Clusterfrag

Mick stalks the empty halls of the freighter. The way is dark, lit only by the glowing portholes. The adept seems to have found their sea-legs and finds they have adapted to the rocking of the ship. The rooms they pass are furnished, but deserted. In some way, the corridors are a welcome, familiar sight in that they resemble those that Mick grew up in. Then Mick remembers that they're floating in the Pacific ocean and the warm sense of nostalgia cools. They hang a right at a junction, focusing on the ARO floating in their vision.

The destination is a lavatory. Mick peeks over the door's threshold, obeying their instincts to exercise caution. The lavatory is also deserted. A cloying scent of urinal cake and disinfectant tickle their nostrils. Mick catches their own reflection in a mirror over a spartan sink basin, which causes something to stir in the trenches of their psyche. Something about this place makes Mick's nameless companion uneasy-- or, maybe anxious? Or hungry...

The ARO doesn't move even as Mick swings their head to and fro. Here, then. Mick begins searching all the places they might hide contraband: behind the toilets, on the underside of the sink, behind the-- Mick freezes. Their fingertips brush against something wedged between the mirror and the wall. The adept leans forward and works the object free. It's the commlink.

Meanwhile, Echo has partially completed mapping the first level of the foredeck. All of the rooms are devoid of life, though the drone's feed does reveal several other piles of belongings spread at seemingly random intervals. It also locates a staircase leading upwards near the center of the ship.

Achak's voice rings across the comms. << There's a large walk-in freezer, but the door has a maglock. We would need to get the power running to open it. I didn't find anything else, so I'm returning. >>

Mick turns the commlink over in their hands several times, casting sidelong suspicious glances at the room as they do. The cold air of the ship nips at their cheeks, the emptiness of the place oppressive.

Returning to their teammates trailing just a little ways behind them, the ork hands the commlink to Mouse. "Was hidden behind a mirror in the bathroom. Somebody wedged it in there on purpose." The words slap at the hallways walls, the tin-can reverb seeming to rob them of their certainty, making them frail. Casting it off, Mick resumes, "Let's head for the central stairwell, see if we can't find our way to the control deck."

The decker takes the commlink in both hands, gently turning it over with an almost reverent contemplation." SOMEONE DIDN’T WANT THIS FOUND." Her brow furrows, the faint light from the powered on commlink casting her features in a sickly glow. "THOUGH IF THAT WERE THE CASE, WHY NOT TURN IT OFF?" The air seems almost heavier as the question lingers, its implications splintering into a thousand what-ifs. Was its owner waiting for a message? Were they planning to return to it?

Rather than lend a voice to her curiosity and paranoia, she tucks the device into a pocket, and nods in agreement with Mick’s plan of attack. "LEAD THE WAY, CAP’N."

As the team turns away from the lavatory, Mouse's agent cheerfully reports success on the translation task. A wall of English text descends on her AR view containing both the transcription of audio messages and copies of text correspondence. She scans it quickly, scrolling past the humdrum banter of inter-family communication. There's simply far too much to read, so Mouse flips the data in order to read it from newest message to oldest. The tone and cadence of the data is markedly different from the older entries but reading it backwards gives Mouse a headache. She discards all of the data prior to the past few weeks and reorients.

Although Mouse isn't always sure who the messages are intended for, the contents tell a pretty clear story. The commlink belongs to a young elf named Nazim. He, his wife, and their two children are fleeing a war-torn district in some distant country. They have heard stories of the Seattle sprawl and the wealth that can be earned there. The wife is hesitant about sacrificing their meager savings to make the journey, but she eventually caves.

Here, several messages are missing-- deleted, probably-- but Mouse can glean from Nazim's side of the conversation that he's hiring someone of ill repute to smuggle his family. They walk all day and all night to a port. They board a ship.

Mouse reflexively glances around. They boarded a ship.

She reads on. There are other families with similar circumstances. The voyage will be long, but the accommodations are comfortable. Nazim pours out his guts, waxing optimistic about establishing a new life and providing for his family. His naiveite irritates Mouse. Nazim's wife seems distant.

It's at this point that the tone of the messages take on a more frantic mien. The passengers are suddenly restricted to below decks; no reason is given. An unruly passenger tries to sneak on to the deck and is not seen again, leaving his partner inconsolable. Next, the number of passengers seem to dwindle. People are disappearing. None of the crew will give explanations. Nazim and his family remain cooperative for fear of their safety. Each day they see fewer people. The meals stop coming. Nazim tries desperately to keep his panic at bay. Then, the crew stop coming below and the exits are locked.

Mouse swallows dryly and scrolls to the final message.

I pray that my son Javad is protected. I have given him our commlink as he is the only one small enough to fit into the vent. I instructed him to take it somewhere where it might broadcast a signal to the outside world and to hide it from the crew. We are trapped aboard a ship, but I do not know where we are. I pray, Allah, someone save us. If you receive this message, please send help. There is no more food.

Data flits above the message, informing Mouse that it has been configured to send continuously and has already been sent six thousand, five hundred and twelve times. The message is addressed to everyone in Nazim's contact list. Attached is a photo of Nazim and his family, looking haunted and very emaciated. Little else can be seen in the photo, besides a few bedrolls.

As the team approaches the stair they encounter Achak. He bobs his head in greeting. "Find anything?"

Line by line, tragedy is distilled into cold fact, heartfelt communications into bullet points, as Mouse pares down the contents of these messages into digestible gists and passed on to her fellow teammates. The only contents to remain intact are the two family photos: together a ‘before and after’ snapshot of the family’s moribund state, and the (translated) final message out. Aside from the data-points flitting across the teams’ commlines, the decker herself is quiet, even for her, her gaze distant, caught between concerned calculation and grim detachment.

It’s only when she’s sure there’s nothing more to be immediately gleaned from the device that she silently powers it off, tucking it into her pocket with atypical reverence. Assuming the team survives whatever is lurking below decks, assuming Preacher milks whatever use he has from this ship, she would get that last message to its intended recipients. Even if it’s too late to save Nazim and his family, he still wanted his message to be heard. She would set it free.

"WELL, NOW WE KNOW WHY THERE WERE KIDS ON BOARD." She finds herself tapping one foot against the floor subconsciously, as though she were expecting some kind of hollow reverb- or any indicator of whether they’re standing on a prison or a mass grave.

As if in thought, her gaze and flashlight beam trail upward toward the ceiling. "…NE, HAVE WE SEEN ANY OBVIOUS VENT SYSTEM HERE? "

Her shuffling pauses long enough to slide the backpack off her shoulders, and dip her fingers into one of the top pockets. A familiar little drone wheels itself up her forearm, coming to perch on one shoulder. "WE MIGHT BE ABLE TO FOLLOW IT BACK DOWN- FIND OUT WHERE THE CIVIES WERE STASHED… AND IF THERE’S ANYONE LEFT." Her attention rests on Axel as once again, she finds herself sharing her accesses for the little gerbil without a second thought. After all, if there's anyone capable of running a search and rescue operation while the rest of the team is above deck, possibly fending off ship-monsters, it's him.

(( Perception for any opening into the vent system? (Or even just a spot where the vent is visible within the hallway? Like an obvious metal bit hanging down that we could theoretically burn a hole into.)

Also, what date was the final message first sent? AKA- how many days ago. ))

Mouse finds no evidence of a ventilation system in the immediate area. As such, she leaves the tiny drone to search in her stead and follows the group, afraid they might storm off without her should she dillydally.

At the foot of the staircase leading up to the second level, Yung and Mick both spot a faint glint about halfway up the stair. It turns out to be a nearly invisible trip-wire connected to an anti-personnel mine. The group pauses on the bottom step.

Meanwhile, Mouse's drone discovers a ventilation duct close to the floor near the rear of the ship. Curiously, the duct appears to contain a mechanism for sealing off the vent. On top of the fact the duct is currently closed, someone has welded the cover and torn out the electricals, preventing the vent from ever being opened again. The extreme nature of this measure makes Mouse uneasy.

Mick frowns, the arresting presence of the antipersonnel mine raising even more questions that it does alarms. "The frag were they trying to keep below deck?" The questions lingers, nasty and unwelcome, as the ork scans the hallway for signs of conflict, bullet casings, claw marks gouged into the walls— anything.

Turning their attention back to the upstair, they ask, "You feelin' as handy with disarming a mine as you were at nuking a shit factory, Axel? We might not wanna roll the dice on everybody boogying over it with all our dancing shoes still shiny."

Axel gulps silently, but the team looks at him expectantly. Far be it for me to argue against peer pressure.

He lets the Gerbil sit for a moment, unmoving in front of the welded vent like a finger pushed between pages to mark a spot. "Yeah, uh, yeah, I think I can take a crack at it," he says, the lack of confidence covering for his extreme lack of confidence.

He unclips a leather roll from the jumpsuit's harness, and unrolls it in front of the tripwire, revealing his general purpose mechanical tools. He begins to sing softly as he works.

"The foot bone's connected to the... leg bone. The leg bone's connected to the... uh, arm bone..."

(( Demolitions test to disarm the mine (maybe also get a free explosive, too?). Go ahead and use edge for this one! ))

Yung can't help but interject at the worst moment. "Aye omae, no worries, think about it this way, we're all on a ghost ship with some kind of crazy alien on the loose." He leans casually against the nearest wall. "Probably all gonna die down here anyway, maybe you can save us from ourselves, eh?" He stops for a moment, thinking about what he actually said for once, then clicks his tongue before shaking his head. "On second thought, drek, don't wanna mess up the new suit. Don't frag this up."

Once the actual task is underway, Axel surprises himself with his deft operation. He holds the detonator with a pair of pliers while gingerly removing the tripwire from a castle nut. The freed wire now released of its tension shoots across the stair with a pang. Axel calmly removes the detonator. Finally, he yanks the mine free from the corner. It's an older generation, but still very lethal.

The rest of the stairway looks clear of booby traps.

Mick steps up beside the rigger as he places the disarmed mine inside his pack. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't thinking about shouting BOOM! from behind you that whole time." A sarcastic smirk rides the ork's face as they make eye contact with Axel. "Smooth work, omae." The smirk turns to a smile as Mick's runs through an exaggerated *phew* expression and offers him a thumbs up.

Wasting no further time, Mick mounts the stairs and slips up them, silky and silent.

Axel cracks a grin. "Thanks. And thanks for your restraint. I'm sure it took effort." The grin is wry.

He looks at the items in his hands, and tries to hide the fact that he's still not entirely sure how the bomb ended up disassembled in his hands. He packs away the mine.

He glances up the stairway. "We heading up? Because if so, I've got a door to open for Boo," he says, holding up the miniwelder as if in demonstration.

Even in the dark, one can make out the traces of a familiar snaggletoothed grin creeping back into place. As it turns out, the promise of getting to see a miniwelder in action and free explosives does wonders for combating one's lingering anxieties. "WORKS FOR ME. LET’S PUNCH A HOLE IN THIS TIN-CAN."

The second tier of the freighter's interior resembles the first, with the exception of the floor. Mick has to pick carefully over the segmented panels lining the bottom of this level, as any sudden shift of weight produces a clunking sound. The diamond-plate pattern on the floor's surface. There is more light here, too-- in the form of tubes full of some UV active substance that glow faintly in the dim hallways.

Mick scouts ahead, peeking around corners and glancing inside rooms. They lead the team to a junction bearing stenciled signage on the wall pointing towards the CREW MESS, MEDBAY, AUX PUMP ROOM, NAVIGATION, and RECREATION.

Yung, Mick and Reiya simultaneously catch the faintest whiff of something sickly sweet amid the stale air, yet musty at the same time.

Axel clicks the welder on and off a couple of times, briefly flashing the hallway with brilliant white-on-white light. It takes a few moments for the flare compensation on his goggles to reset after being so rudely roused. "Heh, sorry." He says sheepishly.

"Mick, might need a hand. Those welds look solid, and this little guy might not be up to the task."

Mick catches Axel's request from the just down the stairs and comes gliding back down the flight. "You got it, boss." The ork laces their fingers through the vent grating and, bracing their boots against the wall, pulls with all their might, the twisted network of muscle and tendons and sinew hardening to braid of twisted ancient roots in their arms, running up their shoulders, and bulging in their back.

Even with the vent cover's welds glowing red hot, the task is difficult. Moisture has seeped into the microscopic crevices of the burnished metal and created a corrosion that might as well be glue. The sinew of Mick's muscles extrude like an overexerted ship's rigging. Stars appear in the adept's vision and their ribs threaten to crack from the torsion. Mick utilizes such force in the extraction that their feet actually warp the metal surface of the floor, leaving two foot-sized indentations. Just as they reach their absolute limit, the welded vent cover comes free.

The force of the act is so substantial that-- now with zero resistance-- the kinetic energy is transferred into momentum. Mick reacts quickly, tightening their core muscles and lowering their center of gravity. The flexible ork bends backwards into a suplex, releasing the cover to protect the back of their head. The end result is that Mick lands safely in a supine position and the large metal square that was previously welded to the ventilation shaft now protrudes from the opposite wall, half buried in steel.

The lenses on Axel's goggles fade to clear again just as the adept and accompanying grate slam into the opposite side of the room. Axel glances at the rough hole where the grate was, the indentations in the floor around the hole, and the grate itself embedded in the opposite wall.

"Heh, neat." He says, his grin turning slightly more serious as he calls to the still figure on the floor, "Sooo, you okay over there?"

As he waits for an answer, he casts his gaze downward, and lightly pats Boo on its metal carapace. "Okay, little one," he says softly to the tiny drone, "do what you do best. Scurry and snoop."

A moment of irrational empathy washes over him, "Don't worry, we'll be watching," he says to the tiny form retreating into the newly formed hole.

The dust and flakes of shorn metal rain down on Achak. His face is calm, but the Amerind's body is frozen mid-retreat. Seems he had been prepped to leap out of the way. He gradually relaxes his taut posture before rapping the vent cover with his knuckles. A few of the welds fall free and clang on the floor. "Well, that is certainly one way to do it."

Mick remains supine, the only outward indication that they've survived the event the steady rise and fall of their chest through jagged heaves of breath. After a long moment, they raise a thumbs up with their right hand and rise to their feet, bellowing "Thaaaaat SUCKED." The ork releases a long huff of breath before shaking their head in an attempt to bat the stars away from their field of vision. "Next time, you yank the vent out of the floor and I'll coddle the drone, yeah?" Beads of sweat rain down from their brow, trace along their cheek bones, and collect in the curled corners of their grin.

"Right." They turn their attention back to the up staircase and quip, "Who's good to carry me up these stairs?"

Axel scoffs. "And deprive you of all that fun? Wouldn't dream of it, omae." He says as he makes his way with the others up the stairs.

The little drone putters off into the inky darkness of the vent, Mouse watching on with the proud, wistful air of a parent dropping their meatspawn off for the schoolbus. For at least a fleeting moment, Mouse seems to have left behind the anxious weight of being trapped (yet again) in a dark, powerless space with something murderous lurking about.

With such cheerful thoughts out of the way, her attention drifts to the supine Mick, the amusement still lingering across her face. "OH, WE FINALLY DOING THE BACKPACK THING?" The decker pads closer, rolling her spindly shoulders back and making a show of rolling up her sleeves. She crouches down in the dark, takes a deep breath… and cranes her head around to address Yung. "WELL, YOU HEARD THEM. MICK NEEDS UPPIES."

Her own back lets out a soft crack as she straightens herself up to move toward the stairs. "NOW LET’S GET OUT OF HERE BEFORE WE START QUESTIONING WHAT KIND OF MONSTERS COULD FIT THROUGH THAT HOLE."

Two explorations are taking place simultaneously.

The first is being conducted by a brave little drone, no larger than a gerbil. All that the mechanical pioneer witnesses is being recorded on a tiny camera and routed to a feed shared by the runners. The interior of the vent is a cramped, intestinal passage caked in grime. That a child managed to wriggle through it is a miracle that warrants admiration. A small directional microphone picks up the grinding of Boo's locomotion, which echoes strangely in the muffled acoustics of the shaft. The drone's progress is limited by its size and the ventilation system is vast and complicated.

And then there's the B-team. The humans and metahumans (and hovering drones of varying size) re-mount the stair and continue the task of uncovering the freighter's mysteries. Mick retraces their steps, leading the entourage to the central junction that's littered with signage.

Achak studies the embossed letters, reading them aloud: "Crew Mess. Medbay. Aux Pump Room. Navigation. Recreation." He turns to the others. "The engine room and cargo hold are likely below the deck. But for the time being, where should we head first?"

Mick turns and posits to the crew, "Navigation? Maybe find some clues as to what the frag this boat is doing here? I'd like some more intel before we go looking for survivors below deck."

Mouse shoots the odd chemical-lights lining the halls a dubious glace, but merely shrugs. "IT’S WORTH A SHOT. MAYBE THE NAVIGATION SYSTEMS HAVE THEIR OWN POWER SUPPLY, OR SOME KIND OF BLACK BOX." Once again, she finds herself pulling her upper arms in a futile endeavor to suppress the shivers coursing electrically through her frayed nerves. "OTHERWISE, WE’RE S.O.L. UNTIL WE CAN GET THE POWER BACK- PREFERABLY AFTER WE FIND OUT WHY THE FRAGHEADS TURNED IT OFF IN THE FIRST PLACE."

Axel nods. "Maybe this thing has a dog-brain that we can interrogate?"

"Only one way to find out." A majority vote reached, Mick proceeds in the direction of the navigation deck.

The team stalks the eerily lit corridors of the second floor. Portholes located at regular intervals along the exterior walls offer a glimpse of the seething sea beyond and the storm that ravages it. The hull moans with each pitch of the vessel. A few of the rooms they pass are open but contain merely the remnants of inhabitants: empty cots, empty lockers, and vacant space. It's as if the distinct lack of activity has manifested physically and exerts a pressure that fills the air. Everyone creeps in silence, rendering the soundtrack to their exploration the soft buffeting of Wind and Whirlwind as they hover behind their master.

After crossing most of the second level, the Runners arrive at the Navigation room. A placard in both Russian and English identifies the room as such, mounted above a closed bulkhead door. While the door appears to have a maglock, it also contains a mechanical lock-- likely as a failsafe. The walls around the bulkhead frame bear a number of curious imperfections.

Meanwhile, on the shared feed, Boo has traversed most of the ventilation shaft and descended to below decks. Just a singular stretch remains and a dark aperture looms in the distance.

Axel pulls the disarmed mine from his pocket, and turns it over in his hands. "Anyone know how to tickle a tumbler?" He holds up the dangerous disk in his hand. "If not, we could always make new doors."

Mick scoffs good-naturedly. "Thought you'd never ask, sugar nubs."

The ork unshoulders their pack and, after a moment's rummaging, withdraws their autopicker. They drop to one knee in front of the door's mechanical lock, humming as discordant tune out of a horror movie that exists only in their own mind as they align the device with the lock. Satisfied with their work, the adept triggers the gizmo to do its stuff with a self-certain "Open sesame."

The autopicker gets jammed several times, perhaps due to the size of the lock. Mick is forced to reset the device and reposition it each time, and progress is slow.

On the shared feed, Boo has reached the vent opening below decks. The vent cover has been removed (likely by Javad) and so the tiny drone scuttles up to the edge. It takes a moment for its camera to adjust to the darkness of the cargo hold. When the image returns, it chills the blood of those watching. The hold itself stretches out in all directions beyond the drone's sensor ability, gradually fading into inky blackness. But the floor-- the floor is bodies. A veritable sea of bodies. Humans and metahumans lie motionless on the floor. All sizes and genders are accounted for. In some places the bodies are layered. Some are spread eagle and some tucked into the fetal position. So numerous are the bodies that the floor isn't even visible over the grainy video.

Mick feels the autopicker spasm in their hand and the lock clicks. A spring-loaded bolt inside the door retracts, causing a hollow thunk to echo down the hallway. As Mick withdraws the device, they see that it is has been mangled beyond repair.

Mick's face twists into a scowl as they stare at their mangled auto picker. Heavy frown lines crease their cheeks as they glare down at a once trusty tool, now just another ghost to add to the derelict ship. Though simmering in rage, the words seethe quietly past their lips, "God fucking dammit." The auto picker drops to the floor with a heavy thunk.

It's only then that the ork notices the feed from Boo, their scowl deepening as their brow furrows. "The fuck happened here." Turning to the team, their resolve is deadly serious. "All those people... We're gonna find who's responsible for this." The ork's steely gaze turns back to the door as they press inside.

"...fuck." The expletive slips out on a breath and catches in the decker’s throat. It’s a sickly rush that drops to the bottom of her gut, and sticks to the roof of her mouth. Her eyes wash over the sea of bodies, the immediate sensory impact dampened through the limits of the drone feed, but nonetheless to stir sleeping anxieties, intrusive thoughts slipping into the stream of consciousness, cresting amongst her surface thoughts. Dark and broken. She struggles to count the bodies as they come into view, to reduce them to identifiable silhouettes, markers in a tally. Refusing to be denied, the fear impulse merely repeats itself, a constant undercurrent to her existence, like a mantra, a motor: DarkAndBrokenDarkAndBroken...

She struggles to form a sentence, leaning once again on the synthetics to parse selective words and translate them into a quasi-coherent thought. "THAT MESSAGE- THEY'D SENT IT A WEEK AGO. NOBODY'S LEFT."

As if in a daze, she shuffles closer to the door, kneeling down to scoop the twisted little machine left in Mick’s wake. She holds it in both hands, gently, like a broken bird, casting a strange mourning reverence transferred from the humans to the Black+Decker snapgun she’d envied since Alcatraz. Her fingers play at the warped needle, loosened from the stress of the metal, its former shape more familiar and knowable than the splayed bodies in her HUD.

She swallows hard in a vain attempt to clear the lump that’s lodged itself in her throat and pockets the broken hardware, letting her fingers trace across the surface cold metal in an attempt to ground herself. As she rights herself one more, her gaze slips to the drone feed, back to its temporary driver, "...UP AND AROUND?" She gestures with her free hand, pointing an example route up the walls and across the ceiling: the only path free of obstacles- corpses- from the little drone's optic. Even so, her feet once again begin a zombie-shuffle toward the newly unlocked door, her meatbody following the primordial directive: they have to keep moving.

The door is heavy and Mick is forced to throw their weight against it. There's a pop as the bulkhead seal separates and the heavy portal swings into the darkness of the Navigation room. Immediately and without warning, the team is engulfed in the stench of decomposition. That unmistakable, sickly sweet aroma of rot washes over the runners in a ghastly tide, plunging like ichor into their nostrils and mouths and causing their eyes to water.

In this instance, the team bears witness in person. Nearly two dozen corpses litter the floor of the room beyond, arranged in similar states to those on the feed. But here, some are slumped over terminals or contorted against one another, as if they had died attempting to claw their way out. Most of the dead seem to be uniformed in one way or another, although a few wear coveralls.

Mick reflexively vomits on the spot, barely managing to aim the splatter away from their boots. Mouse gags, but manages to keep it down. Reiya grimaces and Yung's expression doesn't change at all.

Axel's eyes widen and his breathing becomes frantic. The corridor seems to swell and a cold sweat pierces his skin. The fight or flight instinct revs like a turbocharger but his limbs feel leaden.