pain) from their tone as they peel their hand away from the guy’s neck, claws leaving shallow red lines on the way out. Not even enough to bleed, but Cassius gives them a wormy sort of look all the same.
They ignore it. Stick the wormy Cassius up upon their matted hair as they shake out the rest of the muscle. Feel it bubble back along with their spine and the rest of them.
“He been feeding you, Cas?” Caelan asks, the ends of their mouth at their ears now instead of their throat. A sniff gets them the faint scent of a squirming, regretful no. They’re not really surprised. Guy may have gotten on Cas’ good side, but he’s still just a guy. Maybe. Who the fuck knows anymore. “S’fine, got plenty right here.”
Here being the hollowed lump of meat folded over like a lawn chair. They squat down next to it, Cassius’ new friend all but forgotten as they reach down and twist off a finger like a flimsy twig. Offer it to the worm upon their head that crunches into it as gratefully as a chunky maggot can.
Might be a better idea to - to ask questions. Now. Lay out some ground rules, not that they'd fucking matter. Try to form some kind of understanding. Connection. Anything.
Not Hugh.
"Jesus Christ they do - do not pay me enough for this--"
He's fumbling with shaking hands for his jacket. For the pocket inside, the metal flask he keeps over his heart (in case someone decides to stab him, see, or shoot him, try to put him down like the sick animal he is), the one whose cap he drops with fumbling fingers and a mindless smear of obscenity before he leans bodily back into the wall with a thump he feels all the way in his teeth, tips his head back and necks the whole thing. Makes this stuff himself, see, out of potatoes or corn. This time it's corn, straight grain alcohol. Stronger stuff. He goes fucking blind for a good ten seconds afterwards from the sheer punch of it, vision fading off into pinpricks of white as he angles his useless eyes at the ceiling and waits for the world to filter back in.
(It's a relief not to have to look at them for a moment. That they're slightly more human-shaped when it does come back, sifting in like light through treetops.)
I'll drag the rest to you in a bit.
"You absolutely will not," Hugh says wetly, hot coals in his chest. Alcohol burn. Closes his eyes again, lets the unsteady haze of entirely too much liquor bleed into all his edges and make them soft. "Not like that. I'll - I'll get you a bag for it. Lord knows how I'll - how I'm going to explain you in the first place, and you're not going to get us all airlocked dragging half a sopping corpse through the halls like some goddamn hack of a horror movie monster. Hunter. C--god, what did he say your name was? Caelan?"
A sharp snap of his head upwards. His eyes are working again, sort of.
"Where is he?"
Where's the worm, he means. He hasn't been without that fat little grub for days, and its absence is very much felt.
Caelan turns their head just enough to peer at Cassius’ new mess of a friend out of the corner of their eye. Their lips pull up in a cocky, crooked thing.
“Caelan’s right,” they say, before looking up at the wiggling thing making its way down their bangs. They catch it in a palm when it lets go. Watch it right itself in a squirming somersault. “You gave him my first name, Cas? What else have you told him?”
A wriggling falter. Uncertainty if he’d done something wrong.
Caelan merely presses a light finger against his head. “Nah, don’t worry about it. Can’t change anything now.” A pointed glance to the garbage fire. “Not like they can do anything with it anyway. What’re they gonna do? Carry me to the airlock?”
(They’re really like to see them try.)
They stand up then, the bones in their spine becoming just a few less. By the time they’ve padded over to the guy and deposited worm Cassius on his shoulder, they look almost human. Almost. The eyes are still too yellow, their teeth too sharp, their fingers just a little too pointed.
Still wound up tight, isn’t he? They could probably do something about it – Cas isn’t doing anything to hide his worry.
“You sure you're in a state to get anything, booze boy?” Asked with the lazy confidence of something made to tear. Made to kill. Made to be annoying. A rocking step back, two. They finally reach up to wipe the blood off their mouth. It smears terribly, so they lick it off instead (don’t struggle, baby, you’re making this harder than it needs to be). “You look like you’re gonna dump your lunch on the floor if I touch this meat the wrong way. You really think you can stop me from dragging it along?”
A limp lift of his hand to gesture at Caelan's entirety, an equally lifeless flop down against his side. Hugh's leaning bodily into the wall now, eying Cas' worm - safe, thank God - and its newest ride, alcohol bleeding in and taking the edge off his senses like a fog of war. Derrick down there (the half that's left, anyway), he'd been spored up too. Hugh's never been this close when someone died. Didn't realize he could feel the microscopic flecks of himself die with them at this proximity. It's - odd.
Uncomfortable.
"I doubt anything on this goddamn ship sort of explosive decompression could stop that... display from before. Even myself." As if he's a tier higher than the rest of the ship (he is). As if he could pose any threat at all (he can't). Hugh's frames are crooked on his nose, the gold outline of them reflecting light in an angle across his face, bisecting it. It's not lost on him that Caelan could've done it quite literally had he not been toting a shred of Cassius as protection. It makes him edgy. Anxiety must be coming off him in waves, no matter his affected calm. "But each one of the ship's rooms on the exterior? They're detachable. Can be vented remotely. Considering Cassius is in one of them, I doubt you want to antagonize the higher-ups any more than I do."
And he doesn't. He really, really doesn't.
"These people are already on edge after... well. Me." Hugh stands, changes the plant of his feet like he's done this a hundred - a thousand times before, even. Dealt with his center of balance shifting so abruptly, blood alcohol content skyrocketing. "Just because you could drag a corpse down these halls doesn't mean you should, particularly with Cassius on the line. I won't let you threaten his safety."
That last bit is said stolidly. As if it's fact - as if he's Cassius' safeguard, now.
(As if Cassius isn't likely to just... replace him, now that the original article has made itself apparent. The superior one. Not some sad, drunken weird thing meant for patching holes, not filling them.
It's only understandable.)
"So you'll let me bring a bag." A little sigh. "And... try to come up with some sort of explanation. Tomorrow. God knows I'll be too far gone in an hour or two to bother with one tonight, but they'll wait. If we've a little subtlety."
Caelan pauses, a considering tilt to their head as they give him another long look over. One full of just as much weight as there was in his words.
(He is, of course, too late for that. Just by being near Cassius is Caelan a threat. Just by surviving day to day to day are they a fucking threat to him. And he lets them be a threat. Lets them sink their teeth in that pliant shell of his, lets them sharpen their claws on his worms. Would let them kill him, too, if he thought it necessary.
Never. Never. They’d rather die.)
He stinks of stress, that primal thing of a heartbeat still hammering double-time in his chest like out of sync drums. Knows he couldn’t take them, even with the weight he’s added to the air (gunpowder, almost, except instead of sparking heat and firing bullets, it’s meant for a different kind of killing altogether). Knows he couldn’t stop them if they were as tunnel-visioned as their Song wanted them to be.
But, oh. Oh, for all that he’d lose, he’s willing to step in the way of them anyway, if it meant keeping Cas safe. If it meant making them see reason. Booze Boy’s only known him a week (less than a week) and he's just as attached, isn’t he? To Cassius. Their Cassius. Their soft-spoken mass of sentient worms.
His now, too, apparently.
(They’ll address the fact that Cas is in a fucking cage later. The only mercy here seems to be that Cas knows it, too. That his life is being fucking leveraged for good behavior.
He won’t be there long. They’ll make sure of it. Cassius needs his Garden just as much as they need him.)
“Fine," Caelan says after a moment, when the silence stretches for a beat too long. Their eyes follow Cassius as he returns to Booze Boy’s ear and perches behind it like a pencil. Cute. “We'll do it your way. Get whatever you need. I’ll break the meat down.” A mercy on their part. They don't think he could stomach it - not like this. A thought, then, followed with, “On your way back – there’s a vent with claw marks in the piping. I left my bag there.”
They don’t ask for him to grab it. Don’t really feel the need to. Cassius will make sure he will.
Hugh helps the little Cassius up. Gives him a lift to where he's most comfortable, where he's warmest. Safest. Tries to calm his heart from its steady thrum now that he's not, you know, set to have to square off with this fucking nightmare creature to try to keep Cassius safe.
(He really, really wasn't going to win that one.)
"I'll look for it. Stay here, hopefully no one sees you. Not that it matters overmuch if they do." Hugh turns, trying to keep the quiver out of his hands, his walk as he paces off. "And stop tearing my ship to pieces. Who the hell do you think has to fix all these little messes you make? Scrape burnt skin off the piping? Lord god."
Hugh knows there's really no distance where they won't, almost certainly, know he totters off to vomit. Lose all that precious liquor before it can properly soak him through and numb him down to the core, but maybe that's a good thing - maybe that keeps him from getting too sauced before the inevitable confrontation. God, he's tired of confrontations. Diplomacy between beasts and monsters. It's only fair that he do it, he's got a foot on either side of the line, but still - but still. It's exhausting. It exhausts him.
(Raw, wet red. The smell of bile exposed to air, the shit-stink of pierced intestine. The way ratty, slimy Derrick had folded in on himself accordion-style when that thing (Caelan, it's Caelan) had dropped him, spine snapped and limbs crooked and broken. The way thick bone sounds when it snaps. Like a wet branch wrapped in towels.
What's left of Hugh in the human sense revolts. Turns his stomach raw until his lips burn with spent bile. He leaves the mess for someone else to deal with, ignores the thready squirm of something that twitches its way through the spackled blood.)
It's not hard to find the bag, with Cassius' help. Not hard to find his way to a spare room with their absolutely massive garbage bags, the ones they use to haul big shit off to the incinerators. Wraps one, billowing, under his arm like some sort of cloak as he rubs at the faint red lines on his throat, shakes grime off his jacket from the Hunter's touch. This thing will need washed. Or burned.
Five, maybe ten minutes before he's back with copper and bile on his breath. A raw stomach, a throat that turns his words glassy and hoarse. He tosses both bags at Caelan, leans back against the wall like simply being here causes him distress. So much blood. Hasn't seen this much since the LEERA biobooms back before they fled the planet, those - mindless things tearing people apart. Each other. Themselves.
Caelan watches him leave until he’s out of sight, out of earshot, even (another small mercy for the man who’s been keeping Cassius company, who’s been trying to keep him safe). Even lets the little comments go (said with a jitter, with the air of someone trying so hard to keep from spiraling) because, yeah, they’d gone in trying to needle at the guy, but -
I won't let you threaten his safety.
They really are grateful. That Cassius found someone else. Someone to keep him company, someone who isn’t… put off by who he is. What he is.
(Cassius hasn’t had a lot of that.)
So, when they’re sure that Booze Boy is out of crunch range, they turn to the body and start tearing – well. No. They take the boots off first, the miraculously blood free socks (man didn’t fucking do his laundry worth shit though), and set those to the side.
Then they get to tearing.
(When they were younger, so much younger, back when their hands weren’t stained with anything but bleeding markers and layers of food coloring, they’d found peace in – coloring. Can’t even remember what, now, just the colors gliding onto brand new pages between black lines. It had been rhythmic. Easy. Something to let your thoughts drift away as the body worked.
Breaking a body down is a little like that, in a way. Wetter, yes. Messier. But watching muscle and sinew snap strand by strand feels a bit like tearing out a page from a coloring book.)
They pile all of the meat’s limbs into the hollow of his chest. Close it off by tearing off the bottom half of his torso and flipping it over the top of the pile like some sort of fucked up meat sandwich.
(God, they could really use a shitty burger right about now. Something with more grease than patty.)
The bloods gone sticky thick on their arms by the time they’re done. They use the socks to mop up what will come off until all that’s left are flaking smears and angry, red stains.
Caelan smells the bile before they see Booze Boy return. Already has a hand out to catch their bag (lets the other one flutter limp to the ground), which they shuffle through to pull out a worn, stained hoodie that’s honestly holding up better than it has any right to (the pants, however, have been ruined for days now, left torn and attached to some sharp edge that had no business being inside of a vent).
“Mm,” Caelan replies, voice rumbling a little as they shrug into their hoodie like a second skin. Covers enough to border decent. “Did you?”
They don’t wait for an answer before leaning down to pick the trash bag up. Flap it out in a way they haven’t done since -
(“Caelan, did you forget to take out the trash again?”)
- well. Doesn’t matter, does it. They drape the thing over the meat like a gaping maw and scoop at it with little adjustments. End up just shoving the meat inside like a heathen. Ties the thing with fingers used to brute force and not delicate work. Plops it next to themselves, where it sags into itself.
They glance at Booze Boy with golden eyes. Consider him. (They’re supposed to be playing nice.)
Hugh doesn't answer that first question. Needs no answer, really, and they don't seem to be waiting on one. Can probably smell the mess on his breath as keenly as the mess they're packing into a bag like some giant wet meatball. He studies the piping above them while they work, desperate for anything else to look at - works through what he'll need to fix that mangled grating, the screws and soldering and little bits and pieces. The antiseptics he'll need. Mop off old blood, at least from the exterior.
(Hasn't had to do that sort of work since he was on dog duty. It's cold comfort to remember.)
"Hugh," he finally says, none of the usual arrogant pomp, and glances back to them. Warm gold eyes against cold glassy pale and a brown so dark it might as well be black, his mouth pulling into a line as he stands. "Cassius has taken to calling me - lord, I can't even remember. Not at this level of sobriety. Doctor, at the very least. But Hugh will work. Might earn you a few points with the rest of them, thinking we're--"
Friends? Allies?
(Wretched, inhuman conspirators set on destroying this ship from the inside?)
"--Civil."
He starts walking. Doesn't bother to see whether or not they'll follow - he knows they will. Can't help but follow that thread back to their Cassius. He does the same.
"Try not to rise to any bait. They're - they don't like us." A beat. "Inhumans. Monsters, whatever you please. Been a bit flighty ever since--"
A desperate, frail little wave of his hand.
"--well, call it an encounter a few months back. Half a year, maybe. Something greater than the two of us."
Caelan can’t help it. Can’t help the sharp, toothed thing bubbling out of their throat like gurgling blood. Not quite a laugh no, not with that grit to it, that sudden undertone of another thing’s interest, clawing at the cage so hard the hinges keep shaking loose.
“Humans have never fucking liked things like us,” they say, a bite to their words (but with no heat, like it’s just a fact. A guarantee). “Doesn’t take something greater than - what was it – a horror movie monster hack to get their blood rushing cold.”
And, yeah, maybe that stings a little. That the fucking Song was compared to some b-movie haha let’s laugh about it shit. That – compared to the source of all this weight hanging heavy in the air, they’re just... what. A rabbit? Something to be scared and chased and made to piss themselves? Something that can’t fucking kill a thing that just fucking sits there and waits?
Shit - they can feel more teeth forming in their mouth, that familiar uncomfortable stretch of it, the Song just grazing against their senses enough to pinch at their muscles. Can’t even feel irritation without the force that’s apparently lesser rearing its ugly head.
Fuck whatever it is that Hugh said, they hold onto the next hot pipe long enough to melt their fingers off.
(And come away from it with a beating, steady pulse instead of a wilder thing meant for a crowd.
They don’t apologize for the burning smell. Don’t apologize for doing what they have to to keep themselves together.)
When the fingers finally reform (blooming, bloodied meat, followed by too-tight skin), they flex their hand. Shove it into their pocket. Don’t bother making eye contact (if you’ve seen one man squeamish, you’ve seen them fucking all) as the worry-squirm smell hits their nose.
“M’fine, Cas.” He knows they’ve had worse. Will have worse still. “Just thinking about if this thing tastes like chicken is all.”
Hugh says nothing to their words. Nothing to the wet hiss of flesh on piping, nevermind how his shoulders jump and tense and stay tight long after Caelan catches back up. Hugh doesn't wait for them. Ignores the worried wriggle behind his ear as he gets further away, and rubs at his eyes once Caelan is a weight at his side again. His crooked frames go higher up on the bridge of his fingers, a steady thrum pulsing behind his eyes. A painful drumbeat.
"Well, it's floating around in space, so. Enjoy that."
It's always reaching for the thread that connects them, that tug at his hindbrain. A silvery thread that he doesn't try to cut - isn't sure he could cut, really. Even if he wanted to. If he tried. It's not far off even now, keeps pace with the Protogonos like an eager dog when it's able to stay in this universe. He thinks maybe he feels how curious it is about these new lifeforms that are so very much strange and other, sometimes.
(He ignores it.)
They're wading into the populated sections of the ship now. He's keenly aware of the stares, the panicked edge to the air when the first groups of lingering people see him leading this bloodtinged little thing (that is so very much not little when it wants to be) along into the ship's heart, dragging a wet, crumpled black bag behind it that makes such wet noises when it hits the ground.
"Remember - this is about getting to Cassius, not them."
They're not far out, now. An elevator ride and a little walk.
It's just getting there that'll be the problem, he thinks.
“Yeah, I know.” Said through too many teeth, grinding and grinding and grinding. No more pipes to melt skin on, not here with all those rabbity gazes fixated on them like they’re a bloodied parade. They’ve put their hood up, but they can still feel it.
The sensation makes them want to bite out, to say they don’t need the reminder because – because Hugh keeps treating them like an -
(Animal. Some rabid thing. Maybe they are.)
The Song is louder, so much louder, now that there’s a crowd. Now that there’s so much more than isolated halls and cramped vents. Their hand clenches just a little tighter around the bag, and yeah, maybe they do need the reminder, need to hear Cassius’ name to keep them going because -
(It’ll be okay, Mary, it’ll be okay – what are you doing with him – The Holts family, all gone. Followed Veronica out the airlock – shh, shh, shh, darling - we should get rid of them, they're not like us -
Tears and snot and screaming against worn vocal chords -
That scent they can feel in their bones -)
- because this’ll be the death of them, otherwise. Much easier to avoid all that too much when you’re in a city, when there’s space to filter out all those scars. Not here – not – in space. On a ship. With recycled air getting heavier and heavier and heavier with scars and wounds and death, so much death.
The headache behind their eyes beats to the rhythm of a song.
“Just… hurry.” Said worn thin, like skin stretched over too much meat. Like vocal chords after too much screaming. Like too many teeth inside too small a mouth. “It’s - ”
"They're contagious and you'll all catch it. Spew blood everywhere. Horrible way to go. Clear the path, rabble."
Hugh's voice cuts high and clear over the susurrous, traitorous noise. Where Caelan's voice goes worn and hoarse, his goes chesty, authoritative - no matter how they may feel about him, the people can't help but snap to attention at that sort of tone. Listen. And no matter how resentful they may be right now (rabble, they know he thinks he's better than them, so many of them resent him for it), no matter how they stare knives at him, how they want to toss both of them out of the airlock like it's going to save them--
Move, move. You'll catch it off them. You'll--
They'll move out of the fucking way is what they'll do. And they do. They clear a path and Hugh speeds up to a decent clip, forges ahead with a wary glance over his shoulder. A worried glance. Waits until they've broached the elevator and he's slammed his fist onto the button to shut the doors (shut them all out) that he turns, genuine concern in his tone.
"Holding up alright?"
He doesn't know much about this Song of theirs, sure. But he knows what it's like to struggle around people. To suffer under the weight of invisible things.
Nevermind their bloodiness, their monstrousness, their nakedness. Their danger. Hugh feels a kinship in this moment.
"Won't take us long now. You're halfway through the hard part, you know." A wry smile. A tired, small thing bitten with bile. "He'll be glad to see you. Never stops talking about you, you know. Sent me out after you."
It’s… better in the elevator. Not by much, no, but. Better. Not as many things clawing over each other to get at their senses. Not as many things to trigger the song. The teeth are still there, sure, so is the stretch of their mouth, but. It’s not growing, and that’s better than the alternative.
Caelan looks up at Hugh from under their hood, yellow eyes practically glowing from under the shadows there. They watch him for a beat, two, three, before dragging their eyes away to Cassius, his soft little body practically drenched in concern.
“...better now,” comes their reply, a gear grind against a mouth made to tear.
And they are better. Hugh – Caelan can see what Cassius sees in him. He smells like a dumpster fire, like sex and drugs and a desperation for – they don’t even know what, just that it’s there, but – he also smells… kind, maybe. Certainly trying to be, anyway, with how he’s trying to hold their attention. Trying to keep them from slipping any further.
(It’s working.)
They take in a long breath (shudder around phantom bodies painted in the walls), before their attention focuses back on Hugh, on the way that little laugh sounds vibrating up and out of his throat. On how the squirming worry hitches for a moment and softens into something worse.
(Hurt.)
“...don’t say shit like that,” they find themselves saying in a tone that can’t decide if it wants to be tired or annoyed. “Not with him right there. You’re hurting his feelings.”
Hurt his feelings? Hugh stops fast, feeling that squirm behind his ear falter. Still. Hugh reaches up, ghosts fingertips over the shell of his ear where the fat little body is unusually still. Passes his teeth over his lip.
"Only seems natural. I doubt you both want to stay here. You're suffering just being here, and he's--" A soft noise. Thoughtful. Maybe a bit sorrowful. "He deserves better than all this suspicion, I think. Deserves to - make that garden of his again, the one you... smell, or something. He never went into detail. Only said it would make it easier to find you."
Hugh folds his arms, leans back against the humming wall. Five or so levels to go up, now. This ship has dozens.
"Wouldn't you rather... I don't know. Find a ship that isn't so terribly traumatized like this one? I wouldn't blame you." The ghost of a fingertip over the worm behind his ear, a gentle touch. Careful. "Although I'd miss him. Terribly, at this point. He's quite the conversationalist. Far better company than I'm used to on this rotting bucket of bolts."
Hugh would die for many reasons. More on some days than others, especially the bad ones. Would stand against an army for Cassius. It would be selfish of him to demand they stay only to keep him company, to suit him rather than themselves. And sure, he's selfish enough.
There’s a lot there. A lot to what Hugh’s said that – well. If Caelan didn’t have reason to like him before, they certainly do now. (They really are grateful that Cassius found him. Found him instead of someone else)
Still, it doesn’t stop the snort from escaping them.
“Cas told you my name, but didn’t tell you about his Garden?” The thought knocks a few teeth out of their mouth, loosens their skin just a little. Their eyes slide over to Cassius’ worm, where the sheepishness drifts off of him like his shell never could embody. “Cassius.”
A little wormy twitch. They roll their eyes. Excited, yes, they’d figured.
“It doesn’t matter if we -” a pause “- jump ships or whatever. It’ll still be terrible because it’s the - fucking air here. It – holds onto you. Onto people. Doesn’t filter out the way it does back home. Probably because of the trees or something. The great outdoors.” A dismissive hand gesture that gets shoved back into their pocket. Any of your ships will get just as bad as this one with time.”
They tilt their head back, rest it against the wall as the overhead light hums through their teeth.
“Cas and I don’t have anyone else but each other. I’m too – dangerous for normal people, and Cas -” A sharp exhale through sharper teeth. “He’s tried. You’re the only one who’s stuck. I know you probably can’t see it – but he likes you. A lot. You've been making him happy. Even without the worm, I'd smell it on you.” Their hand clenches at their side. Unclenches just as quickly. Repeats a couple of times before remaining a fist. “I’m not gonna tear him away from you just because the Song is throwing a fucking tantrum –“
Nails through their palm. Blood down their fingers. The nip of it fades a moment after but it’s enough.
“When Cassius can access his Garden again, it won’t matter how traumatized this place is. Until then, I’ll deal, just like I’ve always done.” A flash of yellow, looking at him over their nose. “Just might mean more skin pipes in the future, though. So – sorry. About that.”
Ding. Here's their floor. Hugh lifts off the steel side like he's already exhausted, sighing thinly through his teeth. Preparing himself. As much of a nightmare as Caelan had started, now they're almost... calming, oddly enough? Calming-ish. They understand, they get it. What too much is like. And as caustic and wild and dangerous as he'd expected them to be, now they're just some... what, barely not fitting the term kid? Some young, short thing walking around with their ass out if it weren't for the cover of that hoodie, chatting with him more easily than anyone else minus Cassius has in ages. And Cassius, bless him, does not talk like a normal person. Doesn't have quite the same banter of two people raised as humans and made into something else later on.
He's relaxed, ever so slightly. The tension in his shoulders eases bit by bit.
"This... Garden, of his. What would it take to make it happen here? We have a vivarium - sort of short on the viva aside from crops and plants and whatnot, we don't farm animals on this ship in particular. But it's as close to a garden as any you'll find here."
The doors slide open. Hugh steps out with that iron in his spine again, the exhaustion melting off of him a bit. Chipping at its edges, anyway. He carves himself into something broad and tall and respectable as he takes point, nothing short of total confidence in his steps. As if Caelan belongs here. As if they have no reason at all to question him, what he's doing.
(Fake it 'til you make it. Never failed him before, for the most part.)
"Clancy - let the Captain know I've found the Hunter," he drawls to a man in passing, doesn't spare him a glance as he does. The man shoots Caelan a furtive glance that drops the minute it's met, the rest of him already inching backwards. "I'm sure he'll alert the rest of the headaches. Set up a little party for me to explain myself. Et cetera. Wouldn't want to keep them waiting, would we?"
One turn, two. There are people gawking at Cassius through the window as always, as if he's some sort of zoo attraction - they balk the moment they see Hugh, as usual, and moreso at the figure trailing behind him with a wet black garbage bag. They fall away like flies. At least they know when they aren't wanted.
Hugh punches in the code to the door. Stands aside. Tilts his head at the opening door with a meaningful look to Caelan.
"Go on."
Hugh knows the value of privacy. He'll be in when they're ready for him.
“Dirt and space, probably,” comes Caelan’s answer, just a little lower, a little rougher now that they’re outside of the elevator. “Cassius would know the dimensions better than I would. Probably be best tucked up against – whatever those useless things in walls are – recesses?”
If they get an answer, they don’t hear it. Not when they catch Cassius’ scent, his whole scent, not just a piece of a bigger puzzle. He’s squirming loud, so loud, the happy writhing of him rippling through the air like open arms. They almost let the bag go in their focus, but – no. Cas still needs to eat, still needs to -
They turn the corner, two, and he’s -
God. Pressed up against the glass in his eagerness, his skin writhing with all that pent up emotion his face is stiff to show. Usually, anyway. He’s got a small curve to his lips, their Cassius, and – yeah. Yeah, they’re just as happy to see him too.
(it’s been way too fucking long)
The rabbits (fucking bug-eyed things, looking at Cassius like they’re at the circus and he’s center clown), scatter when they approach, when they see their mouth stretched to show too much white.
Go on, Hugh says, and god, it’s a fucking fight to stop at the door. To give him that glance followed by a muttered thank you that curls so warm at their lips – and then they’re taking too-long strides, Hugh all but forgotten as they pile into Cassius’ waiting arms like they belong there. Like they were made for it.
His shell caves a little under the force of their hug, but he doesn’t complain, he never complains, and – the tension leaks out of them as he sinks around them, seams splitting in places to encompass them in a way they have missed, the mass of him circling tight and steady and kneading at them right to the bones.
“I have missed you, Hunter,” Cassius murmurs into their ear, the drone of him drowning out the beats of the song. Wiping away the last of their teeth.
They bury their face into his neck. Inhale the comfort of home.
Hugh waits a good half-minute or so. Gives them time that he spends sending pointed looks at anyone who might think to stare, to intrude, stance squared until they slink off under the chill of his mismatched eyes. He's run them all off before long, no doubt scurrying off to tattle. To gossip. To talk about how the ship's token freak found another one, fuck, why do they let him keep doing that shit? Captain's gotta be going senile, oughta find someone who'd actually deal with it, they should--
They should fuck off. And they do.
Hugh's steps into the room itself are slow, languorous. Easy. His words, when they come, are just shy of outright cockiness.
"Told you I'd find them." He's got Cassius' worm on his hand now, letting it work its way across his knuckles like rolling a particularly slow, fat quarter. "Could've warned me about all the teeth. Might've taken a few years off my life with that scare, you know."
He's teasing, tries to communicate as much with the raised brow and the curve of his mouth.
"They'll want my neck for this one. Fortunate for me that I've got the two of you here to make sure it stays in place, aren't I?"
It's not extortion or a demand. His tone is too light, too conspiratorial for that.
“But Doctor Hugh,” hums up Cassius’ voice against their ear as they keep themselves molded to him, let him work all their muscles loose, “I did tell you about the Hunter’s teeth, did I not? When you had asked if the Hunter was like you and I, and I had said -”
“He was making a joke, Cas,” Caelan cuts in lazily, voice just as melty as the rest of them. They really don’t want to know the type of horror movie poetry Cassius has been sprouting about them while they weren’t there. Don’t need the reminder, even. Not when they’ve just calmed down.
He makes a sharp little hiccup of a squirm at that. Changes course as easily as they change skin. Focuses on what Hugh says next with an intensity that burns in Caelan’s nose.
“They will not have your neck, Doctor Hugh,” Cassius agrees, and Caelan finally pulls themselves away from him so that they can face Hugh, too. “Your neck belongs to you and you alone. If the ones up higher wish to change this, they will have to go through the Hunter and myself first.”
Telling, isn’t it, that Caelan doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even remind Cassius that rabbits are off limits.
(There are exceptions to every rule. Fucking with their family is one of them.)
“They touch you and they’ll be missing fingers,” comes their response, languid and easy. For Cassius, of course. Hugh makes him happy, and that means everything. (And maybe they kinda sorta like him, too. Fuck if they’ll say it out loud though.)
They peel themselves from Cassius entirely, then, and he lets them go with only the slightest reluctance, knowing not to push. Moves over to Hugh and soaks up his body heat instead, arm against arm, his head against Hugh’s shoulder like he’s done it before.
Caelan doesn’t comment at it, just rolls their eyes and leans down to pick up the sack. Drops it off on the bed, where Cas’ smell has gathered in a thick, squiggling mass. Clever, isn't he?
“So, what’s the game plan, then?” they ask, before pausing and eyeing Hugh over their shoulder. “You should probably look away. Or cover your ears or something.”
Hugh's turned himself a bit, angled so that anyone brave enough to try to stare through the glass won't see the way his arm snakes up Cassius' back, petting absent through his hair the way he's always liked himself. Steady, long pulls over what passes for his scalp, blunt grease-darkened nails scraping ever so slightly on the way back down. Petting.
"I suppose we have two options. One is that I go alone, negotiate - make it clear that a lack of cooperation could very well be incongruous with, ah. Life. For all of us. That the two of you could be a benefit to this ship at the very least. I'm not certain what you could possibly offer, but there you go." A hum. "The second is that I wait here, and negotiations happen with all of us present. Highly risky. Could end in a bloodbath, depending on the players."
He only just refrains from glancing at Caelan. Yes, he means you. Keeps his stare even for a moment.
"And I'll do no such thing. This is as much a part of knowing Cassius as any." A little huff. "Trust me when I say that I've seen worse. It's just... blood. Is new. YS was never so outwardly gory about it."
Caelan watches Hugh from the corner of their eye for a long moment at that. Watches the way Cassius’s form sags just a little against him under those fingers, skin trembling in the equivalent of a wormy sort of purr. Guy can’t stomach seeing a hollowed out corpse drop from a vent, but is all too willing to watch Cas eat. All because it’s who he is. Who he can’t help but be.
(God. Maybe Hugh is worming his way into their heart, too. No wonder it took less than a fucking week.)
“Mn, alright,” comes their neutral answer. They don’t bother dumping the remains out – another mercy in the form of baby steps. They do, however, untie the thing and let the mouth of it drop wet and leaking onto the mattress. “Don’t eat the bag, Cas. Plastic’s not good for you.”
“Of course, Hunter,” patiently said, followed by a louder hum of squirming as the worms chew through the mattress in their haste to get to the meat. Been busy, hasn’t he? Almost enough of them to fill up an extra pair of legs. Suppose he’s had the time to, not like Hugh could entertain him all hours of the day.
Caelan watches as the mass piles into the bag, hears the squishing wet thing that indicates he’s eating. The scraping of tiny mouths against bone. The bag undulates as he works, leaks through accidental holes in their eagerness.
They pull their eyes away. Shove their hands into their hoodie.
“You said two options,” they start, half-turning in their direction, “but one’s shit and the other’s – yeah. Risky.” A thumb tossed over their shoulder at the bag. “Especially if they’re anything like that guy’d been. Going alone’s not better though. Can’t really keep them from wringing your neck if we’re not there, and we know how that’d end.”
A lot of people dead, and not just from their teeth. Not just from them.
A dismissive gesture. “So. I stay here, and you take Cas. If they feel skittish, they vent me, and we’ll all find out together if it’ll be the thing that kills me.”
A short stop. Hugh's - okay, yeah, the sounds aren't great, but he's trying to tune it out in favor of Caelan now. (Not looking at the bag as it undulates and writhes with all those hungry little bodies helps.) In favor of turning, fitting them with a lingering look. Searching. Uncertain, despite himself.
Worried, maybe.
"...Understand. It's as good a plan as any." Hugh rocks on the balls of his feet, on his heels. Shifts his weight from one to the other, the hand that isn't petting at Cassius tensing absently at his side. "If you--"
A pause. His voice lowers.
"If you do end up out there, I've installed patches across the hull. Flimsy things. You'll know them on sight. They'll..." A sigh. "They'll let you back in. At a cost of whoever's nearby at the time. Although I desperately hope it doesn't come to that."
He swore to protect this ship and its people. That this was his magnum opus, this bucket of bolts and irritable bastards - his life's work, his legacy. That nothing would come first. And now--
"You're needed here."
(Now he's letting something else come first, isn't he. Himself, again. The things he wants. These creatures that make him feel like he has a home in someone else, for the first time since he left Earth. Before then.
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Hugh wonders how he would even have the chance.
Because in a blink of an eye, he's crushed to unforgiving steel by his throat and this thing is leaning over him like a living nightmare, like those things he'd seen through another Hugh's eyes a lifetime ago - not nearly so toothy, but just as malformed, just as aberrant. They'd had frosted over eyes like living death, bodies warped and pearly and melting in on themselves, forming into something horrid and new. This thing has the shape of a predator in every way imaginable, those eyes too alive. Too vivid, too flat, too pointed. Like blades.
Like teeth.
It's too fast. Caelan has something screaming in their veins, and Hugh has it in his spine as a whisper, a silky cool stop them stop them stop them that threatens the very well-being of this ship. His spores can't be contained, they coat half the ship by now. More. The air around them is thick with them in his panic, glittering faint in the light like a tapped toadstool. Ready to be breathed in and--
(He can't. They'll all go live at once. The whole ship. He doesn't have control like that, he'll - they'll all - he'd rather die--)
Hugh's foot is kicking absently at Caelan's chest, dragging panicked and animal at the space between them. Trying to get more. Room to breathe. He has to shut his eyes to fight down the terror at the fucking sight of them and twist his head, grab clumsily for the soft little body curled behind his ear. He hopes he doesn't hurt it in his panic. In his fight not to become something more and bring this ship to ruins the way they all expect of him, someday.
"Ca--ssius--"
Help.
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(Look at how the meat struggles as if it isn’t fruitless. As if it can escape.)
The air is heavy with that stench, that bone-deep shake of - a different kind of predator, maybe. One that sits and waits and spreads in patience instead of seizing their prey with their bare hands and twisting. Instead of feeling that last twitch as a sad little life comes to an inevitable end.
(And they could. Oh, they could. It would be so easy to, so simple, to snap the meat’s neck. To tear it off to get to the warm, red insides of it. It would be a gift, even, a mercy from the things plaguing it.
The Song sears through their fingers in hot temptation, in dark promise.
Just a taste, they think. Only a taste - )
Ca—ssius--
A flash of something hot like anger pierces through them at his name, clarity ripping through the heavy veil of the Song not a moment after.
He knows Cassius' name, comes the wild, protective thought. This not-quite human has gotten close enough to Cassius to know his name. What did he do with him, this scrawny, struggling thing?
(Because they know what people are like. Know the cruelty they are capable of. The lies, the traps, the apathy. And Cassius - their Cassius is so kind, so fucking kind and trusting. And Caelan - Caelan will carve open this guy's fucking skull if anything has happened to-)
Oh.
Their grip loosens around the man’s neck as the violence, the tension, bleeds out of them like slit throat. They let his back slide down the wall inches at a time until those sturdy boots of his find solid ground, because -
Because there, on his shaking fingers (like a white flag, like an offering, like a lifeline) is a small, soft body wriggling tiny, squishy legs. A smaller piece to a much larger puzzle. A single thread leading to something greater.
An anchor, no matter how small.
“Cassius,” said with all the warmth their voices (shrieking, laughing, bellowing, wailing) will allow. The Song is clawing at the edges of their senses, demanding and ruthless in their greed, but – they shove it away with renewed strength. Pin it down to where it’s just a whispered hum instead of chorus.
(They don’t release the man’s neck yet, no, still too wound in the Song for that, but – maybe their touch is gentler with their sudden softness. With the sudden comfort of home. Maybe their claws just a bit blunter, just a little more human.)
Caelan lifts a bony, sharp hand to the maggot, to Cassius, careful to offer more palm than sharp edges. He crawls into it willingly. Piles against their mockery of a nose when they lower it to him.
He smells – safe, their Cassius. Happy, even, despite the relief, the concern. He hasn’t been lonely in their absence, the comforting squirm of him bubbling across their senses like a balm. Relief feels like fiberglass across their skin, sharp in the way it loosens them.
(And it’s not just from the maggot, either. His smell is on the man, too, equally happy, equally safe. The realization causes their muscle to flutter, their mouth to fit just a few less teeth.)
“You’ve found a friend.”
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Okay. Maybe it's not the best idea to get so - fighty. With this thing. This Hunter. But there's a funeral dirge for the entire ship thrumming in his bones and Hugh is nearly swallowed alive by it, barely holding it back by sheer conscious effort. Fighting so desperately to keep himself as - himself. The terror makes it so much worse. Harder. More tempting.
(He could make them all respect him. Listen. Make a home for Cassius that no one could threaten, with their stiff limbs and misty dead eyes, make a corpse of this ship and burrow himself right into the heart of it, imperious and powerful - could make them suffer for the indignities they've piled onto him - he could he could--)
The Hunter could be described no other way. All those voices, those sharp angles, those teeth. Cassius neglected to properly warn him of what he would walk into, but - why would he, when he loves this thing so much? When he doesn't feel that human, primal terror at the sight of it? (Them? It?) Not like Hugh, eyes squeezed shut and jaw clenched tight enough to ache. Head twisted to the side because the wet hot stink of blood on their breath is overwhelming.
(He flattened a hand to their breastbone, higher, and felt the threatening prickle of teeth where they shouldn't be.)
"Cassius make them - stop--"
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And isn’t that telling, how Cassius turns to them with that shiny little maggot head of his and tilts it expectantly. How he actually listens to the struggling man reeking of fear and a whole dumpster fire of other things. Must have done something big to have gotten into Cassius’ good graces so easily – it’s not even been a week.
They watch him for a moment longer. Smell the panicked struggle of that - other on him like a bad wound. It isn’t just him, either. It hangs heavy in the air now that they’re aware enough to drag it out from the rest of the stink. Their eyes sweep over his face, take in the pretty little thing caked into his hair and the glittery snarl.
Not quite human, not quite monster, but fighty all the same. Probably a good thing for him that Cassius was here, then. The Song would have had a field day.
(Would have enjoyed the taste.)
“Yeah, fine, Cas,” Caelan finally says, unable to keep the amusement (the shrieking, the guttural pain) from their tone as they peel their hand away from the guy’s neck, claws leaving shallow red lines on the way out. Not even enough to bleed, but Cassius gives them a wormy sort of look all the same.
They ignore it. Stick the wormy Cassius up upon their matted hair as they shake out the rest of the muscle. Feel it bubble back along with their spine and the rest of them.
“He been feeding you, Cas?” Caelan asks, the ends of their mouth at their ears now instead of their throat. A sniff gets them the faint scent of a squirming, regretful no. They’re not really surprised. Guy may have gotten on Cas’ good side, but he’s still just a guy. Maybe. Who the fuck knows anymore. “S’fine, got plenty right here.”
Here being the hollowed lump of meat folded over like a lawn chair. They squat down next to it, Cassius’ new friend all but forgotten as they reach down and twist off a finger like a flimsy twig. Offer it to the worm upon their head that crunches into it as gratefully as a chunky maggot can.
“I’ll drag the rest to you in a bit.”
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Not Hugh.
"Jesus Christ they do - do not pay me enough for this--"
He's fumbling with shaking hands for his jacket. For the pocket inside, the metal flask he keeps over his heart (in case someone decides to stab him, see, or shoot him, try to put him down like the sick animal he is), the one whose cap he drops with fumbling fingers and a mindless smear of obscenity before he leans bodily back into the wall with a thump he feels all the way in his teeth, tips his head back and necks the whole thing. Makes this stuff himself, see, out of potatoes or corn. This time it's corn, straight grain alcohol. Stronger stuff. He goes fucking blind for a good ten seconds afterwards from the sheer punch of it, vision fading off into pinpricks of white as he angles his useless eyes at the ceiling and waits for the world to filter back in.
(It's a relief not to have to look at them for a moment. That they're slightly more human-shaped when it does come back, sifting in like light through treetops.)
I'll drag the rest to you in a bit.
"You absolutely will not," Hugh says wetly, hot coals in his chest. Alcohol burn. Closes his eyes again, lets the unsteady haze of entirely too much liquor bleed into all his edges and make them soft. "Not like that. I'll - I'll get you a bag for it. Lord knows how I'll - how I'm going to explain you in the first place, and you're not going to get us all airlocked dragging half a sopping corpse through the halls like some goddamn hack of a horror movie monster. Hunter. C--god, what did he say your name was? Caelan?"
A sharp snap of his head upwards. His eyes are working again, sort of.
"Where is he?"
Where's the worm, he means. He hasn't been without that fat little grub for days, and its absence is very much felt.
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Caelan turns their head just enough to peer at Cassius’ new mess of a friend out of the corner of their eye. Their lips pull up in a cocky, crooked thing.
“Caelan’s right,” they say, before looking up at the wiggling thing making its way down their bangs. They catch it in a palm when it lets go. Watch it right itself in a squirming somersault. “You gave him my first name, Cas? What else have you told him?”
A wriggling falter. Uncertainty if he’d done something wrong.
Caelan merely presses a light finger against his head. “Nah, don’t worry about it. Can’t change anything now.” A pointed glance to the garbage fire. “Not like they can do anything with it anyway. What’re they gonna do? Carry me to the airlock?”
(They’re really like to see them try.)
They stand up then, the bones in their spine becoming just a few less. By the time they’ve padded over to the guy and deposited worm Cassius on his shoulder, they look almost human. Almost. The eyes are still too yellow, their teeth too sharp, their fingers just a little too pointed.
Still wound up tight, isn’t he? They could probably do something about it – Cas isn’t doing anything to hide his worry.
“You sure you're in a state to get anything, booze boy?” Asked with the lazy confidence of something made to tear. Made to kill. Made to be annoying. A rocking step back, two. They finally reach up to wipe the blood off their mouth. It smears terribly, so they lick it off instead (don’t struggle, baby, you’re making this harder than it needs to be). “You look like you’re gonna dump your lunch on the floor if I touch this meat the wrong way. You really think you can stop me from dragging it along?”
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A limp lift of his hand to gesture at Caelan's entirety, an equally lifeless flop down against his side. Hugh's leaning bodily into the wall now, eying Cas' worm - safe, thank God - and its newest ride, alcohol bleeding in and taking the edge off his senses like a fog of war. Derrick down there (the half that's left, anyway), he'd been spored up too. Hugh's never been this close when someone died. Didn't realize he could feel the microscopic flecks of himself die with them at this proximity. It's - odd.
Uncomfortable.
"I doubt anything on this goddamn ship sort of explosive decompression could stop that... display from before. Even myself." As if he's a tier higher than the rest of the ship (he is). As if he could pose any threat at all (he can't). Hugh's frames are crooked on his nose, the gold outline of them reflecting light in an angle across his face, bisecting it. It's not lost on him that Caelan could've done it quite literally had he not been toting a shred of Cassius as protection. It makes him edgy. Anxiety must be coming off him in waves, no matter his affected calm. "But each one of the ship's rooms on the exterior? They're detachable. Can be vented remotely. Considering Cassius is in one of them, I doubt you want to antagonize the higher-ups any more than I do."
And he doesn't. He really, really doesn't.
"These people are already on edge after... well. Me." Hugh stands, changes the plant of his feet like he's done this a hundred - a thousand times before, even. Dealt with his center of balance shifting so abruptly, blood alcohol content skyrocketing. "Just because you could drag a corpse down these halls doesn't mean you should, particularly with Cassius on the line. I won't let you threaten his safety."
That last bit is said stolidly. As if it's fact - as if he's Cassius' safeguard, now.
(As if Cassius isn't likely to just... replace him, now that the original article has made itself apparent. The superior one. Not some sad, drunken weird thing meant for patching holes, not filling them.
It's only understandable.)
"So you'll let me bring a bag." A little sigh. "And... try to come up with some sort of explanation. Tomorrow. God knows I'll be too far gone in an hour or two to bother with one tonight, but they'll wait. If we've a little subtlety."
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No wonder Cassius likes him.
Caelan pauses, a considering tilt to their head as they give him another long look over. One full of just as much weight as there was in his words.
(He is, of course, too late for that. Just by being near Cassius is Caelan a threat. Just by surviving day to day to day are they a fucking threat to him. And he lets them be a threat. Lets them sink their teeth in that pliant shell of his, lets them sharpen their claws on his worms. Would let them kill him, too, if he thought it necessary.
Never. Never. They’d rather die.)
He stinks of stress, that primal thing of a heartbeat still hammering double-time in his chest like out of sync drums. Knows he couldn’t take them, even with the weight he’s added to the air (gunpowder, almost, except instead of sparking heat and firing bullets, it’s meant for a different kind of killing altogether). Knows he couldn’t stop them if they were as tunnel-visioned as their Song wanted them to be.
But, oh. Oh, for all that he’d lose, he’s willing to step in the way of them anyway, if it meant keeping Cas safe. If it meant making them see reason. Booze Boy’s only known him a week (less than a week) and he's just as attached, isn’t he? To Cassius. Their Cassius. Their soft-spoken mass of sentient worms.
His now, too, apparently.
(They’ll address the fact that Cas is in a fucking cage later. The only mercy here seems to be that Cas knows it, too. That his life is being fucking leveraged for good behavior.
He won’t be there long. They’ll make sure of it. Cassius needs his Garden just as much as they need him.)
“Fine," Caelan says after a moment, when the silence stretches for a beat too long. Their eyes follow Cassius as he returns to Booze Boy’s ear and perches behind it like a pencil. Cute. “We'll do it your way. Get whatever you need. I’ll break the meat down.” A mercy on their part. They don't think he could stomach it - not like this. A thought, then, followed with, “On your way back – there’s a vent with claw marks in the piping. I left my bag there.”
They don’t ask for him to grab it. Don’t really feel the need to. Cassius will make sure he will.
(Cassius has always been too good for them.)
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(He really, really wasn't going to win that one.)
"I'll look for it. Stay here, hopefully no one sees you. Not that it matters overmuch if they do." Hugh turns, trying to keep the quiver out of his hands, his walk as he paces off. "And stop tearing my ship to pieces. Who the hell do you think has to fix all these little messes you make? Scrape burnt skin off the piping? Lord god."
Hugh knows there's really no distance where they won't, almost certainly, know he totters off to vomit. Lose all that precious liquor before it can properly soak him through and numb him down to the core, but maybe that's a good thing - maybe that keeps him from getting too sauced before the inevitable confrontation. God, he's tired of confrontations. Diplomacy between beasts and monsters. It's only fair that he do it, he's got a foot on either side of the line, but still - but still. It's exhausting. It exhausts him.
(Raw, wet red. The smell of bile exposed to air, the shit-stink of pierced intestine. The way ratty, slimy Derrick had folded in on himself accordion-style when that thing (Caelan, it's Caelan) had dropped him, spine snapped and limbs crooked and broken. The way thick bone sounds when it snaps. Like a wet branch wrapped in towels.
What's left of Hugh in the human sense revolts. Turns his stomach raw until his lips burn with spent bile. He leaves the mess for someone else to deal with, ignores the thready squirm of something that twitches its way through the spackled blood.)
It's not hard to find the bag, with Cassius' help. Not hard to find his way to a spare room with their absolutely massive garbage bags, the ones they use to haul big shit off to the incinerators. Wraps one, billowing, under his arm like some sort of cloak as he rubs at the faint red lines on his throat, shakes grime off his jacket from the Hunter's touch. This thing will need washed. Or burned.
Five, maybe ten minutes before he's back with copper and bile on his breath. A raw stomach, a throat that turns his words glassy and hoarse. He tosses both bags at Caelan, leans back against the wall like simply being here causes him distress. So much blood. Hasn't seen this much since the LEERA biobooms back before they fled the planet, those - mindless things tearing people apart. Each other. Themselves.
"Have fun?"
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I won't let you threaten his safety.
They really are grateful. That Cassius found someone else. Someone to keep him company, someone who isn’t… put off by who he is. What he is.
(Cassius hasn’t had a lot of that.)
So, when they’re sure that Booze Boy is out of crunch range, they turn to the body and start tearing – well. No. They take the boots off first, the miraculously blood free socks (man didn’t fucking do his laundry worth shit though), and set those to the side.
Then they get to tearing.
(When they were younger, so much younger, back when their hands weren’t stained with anything but bleeding markers and layers of food coloring, they’d found peace in – coloring. Can’t even remember what, now, just the colors gliding onto brand new pages between black lines. It had been rhythmic. Easy. Something to let your thoughts drift away as the body worked.
Breaking a body down is a little like that, in a way. Wetter, yes. Messier. But watching muscle and sinew snap strand by strand feels a bit like tearing out a page from a coloring book.)
They pile all of the meat’s limbs into the hollow of his chest. Close it off by tearing off the bottom half of his torso and flipping it over the top of the pile like some sort of fucked up meat sandwich.
(God, they could really use a shitty burger right about now. Something with more grease than patty.)
The bloods gone sticky thick on their arms by the time they’re done. They use the socks to mop up what will come off until all that’s left are flaking smears and angry, red stains.
Caelan smells the bile before they see Booze Boy return. Already has a hand out to catch their bag (lets the other one flutter limp to the ground), which they shuffle through to pull out a worn, stained hoodie that’s honestly holding up better than it has any right to (the pants, however, have been ruined for days now, left torn and attached to some sharp edge that had no business being inside of a vent).
“Mm,” Caelan replies, voice rumbling a little as they shrug into their hoodie like a second skin. Covers enough to border decent. “Did you?”
They don’t wait for an answer before leaning down to pick the trash bag up. Flap it out in a way they haven’t done since -
(“Caelan, did you forget to take out the trash again?”)
- well. Doesn’t matter, does it. They drape the thing over the meat like a gaping maw and scoop at it with little adjustments. End up just shoving the meat inside like a heathen. Ties the thing with fingers used to brute force and not delicate work. Plops it next to themselves, where it sags into itself.
They glance at Booze Boy with golden eyes. Consider him. (They’re supposed to be playing nice.)
“What am I supposed to call you?”
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(Hasn't had to do that sort of work since he was on dog duty. It's cold comfort to remember.)
"Hugh," he finally says, none of the usual arrogant pomp, and glances back to them. Warm gold eyes against cold glassy pale and a brown so dark it might as well be black, his mouth pulling into a line as he stands. "Cassius has taken to calling me - lord, I can't even remember. Not at this level of sobriety. Doctor, at the very least. But Hugh will work. Might earn you a few points with the rest of them, thinking we're--"
Friends? Allies?
(Wretched, inhuman conspirators set on destroying this ship from the inside?)
"--Civil."
He starts walking. Doesn't bother to see whether or not they'll follow - he knows they will. Can't help but follow that thread back to their Cassius. He does the same.
"Try not to rise to any bait. They're - they don't like us." A beat. "Inhumans. Monsters, whatever you please. Been a bit flighty ever since--"
A desperate, frail little wave of his hand.
"--well, call it an encounter a few months back. Half a year, maybe. Something greater than the two of us."
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Caelan can’t help it. Can’t help the sharp, toothed thing bubbling out of their throat like gurgling blood. Not quite a laugh no, not with that grit to it, that sudden undertone of another thing’s interest, clawing at the cage so hard the hinges keep shaking loose.
“Humans have never fucking liked things like us,” they say, a bite to their words (but with no heat, like it’s just a fact. A guarantee). “Doesn’t take something greater than - what was it – a horror movie monster hack to get their blood rushing cold.”
And, yeah, maybe that stings a little. That the fucking Song was compared to some b-movie haha let’s laugh about it shit. That – compared to the source of all this weight hanging heavy in the air, they’re just... what. A rabbit? Something to be scared and chased and made to piss themselves? Something that can’t fucking kill a thing that just fucking sits there and waits?
Shit - they can feel more teeth forming in their mouth, that familiar uncomfortable stretch of it, the Song just grazing against their senses enough to pinch at their muscles. Can’t even feel irritation without the force that’s apparently lesser rearing its ugly head.
Fuck whatever it is that Hugh said, they hold onto the next hot pipe long enough to melt their fingers off.
(And come away from it with a beating, steady pulse instead of a wilder thing meant for a crowd.
They don’t apologize for the burning smell. Don’t apologize for doing what they have to to keep themselves together.)
When the fingers finally reform (blooming, bloodied meat, followed by too-tight skin), they flex their hand. Shove it into their pocket. Don’t bother making eye contact (if you’ve seen one man squeamish, you’ve seen them fucking all) as the worry-squirm smell hits their nose.
“M’fine, Cas.” He knows they’ve had worse. Will have worse still. “Just thinking about if this thing tastes like chicken is all.”
(It sounds like a lie, even to them.)
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"Well, it's floating around in space, so. Enjoy that."
It's always reaching for the thread that connects them, that tug at his hindbrain. A silvery thread that he doesn't try to cut - isn't sure he could cut, really. Even if he wanted to. If he tried. It's not far off even now, keeps pace with the Protogonos like an eager dog when it's able to stay in this universe. He thinks maybe he feels how curious it is about these new lifeforms that are so very much strange and other, sometimes.
(He ignores it.)
They're wading into the populated sections of the ship now. He's keenly aware of the stares, the panicked edge to the air when the first groups of lingering people see him leading this bloodtinged little thing (that is so very much not little when it wants to be) along into the ship's heart, dragging a wet, crumpled black bag behind it that makes such wet noises when it hits the ground.
"Remember - this is about getting to Cassius, not them."
They're not far out, now. An elevator ride and a little walk.
It's just getting there that'll be the problem, he thinks.
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The sensation makes them want to bite out, to say they don’t need the reminder because – because Hugh keeps treating them like an -
(Animal. Some rabid thing. Maybe they are.)
The Song is louder, so much louder, now that there’s a crowd. Now that there’s so much more than isolated halls and cramped vents. Their hand clenches just a little tighter around the bag, and yeah, maybe they do need the reminder, need to hear Cassius’ name to keep them going because -
(It’ll be okay, Mary, it’ll be okay – what are you doing with him – The Holts family, all gone. Followed Veronica out the airlock – shh, shh, shh, darling - we should get rid of them, they're not like us -
Tears and snot and screaming against worn vocal chords -
That scent they can feel in their bones -)
- because this’ll be the death of them, otherwise. Much easier to avoid all that too much when you’re in a city, when there’s space to filter out all those scars. Not here – not – in space. On a ship. With recycled air getting heavier and heavier and heavier with scars and wounds and death, so much death.
The headache behind their eyes beats to the rhythm of a song.
“Just… hurry.” Said worn thin, like skin stretched over too much meat. Like vocal chords after too much screaming. Like too many teeth inside too small a mouth. “It’s - ”
(Too much. Not enough.)
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Hugh's voice cuts high and clear over the susurrous, traitorous noise. Where Caelan's voice goes worn and hoarse, his goes chesty, authoritative - no matter how they may feel about him, the people can't help but snap to attention at that sort of tone. Listen. And no matter how resentful they may be right now (rabble, they know he thinks he's better than them, so many of them resent him for it), no matter how they stare knives at him, how they want to toss both of them out of the airlock like it's going to save them--
Move, move. You'll catch it off them. You'll--
They'll move out of the fucking way is what they'll do. And they do. They clear a path and Hugh speeds up to a decent clip, forges ahead with a wary glance over his shoulder. A worried glance. Waits until they've broached the elevator and he's slammed his fist onto the button to shut the doors (shut them all out) that he turns, genuine concern in his tone.
"Holding up alright?"
He doesn't know much about this Song of theirs, sure. But he knows what it's like to struggle around people. To suffer under the weight of invisible things.
Nevermind their bloodiness, their monstrousness, their nakedness. Their danger. Hugh feels a kinship in this moment.
"Won't take us long now. You're halfway through the hard part, you know." A wry smile. A tired, small thing bitten with bile. "He'll be glad to see you. Never stops talking about you, you know. Sent me out after you."
A little laugh.
"Won't even need me anymore."
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Caelan looks up at Hugh from under their hood, yellow eyes practically glowing from under the shadows there. They watch him for a beat, two, three, before dragging their eyes away to Cassius, his soft little body practically drenched in concern.
“...better now,” comes their reply, a gear grind against a mouth made to tear.
And they are better. Hugh – Caelan can see what Cassius sees in him. He smells like a dumpster fire, like sex and drugs and a desperation for – they don’t even know what, just that it’s there, but – he also smells… kind, maybe. Certainly trying to be, anyway, with how he’s trying to hold their attention. Trying to keep them from slipping any further.
(It’s working.)
They take in a long breath (shudder around phantom bodies painted in the walls), before their attention focuses back on Hugh, on the way that little laugh sounds vibrating up and out of his throat. On how the squirming worry hitches for a moment and softens into something worse.
(Hurt.)
“...don’t say shit like that,” they find themselves saying in a tone that can’t decide if it wants to be tired or annoyed. “Not with him right there. You’re hurting his feelings.”
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Hurt his feelings? Hugh stops fast, feeling that squirm behind his ear falter. Still. Hugh reaches up, ghosts fingertips over the shell of his ear where the fat little body is unusually still. Passes his teeth over his lip.
"Only seems natural. I doubt you both want to stay here. You're suffering just being here, and he's--" A soft noise. Thoughtful. Maybe a bit sorrowful. "He deserves better than all this suspicion, I think. Deserves to - make that garden of his again, the one you... smell, or something. He never went into detail. Only said it would make it easier to find you."
Hugh folds his arms, leans back against the humming wall. Five or so levels to go up, now. This ship has dozens.
"Wouldn't you rather... I don't know. Find a ship that isn't so terribly traumatized like this one? I wouldn't blame you." The ghost of a fingertip over the worm behind his ear, a gentle touch. Careful. "Although I'd miss him. Terribly, at this point. He's quite the conversationalist. Far better company than I'm used to on this rotting bucket of bolts."
Hugh would die for many reasons. More on some days than others, especially the bad ones. Would stand against an army for Cassius. It would be selfish of him to demand they stay only to keep him company, to suit him rather than themselves. And sure, he's selfish enough.
But not enough for that.
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Still, it doesn’t stop the snort from escaping them.
“Cas told you my name, but didn’t tell you about his Garden?” The thought knocks a few teeth out of their mouth, loosens their skin just a little. Their eyes slide over to Cassius’ worm, where the sheepishness drifts off of him like his shell never could embody. “Cassius.”
A little wormy twitch. They roll their eyes. Excited, yes, they’d figured.
“It doesn’t matter if we -” a pause “- jump ships or whatever. It’ll still be terrible because it’s the - fucking air here. It – holds onto you. Onto people. Doesn’t filter out the way it does back home. Probably because of the trees or something. The great outdoors.” A dismissive hand gesture that gets shoved back into their pocket. Any of your ships will get just as bad as this one with time.”
They tilt their head back, rest it against the wall as the overhead light hums through their teeth.
“Cas and I don’t have anyone else but each other. I’m too – dangerous for normal people, and Cas -” A sharp exhale through sharper teeth. “He’s tried. You’re the only one who’s stuck. I know you probably can’t see it – but he likes you. A lot. You've been making him happy. Even without the worm, I'd smell it on you.” Their hand clenches at their side. Unclenches just as quickly. Repeats a couple of times before remaining a fist. “I’m not gonna tear him away from you just because the Song is throwing a fucking tantrum –“
Nails through their palm. Blood down their fingers. The nip of it fades a moment after but it’s enough.
“When Cassius can access his Garden again, it won’t matter how traumatized this place is. Until then, I’ll deal, just like I’ve always done.” A flash of yellow, looking at him over their nose. “Just might mean more skin pipes in the future, though. So – sorry. About that.”
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Ding. Here's their floor. Hugh lifts off the steel side like he's already exhausted, sighing thinly through his teeth. Preparing himself. As much of a nightmare as Caelan had started, now they're almost... calming, oddly enough? Calming-ish. They understand, they get it. What too much is like. And as caustic and wild and dangerous as he'd expected them to be, now they're just some... what, barely not fitting the term kid? Some young, short thing walking around with their ass out if it weren't for the cover of that hoodie, chatting with him more easily than anyone else minus Cassius has in ages. And Cassius, bless him, does not talk like a normal person. Doesn't have quite the same banter of two people raised as humans and made into something else later on.
He's relaxed, ever so slightly. The tension in his shoulders eases bit by bit.
"This... Garden, of his. What would it take to make it happen here? We have a vivarium - sort of short on the viva aside from crops and plants and whatnot, we don't farm animals on this ship in particular. But it's as close to a garden as any you'll find here."
The doors slide open. Hugh steps out with that iron in his spine again, the exhaustion melting off of him a bit. Chipping at its edges, anyway. He carves himself into something broad and tall and respectable as he takes point, nothing short of total confidence in his steps. As if Caelan belongs here. As if they have no reason at all to question him, what he's doing.
(Fake it 'til you make it. Never failed him before, for the most part.)
"Clancy - let the Captain know I've found the Hunter," he drawls to a man in passing, doesn't spare him a glance as he does. The man shoots Caelan a furtive glance that drops the minute it's met, the rest of him already inching backwards. "I'm sure he'll alert the rest of the headaches. Set up a little party for me to explain myself. Et cetera. Wouldn't want to keep them waiting, would we?"
One turn, two. There are people gawking at Cassius through the window as always, as if he's some sort of zoo attraction - they balk the moment they see Hugh, as usual, and moreso at the figure trailing behind him with a wet black garbage bag. They fall away like flies. At least they know when they aren't wanted.
Hugh punches in the code to the door. Stands aside. Tilts his head at the opening door with a meaningful look to Caelan.
"Go on."
Hugh knows the value of privacy. He'll be in when they're ready for him.
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If they get an answer, they don’t hear it. Not when they catch Cassius’ scent, his whole scent, not just a piece of a bigger puzzle. He’s squirming loud, so loud, the happy writhing of him rippling through the air like open arms. They almost let the bag go in their focus, but – no. Cas still needs to eat, still needs to -
They turn the corner, two, and he’s -
God. Pressed up against the glass in his eagerness, his skin writhing with all that pent up emotion his face is stiff to show. Usually, anyway. He’s got a small curve to his lips, their Cassius, and – yeah. Yeah, they’re just as happy to see him too.
(it’s been way too fucking long)
The rabbits (fucking bug-eyed things, looking at Cassius like they’re at the circus and he’s center clown), scatter when they approach, when they see their mouth stretched to show too much white.
Go on, Hugh says, and god, it’s a fucking fight to stop at the door. To give him that glance followed by a muttered thank you that curls so warm at their lips – and then they’re taking too-long strides, Hugh all but forgotten as they pile into Cassius’ waiting arms like they belong there. Like they were made for it.
His shell caves a little under the force of their hug, but he doesn’t complain, he never complains, and – the tension leaks out of them as he sinks around them, seams splitting in places to encompass them in a way they have missed, the mass of him circling tight and steady and kneading at them right to the bones.
“I have missed you, Hunter,” Cassius murmurs into their ear, the drone of him drowning out the beats of the song. Wiping away the last of their teeth.
They bury their face into his neck. Inhale the comfort of home.
“I’ve missed you, too, Cas.”
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They should fuck off. And they do.
Hugh's steps into the room itself are slow, languorous. Easy. His words, when they come, are just shy of outright cockiness.
"Told you I'd find them." He's got Cassius' worm on his hand now, letting it work its way across his knuckles like rolling a particularly slow, fat quarter. "Could've warned me about all the teeth. Might've taken a few years off my life with that scare, you know."
He's teasing, tries to communicate as much with the raised brow and the curve of his mouth.
"They'll want my neck for this one. Fortunate for me that I've got the two of you here to make sure it stays in place, aren't I?"
It's not extortion or a demand. His tone is too light, too conspiratorial for that.
It's the three of us, now.
For better or worse.
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“He was making a joke, Cas,” Caelan cuts in lazily, voice just as melty as the rest of them. They really don’t want to know the type of horror movie poetry Cassius has been sprouting about them while they weren’t there. Don’t need the reminder, even. Not when they’ve just calmed down.
He makes a sharp little hiccup of a squirm at that. Changes course as easily as they change skin. Focuses on what Hugh says next with an intensity that burns in Caelan’s nose.
“They will not have your neck, Doctor Hugh,” Cassius agrees, and Caelan finally pulls themselves away from him so that they can face Hugh, too. “Your neck belongs to you and you alone. If the ones up higher wish to change this, they will have to go through the Hunter and myself first.”
Telling, isn’t it, that Caelan doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even remind Cassius that rabbits are off limits.
(There are exceptions to every rule. Fucking with their family is one of them.)
“They touch you and they’ll be missing fingers,” comes their response, languid and easy. For Cassius, of course. Hugh makes him happy, and that means everything. (And maybe they kinda sorta like him, too. Fuck if they’ll say it out loud though.)
They peel themselves from Cassius entirely, then, and he lets them go with only the slightest reluctance, knowing not to push. Moves over to Hugh and soaks up his body heat instead, arm against arm, his head against Hugh’s shoulder like he’s done it before.
Caelan doesn’t comment at it, just rolls their eyes and leans down to pick up the sack. Drops it off on the bed, where Cas’ smell has gathered in a thick, squiggling mass. Clever, isn't he?
“So, what’s the game plan, then?” they ask, before pausing and eyeing Hugh over their shoulder. “You should probably look away. Or cover your ears or something.”
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Hugh's turned himself a bit, angled so that anyone brave enough to try to stare through the glass won't see the way his arm snakes up Cassius' back, petting absent through his hair the way he's always liked himself. Steady, long pulls over what passes for his scalp, blunt grease-darkened nails scraping ever so slightly on the way back down. Petting.
"I suppose we have two options. One is that I go alone, negotiate - make it clear that a lack of cooperation could very well be incongruous with, ah. Life. For all of us. That the two of you could be a benefit to this ship at the very least. I'm not certain what you could possibly offer, but there you go." A hum. "The second is that I wait here, and negotiations happen with all of us present. Highly risky. Could end in a bloodbath, depending on the players."
He only just refrains from glancing at Caelan. Yes, he means you. Keeps his stare even for a moment.
"And I'll do no such thing. This is as much a part of knowing Cassius as any." A little huff. "Trust me when I say that I've seen worse. It's just... blood. Is new. YS was never so outwardly gory about it."
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(God. Maybe Hugh is worming his way into their heart, too. No wonder it took less than a fucking week.)
“Mn, alright,” comes their neutral answer. They don’t bother dumping the remains out – another mercy in the form of baby steps. They do, however, untie the thing and let the mouth of it drop wet and leaking onto the mattress. “Don’t eat the bag, Cas. Plastic’s not good for you.”
“Of course, Hunter,” patiently said, followed by a louder hum of squirming as the worms chew through the mattress in their haste to get to the meat. Been busy, hasn’t he? Almost enough of them to fill up an extra pair of legs. Suppose he’s had the time to, not like Hugh could entertain him all hours of the day.
Caelan watches as the mass piles into the bag, hears the squishing wet thing that indicates he’s eating. The scraping of tiny mouths against bone. The bag undulates as he works, leaks through accidental holes in their eagerness.
They pull their eyes away. Shove their hands into their hoodie.
“You said two options,” they start, half-turning in their direction, “but one’s shit and the other’s – yeah. Risky.” A thumb tossed over their shoulder at the bag. “Especially if they’re anything like that guy’d been. Going alone’s not better though. Can’t really keep them from wringing your neck if we’re not there, and we know how that’d end.”
A lot of people dead, and not just from their teeth. Not just from them.
A dismissive gesture. “So. I stay here, and you take Cas. If they feel skittish, they vent me, and we’ll all find out together if it’ll be the thing that kills me.”
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A short stop. Hugh's - okay, yeah, the sounds aren't great, but he's trying to tune it out in favor of Caelan now. (Not looking at the bag as it undulates and writhes with all those hungry little bodies helps.) In favor of turning, fitting them with a lingering look. Searching. Uncertain, despite himself.
Worried, maybe.
"...Understand. It's as good a plan as any." Hugh rocks on the balls of his feet, on his heels. Shifts his weight from one to the other, the hand that isn't petting at Cassius tensing absently at his side. "If you--"
A pause. His voice lowers.
"If you do end up out there, I've installed patches across the hull. Flimsy things. You'll know them on sight. They'll..." A sigh. "They'll let you back in. At a cost of whoever's nearby at the time. Although I desperately hope it doesn't come to that."
He swore to protect this ship and its people. That this was his magnum opus, this bucket of bolts and irritable bastards - his life's work, his legacy. That nothing would come first. And now--
"You're needed here."
(Now he's letting something else come first, isn't he. Himself, again. The things he wants. These creatures that make him feel like he has a home in someone else, for the first time since he left Earth. Before then.
You're so selfish, Anastasios.
He knows. Always has been.)
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